"Poor kid," Gminski said as he walked away from the window. "Where was she last night?"
"Holiday Inn on Royal. Paid with a credit card."
"Have you seen anyone following her?" the Director asked.
"No."
"I need some water," he said to an aide, who jumped toward the ice bucket and rattled cubes.
Gminski sat on the edge of the bed, laced his fingers together, and cracked every possible knuckle. "What do you think?" he asked Hooten, the oldest of the three agents.
"They're chasing her. They're looking under rocks. She's using credit cards. She'll be dead in forty-eight hours."
"She's not completely stupid," Swank inserted. "She cut her hair and colored it black. She's moving around. It's apparent she has no plans to leave the city any time soon. I'll give her seventy-two hours before they find her."
Gminski sipped his water. "This means her little brief is directly on point. And it means our friend is now a very desperate man. Where is he?"
Hooten answered quickly. "We have no idea."
"We have to find him."
"He hasn't been seen in three weeks."
Gminski set the glass on the desk, and picked up a room key. "So what do you think?" he asked Hooten.
"Do we bring her in?" Hooten asked.
"It won't be easy," Swank said. "She may have a gun. Someone could get hurt."
"She's a scared kid," Gminski said. "She's also a civilian, not a member. We can't go around snatching civilians off the sidewalk."
"Then she won't last long," Swank said.
"How do you take her?" Gminski asked.
"There are ways," Hooten answered. "Catch her on the street. Go to her room. I could be inside her room in less than ten minutes if I left right now. It's not that difficult. She's not a pro."
Gminski paced slowly around the room and everyone watched him. He glanced at his watch. "I'm not inclined to take her. Let's sleep four hours, and meet here at six-thirty. Sleep on it. If you can convince me to snatch her, then I'll say do it. Okay?" They nodded obediently.
The wine worked. She dozed in the chair, then made it to the bed and slept hard. The phone was ringing. The bedspread was hanging to the floor, and her feet were on the pillows. The phone was ringing. The eyelids were glued together. The mind was numb and lost in dreams, but somewhere in the deep recesses something worked and told her the phone was ringing.
The eyes opened but saw little. The sun was up, the lights were on, and she stared at the phone. No, she did not ask for a wake-up call. She thought about this for a second, then she was certain. No wake-up call. She sat on the edge of the bed and listened to it ring. Five times, ten, fifteen, twenty. It would not stop. Could be a wrong number, but they would stop after twenty rings.
It was not a wrong number. The cobwebs began to clear, and she moved closer to the phone. With the exception of the registration clerk and maybe his boss, and perhaps room service, not a single living soul knew she was in this room. She had ordered food, but made no other calls.
It stopped ringing. Good, wrong number. She walked to the bathroom, and it was ringing again. She counted. After the fourteenth ring, she lifted the receiver. "Hello."
"Darby, it's Gavin Verheek. Are you okay?"
She sat on the bed. "How'd you get the number?"
"We have ways. Listen, have - "
"Wait, Gavin. Wait a minute. Let me think. The credit card, right?"
"Yes. The credit card. The paper trail. It's the FBI, Darby. We have ways. It's not that difficult."
"Then they could do it too."
"I suppose. Stay in the small joints and pay with cash."
There was a thick knot in her stomach, and she stretched on the bed. Just like that. Not difficult. The paper trail. She could be dead. Killed along the paper trail.
"Darby, are you there?"
"Yes." She looked at the door to make sure it was chained. "Yes, I'm here."
"Are you safe?"
"I thought so."
"We've got some information. There will be a memorial service tomorrow at three on campus, with burial afterward in the city. I've talked to his brother, and the family wants me to serve as a pallbearer. I'll be there tonight. I think we should meet."
"Why should we meet?"
"You've got to trust me, Darby. Your life is in danger right now, and you need to listen to me."
Chapter Eleven
"What're you guys up to?"
There was a pause. "What do you mean?"
"What did Director Voyles say?"
"I haven't talked to him."
"I thought you were his attorney, so to speak. What's the matter, Gavin?"
"We're taking no action at this time."
"And what might that mean, Gavin? Talk to me."
"That's why we need to meet. I don't want to do this over the phone."
"The phone is working fine, and it's all you're going to get right now. So let's have it, Gavin."
"Why won't you trust me?" He was wounded.
"I'm hanging up, okay? I don't like this. If you guys know where I am, then someone could be out there in the hallway waiting."
"Nonsense, Darby. You've got to use your head. I've had your room number for an hour, and done nothing but call. We're on your side, I swear."
She thought about this. It made sense, but they had found her so easily. "I'm listening. You haven't talked to the Director, but the FBI's taking no action. Why not?"
"I'm not sure. He made the decision yesterday to back off the pelican brief, and gave instructions to leave it alone. That's all I can tell you."
"That's not very much. Does he know about Thomas? Does he know that I'm supposed to be dead because I wrote it and forty-eight hours after Thomas gave it to you, his old buddy from law school, they, whoever in hell they are, tried to kill both of us? Does he know all this, Gavin?"
"I don't think so."
"That means no, doesn't it?"
"Yes. It means no."
"Okay, listen to me. Do you think he was killed because of the brief?"
"Probably."
"That means yes, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Thanks. If Thomas was murdered because of the brief, then we know who killed him. And if we know who killed Thomas, then we know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen. Right?"
Verheek hesitated.
"Just say yes, dammit!" Darby snapped.
"I'll say probably."
"Fine. Probably means yes for a lawyer. I know it's the best you can do. It's a very strong probability, yet you're telling me the FBI is backing off my little suspect."
"Settle down, Darby. Let's meet tonight and talk about it. I could save your life."
She carefully laid the receiver under a pillow, and walked to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and what was left of her hair, then threw the toiletries and change of clothes into a new canvas bag. She put on the parka, cap, and sunglasses, and quietly closed the door behind her. The hall was empty. She walked up two flights to the seventeenth, then took the elevator to the tenth, then casually walked down ten flights to the lobby. The door from the stairway opened near the rest rooms, and she was quickly inside the women's. The lobby appeared to be deserted. She went to a stall, locked the door, and waited for a while.
Friday morning in the Quarter. The air was cool and clean without the lingering smell of food and sin. Eight A.M. too early for people. She walked a few blocks to clear her head and plan the day. On Dumaine near Jackson Square she found a coffee shop she'd seen before. It was nearly empty and had a pay phone in the back. She poured her own thick coffee, and set it on a table near the phone. She could talk here.