But when he dialed 381-2645, he got a man who sounded like a caged beast, spitting and snarling because Warren had woken him up in the middle of the night. Except that it was only eight-thirty. So he’d dialed the number a second time, certain that his renowned memory could not be at fault, thinking he’d merely made an error punching out the numbers, and lo and behold, the same roaring monster telling him to quit calling this number or—
Warren hung up fast.
He knew he wasn’t wrong about the 381 because that was one of Calusa’s seven prefixes and none of the others — 349, 342, 363, and so on — came even close. So 381 it had to be. So how had he goofed on the last four numbers? Had he remembered them in improper sequence? If so, how many possible combinations of the numbers 2, 6, 4, and 5 could there be?
Calling up a page from a long-ago college textbook chapter on permutations and combinations, he conjured the formula 4 X 3 X 2 X 1 = X, and came up with 4x3 = 12x2 = 24x1 = 24, and calculated that there were twenty-four possible ways of arranging the numbers 2,6,4, and 5. He had already dialed 2645 — twice, no less — so that left twenty-three possibilities.
He started with 2654, and went from there to 2564 and 2546, and next to 2465 and 2456.
No Fiona Gill.
So he moved on to the next sequence of six, this time starting with the number 6 itself, and dialing first 6245 and then 6254, and on and on and on until he ended the sequence with 6542, and still no Fiona Gill.
It was now almost nine o’clock.
He figured it was taking him about thirty seconds to punch out each telephone number, let the phone ring three, four, however many times, discover there was no one named Fiona Gill at that number, thank the party, and then hang up. Six different phone numbers in each sequence. A hundred and eighty seconds altogether. Three minutes, give or take, depending on the length of each conversation. It was five after nine when he finished the sequence beginning with the number 5. Still no Fiona. He went on to the last sequence.
381-4265.
Brrr, brrr, btrr…
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Fiona Gill, please?”
“Who?”
“Fiona Gill.”
“Nobody here by that name.”
And then 381-4256…
And 381-4625…
And down the line till he came to the last possible combination, 381-4562, the phone ringing, ringing, ringing.
“Hello?”
A black woman.
“Fiona?”
“Who?”
“I’m trying to reach Fiona Gill.”
“Man, you got the wrong number.”
And click.
He sat there despondently, his pride in his fabled memory considerably shaken. Now listen, he thought, there has got to be some mistake here. Maybe she gave me the wrong number. Maybe she was so excited, she forgot her own telephone number, that is a distinct possibility. So how can I get the right number if it’s an unlisted one? He picked up the receiver again, punched the O for Operator, let the phone ring once, twice…
“Operator.”
“Detective Warren Chambers,” he said, “St. Louis Police Department.”
“Yes, Mr. Chambers.”
“We’re trying to locate the sister of a homicide victim here…”
“Oh, my, a homicide,” the operator said.
“Yes, her name is Fiona Gill, her number seems…”
“The victim.”
“No, the sister. She lives down there in Calusa. I was wondering…”
“How’s the weather up there?”
“Terrific. Lovely. Lovely summer weather. Fiona Gill, that’s G-I–L-L. I don’t have an address.”
“Just one moment, sir,” the operator said. She was off the line for what seemed ten seconds. When she came back, she said, “I’m sorry, sir, that’s an unpublished number.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“We’re not per—”
“This is a homicide here,” Warren said.
Which always worked.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s our policy not to give out unpublished numbers.”
“Yes, I realize that. May I speak to your Service Assistant, please?”
“Yes, sir, one moment, please.”
Warren waited.
“Miss Camden,” a woman said.
“Detective Warren Chambers,” he said. “We’re working a homicide here in St. Louis, and I need to get in touch with a woman named Fiona Gill in your city. Can you please ask your Floor Manager to…?”
“Working a homicide where?” Miss Camden said.
“St. Louis,” Warren said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, and hung up.
Warren looked at the mouthpiece.
Okay, so sometimes it didn’t work.
He put the phone back on its cradle, thought for a moment, and then opened his personal directory. On the last case he’d worked for Matthew, he’d hired two rednecks from the Calusa P.D. to do some moonlight housesitting. One of them had got himself killed on the job, but the other one was still alive, and he and Warren still shared a sort of tentative relationship, the only kind a redneck could offer a black man in this town. He looked up Nick Alston’s home number, glanced at his watch — twenty past nine — and dialed.
“Hello?” a voice said.
“Nick?”
“Yeah?”
“Warren Chambers.”
“How you doin’, Chambers?”
Just overjoyed to be hearing from him again.
“I need a favor,” Warren said.
“Yeah?”
Still wildly enthusiastic.
“A phone number,” Warren said. “This case I’m working.”
“Where?”
“Here. Calusa.”
“The number, I mean.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, the number. It’s unlisted.”
“No shit? When do you need it?”
“Now.”
“I ain’t at work.”
“Can’t you get somebody up there to call it in for me?”
“Maybe. Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Where’s that? Newtown?”
Naming the colored section of Calusa.
“No, here on Hibiscus.”
“Give me the number there,” Alston said.
Warren gave him the number.
“What’s this person’s name?”
“Fiona Gill,” Warren said.
“She’s in the Tax Collector’s office, ain’t she?” Alston said.
“That’s right.”
“Motor Vehicles, right?”
“Right. I’m trying to get a line on a license plate.”
“So you have to call her at home, right?”
“Right,” Warren said.
“Yeah, right, shit,” Alston said. “I’ll get back to you.”
He got back some ten minutes later.
“The lady’s number is 381-3645,” he said.
“Ahhhh,” Warren said.
“Yeah, ahhhh,” Alston said. “Ahhh what?”
“A three. Instead of a two.”
“Which is supposed to make sense, huh? I don’t usually run a dating service, Chambers. I hope you realize that,”
“I owe you one.”
“You bet you do.”
“I won’t forget. Thanks a lot, Nick, I really app—”
“You remember my partner?” Alston said. “Charlie Macklin? Who got shot when we was sittin’ that house on the beach?”
“I remember him, yes,” Warren said.
“I still miss him,” Alston said.
There was a silence on the line.
“Let’s have a beer sometime,” Warren said.
“Yeah,” Alston said.
There was another silence.
“I’ll talk to you,” Warren said. “Thanks again.”
“Yeah,” Alston said, and hung up.
Warren put the receiver back on the cradle. It was twenty-five minutes to ten; he wondered if it was too late to try her. While he was debating this, the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.