I hadn't done that well with the lock picks last night. Probably, I decided, it was the alcohol ... I was still feeling the aftereffects this morning. There must be, I told myself, an easier way to contact the criminal element than going bar hopping. Still, I had what I needed ... or what I thought I needed, anyway.
Outside, the morning was damp again. During the night, a thick fog had rolled in off the ocean and a soft drizzle was sending runnels down the glass doors. Between the fog and the drizzle, the house was uncomfortably cold as well - typical San Francisco summer weather.
It seemed silly in a way - building a fire in the summer - but the fireplace was there and there were several boxes of logs in the garage, so, why not.
The flames chased across the wood like soft feathers while the smoke swirled, twisted and rose in complex ribbons up the chimney. I relaxed in the warmth from the flames, too warm on one side, still cool on the other, watching the reds and yellows and grays - a primitive light show, an atavistic memory, a concept of control. Fires to keep the cold at bay ... and the creatures that stalked the night ... and heat to make foods eatable ... and to shape tools. A power beyond ourselves and greater but within our control ... an extension of ourselves ... a link to the universe beyond ... a control and a tool and comfort ...
Fire was one of the common denominators - common to all cultures. Whether for warmth or, in the tropics, mostly for food, fire was one primal force that featured in every culture, every myth, every life, every day.
In modern cultures, our fires were tamed, enclosed, modified - appearing as electric lights, as fuel in our cars, as gas or electric ranges ... but they were still power ... and still fire.
I remembered walking across a bed of coals ... somewhere in the tropics. Where I couldn't remember - only the initial fear ... and then the exhilaration on discovering that my steps - my previous self's steps - had crossed the burning coals without pain ... or harm ... and the feeling of power ... mastery ... confidence ...
I remembered an old prayer: "From ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night, good lord deliver us ..."
Now we held the night - and the things that went bump in the night - at bay with captive lightning. We lived in a tamed universe where the ghosties and ghoulies were banished, where - being strangers to real disasters - we caviled at such minor catastrophes as traffic jams, the occasional breakdown of a machine or even the intrusions of our neighbors.
And yet, when catastrophes happened - real catastrophes - the dark reclaimed our lives, reentered with fears ... the ghosties and ghoulies returned.
Except that some ghosties were real ... and at least one had been armed. Thankfully, I suppose, with a small caliber weapon ... and chance-poor aim ...
And, in a sense, I - and Mikael and Dan - and, by extension, the San Francisco police - were reacting much the same as men of an earlier age would have reacted to a marauding bear. We were looking for spoor ... tracks ... clues ... searching for the destroyer ...
Perhaps this was the reason for the popularity of mystery novels - the atavism of the hunt? The need to prove ourselves - even vicariously - the masters of the shadows and the darkness beyond the fires?
Was that my only aim? To exercise control and mastery of my environment? To hunt the bear in the shadows beyond the fire?
Perhaps so ... not that the human condition was subject to simple answers.
Still, the need was there - to discover who had killed Geoffrey Thorne. To discover who and why ... and not so much to exact retribution as to bring a closure to the matter. To demonstrate again that the shadows held nothing we needed to fear.
What that closure would be, I still wasn't certain. First, there still remained to discover the spoor ... to track the beast to its lair ... to discover - and prove - the guilt and identity.
I - and Dan - had strong suspicions ... but, as we had discussed yesterday, suspicions could be misleading.
Today ... later today ... I'd undertake the next step ... Not exactly a case of staking a kid out to bait the tiger ... more like a case of tossing chum on the waters to see if any fish would rise.
Of course, since I - figuratively speaking - was both the kid and the chum, I certainly didn't want to attract too much of a bite.
"So," I finished my explanation, addressing Dan, "here's your chance to run a tail. If you can pick Toland up when he leaves and follow him, Captain Donavi will pick me up in the van and we'll be tailing you. Since we probably know where he's going, it shouldn't be a problem. Okay?"
"And that's why you bought the old clothes," Dan confirmed to himself. "A costume job - is that the term?"
"Beats me," I shrugged. "Sounds good, anyway."
"What if this Toland character spots Dan following?" the Captain asked.
"Then we let him go," I was emphatic. "No high speed chases of any of that. If he tries to get evasive - let him go."
"And you're sure he'll bite?" Dan's expression was a mixture of excitement and guarded anticipation.
"I'm pretty sure that he'll do something," I agreed. "Look, we don't know that Toland's guilty of anything. I might have been shot by a street mugger who was just looking to rob me."
"I disagree," Dan countered. "If you were attacked as part of a robbery, how is it that the manuscript was sent from Algiers several weeks later? You were in the hospital then. Are you suggesting that a mugger went to all the trouble of completing your manuscript, then flew all the way to Algiers, just to send it back to the publishers?"
"No, not that," I shook my head. "But I could think of at least three other plot lines that could account for Toland doing that without making him the shooter. All Toland really seems to be guilty of is covering the disappearance of one of his clients.
"Further, guilty or not, if I call him - suddenly reappearing - it's only reasonable that he'll be anxious to meet me. Either way - and his initial reaction won't necessarily tell us anything. Nothing reliable anyway."
"Unless he kills you again, eh?" Captain Donavi suggested. "Maybe this you would consider reliable, mate?"
"I doubt that he'll try anything like that in public," I disagreed. "Not in broad daylight ... even in the Tenderloin, people might notice something. Still, just in case, that's one reason I want you guarding my back."
We'd already covered all the possibilities ... but we covered them again anyway. After all, I was hardly in a position to object when it was my neck on the line.
Finally, "Look, it's already ten o'clock," I pointed out. "I really don't want to drag this out until afternoon. If you two will be quiet for a few minutes, I'll see if I can get the fish to bite."
When the Captain and Dan didn't voice any further objections, I reached for the phone, took a slow, deep breath ... and dialed.
"Toland and Associates," a man's voice answered.
"J...josss...Josssepth T..t..toland?" I stuttered, slurring and hissing on the 's' for good effect.
"Speaking," the voice agreed. "May I help you?"
"I..i..it'sss G..g..g..gregggory. G..g..greggory Th..th..thorne," I responded, letting my free hand twitch in time to the stutters.
I heard a brief, sharp breath from the other end of the line, then, "Who? Who is this?"
"G..g..greggory," I repeated. "Th..this isss J..j..jossseph T..t..toland, y..y..yess?"
"Gregory?" - another silence - "Gregory Thorne?"
"Y..y..yesss," I kept the smile out of my voice but not off of my face while sketching a quick thumbs-up across the table.
"Gregory?" Toland repeated again, then added, "Where the hell are you?"
"Sss..sss..sssan F..f..fr..francisco," I stuttered. "B..b..been in hossspital," I added as explanation. "N..n..no mem..mem..memory. Can..can't t..t..talk sss..sss..o w..w..well." I covered the mouthpiece while I took a deep breath - stuttering was hard work.
By the clock, the call only lasted twelve minutes ... but it seemed like forever. Once Toland had accept who was calling, he was insistent that I meet him ... which was exactly what I'd expected. His insistence proved nothing - if he hadn't, that would have been suspicious.
And I'd agreed ... but, in turn, I'd insisted that he come to meet me, claiming lack of funds and the injuries - I wasn't specific - prevented me from crossing the bay conveniently. Instead, I'd given him the address of the hotel - and some very bad directions for finding it - and said that I'd be there by eleven or eleven-thirty, adding that I was using the phone at St. Vincent's to place this call. I'd also told him that I needed money - adding support to my story.
Toland had offered to bring me a check - against my next royalties payment - but I'd insisted that I didn't have any ID, no bank account and no way to cash a check. He'd bring cash, he'd agreed.
Before dialing, I'd also entered the code to block caller ID - not that I thought there was much chance of Toland knowing the prefix or where it indicated the call was placed from but just as an added precaution. That plus the fact that I didn't want him to get any bright ideas like calling back ...
"It's all set," I concluded with a long exhale.
"We've got forty-five minutes," Dan observed. "It will take twenty to get across town, then maybe ten to find a parking place. Shall we get started?"
"It'll take Toland longer to get across the bay," I suggested. "But ... no point in being late. One other thing though."
"Eh?"
"You ever noticed how the telephone ..." I hesitated. "There's something about the voice over a phone. The phone loses the high frequencies - no matter what they say about fidelity - but the low frequencies come through just fine, right?"
"Guess so," Dan hesitated. "Why?"
"Wouldn't know," the Captain demurred. "Radio phone's another story."
"Yeah, I guess so," I continued. "Anyway, when someone's lying or under stress? Even over the telephone? Their voice loses the low frequencies. Tension, probably, but - if you listen - you can hear the change. A lot of these audio stress analysis systems use that principal."
"Didn't you used something like that in one of your books," Dan recalled. "Can't remember which one."
"Beggar's Circus," I supplied. "Pity we didn't have something like that hooked up for this call. Anyway, Toland's voice lost the low frequencies once he realized who I was."
"Evidence?" Captain Donavi queried.
"No, not conclusive. Just tells us that he was feeling stress," I decided. "We'd better get going."
I guess it helped being a native ... or a long term resident, anyway. In any case, with Dan leading the way, finding parking was no problem at all ... and only cost six bucks for each vehicle.
And it was only a block and a half to the hotel ...
Why anyone would pay six bucks to park in this part of town escaped me. For that matter, the flip side was: who in this part of town could afford six bucks for parking in the first place. This wasn't Nob Hill or Russian Hill - not even the financial district. Anybody with six bucks for parking, I thought, could also afford the gas to find a better part of town.
Which brought up another question - how were we going to figure out where Toland parked? So that Dan could follow him?
Dan was thinking about the problem too. "He could come in several ways," Dan suggested. "There are three or four parking lots around here ... or he might even get lucky and find a curb spot. I'll find a spot where I can watch people coming in. That way, I'll see which way he comes from. Then, while you're talking, I can move my car and try to find a spot to watch for him to leave."
"And maybe you'll get lucky, eh?" the Captain smiled. "And find a curb spot to park?"
"Could happen," Dan agreed. "Metered parking. People can't stay in one spot forever."
"I said I'd wait in the Grill," I reminded them. "If we enter separately, I can snag a table toward the back. See if you can get one by the window - should be a good spot to watch from. If memory served, the greasy grill was on the corner, to the right of the main entrance with windows facing both streets as well as the miniature lobby.
Even from the outside, the hotel was every bit as bad as I remembered.
Approaching, Dan had dropped back, letting Captain Donavi and I take the lead. As we passed the grill, I glanced in, seeing nobody except the short-order cook reading a well-thumbed copy of People Magazine.
Passing the lobby entrance, I turned in at the hock shop. The Captain followed.
Several shelves held TVs, VCRs, stereos, a couple of microwaves, golf clubs and guitars. Other shelves held toolboxes - used, not new - while half the glass cases were filled with assorted tools, socket and wrench sets, pneumatic wrenches, power drills, pipe wrenches and hack saws. The other half held junk jewelry, watches, cameras, lenses, a couple of CB sets and a few radar detectors - assorted urban treasures.
I spent a few minutes looking around without seeing anything particularly interesting before exiting by the lobby door. Toward the far side, the Captain was leaning on a glass case, talking with the proprietor.
In the lobby, I exchanged a "Salâm alékum" with the clerk whose eyes widened briefly as he recognized me.
"Sar is a faquir," he commented softly on my changed appearance. "I am regretting that sar has not enjoyed any visitors as yet."
"Koi bât nahiń," I assured him - a phrase which means equally both 'it doesn't matter' and 'you're welcome'. "Perhaps someone will call another time," I offered.
"As Allah wills," he agreed, smiling.
I returned the smile with a nod and entered the corner grill.
Inside, Dan had a corner table toward the front. He was nursing a cup of coffee. I hoped it wouldn't aggravate his stomach lining.
Ignoring Dan, I took a booth toward the rear - a spot where I could sit with my back to the wall and keep an eye on both entrances ... and the kitchen entrance as well. I wasn't being paranoid - just careful.
The chili - served with a basket of warm tortillas - was a lot better than I'd expected. Quite eatable, actually. The beans were well flavored, not just drowned in dried chilies and the meat was a properly chunky chili grind, instead of bad hamburger.
I'd been wrong about the cholesterol as well.
As for the coffee ... well, I suspect that chicory - if that's what it was - is an acquired taste ... but it wasn't one I cared to acquire.
Still, with enough cream - milk, actually - it was drinkable.
In view of the chili, I'd taken a chance on a slice of pie and was working on it when my guest arrived.
"Greg?" a voice addressed me. "Is that you?" The speaker - Toland, I assumed - was young - mid-thirties? - wearing a black Raider's jacket over a pink knit shirt. His reddish hair - with some traces of gray - was pulled back in a ponytail - his hairline was receding - and he looked to be around six foot and carrying maybe a hundred eighty pounds, well distributed. He was standing at the end of the table, extending his hand.
"J..j..jossseph?" I let the fork clatter on the table as I reached to shake hands, keeping two fingers of my right hand partially closed - as if they wouldn't straighten properly. I also missed the grasp, exaggerating a loss of coordination.
Toland's handshake was firm ... and more forceful than necessary.
I resisted the temptation to counter with a grip of my own - my hands were still weaker than I liked but I let him maul my paw like a soft sponge, then managed to bang my elbow when he released the grip. The grimace following was real.
"I..I..I sssee y..y..you f..f..found m..me," I stumbled. "T..t..try th..th..the c..ch..chili," I offered. "I..it'sss n..n..not b..b..b..b..bad." I used my left hand to wave at the cook while fumbling for the fork with my right.
Between the stutter and my fumbling with the fork to finish the pie, Toland was beginning to show signs of frustration as he tried to get my story straight. In addition to the speech impediment, I also wandered a bit in answering ... and frequently claimed - legitimately enough - not to remember.
Frustration was fine with me - the more on edge he was, the better. And equally, the more disabled he thought I was, the better.
In the end, Toland - Joe, he insisted - had inferred more than I'd actually explained. And I certainly hadn't corrected any of his inferences.
The sum of the conversation - in coherent terms - was that I had been shot - true - and that I had woken up in the hospital several weeks later - also true though I let him think it had been a month or more ago. What wasn't true was that I had spent several weeks in rehabilitation before being released as an out-patient. What also wasn't true was that I had only recently 'remembered' my name ... and that - today - I had remembered his and had called him.
What I didn't remember - according to my story - was where I had been, where I had come from or why I was in San Francisco. Which, in essence, was truthful.
I'd also said that the doctors hoped I would regain my memory eventually - which, certainly, they had ... hoped, that is. But, I had added, they weren't sure if I would ever recover physically - which was untrue ... aside from muscles needing time and exercise, I was physically fine - but I didn't forget to keep the twitch in my movements nor to keep my right hand from fully opening.
Also, I hoped - but I wasn't completely coherent here - to write some more and, as embellishment, I outlined a really terrible plot. Actually, the plot was so bad that it might even have possibilities if I wanted to write a farce - that was one I'd have to think about later.
Half of this, impatient with my hesitant stuttering, Toland had supplied himself, with encouraging nods of agreement from me.
And, finally, I got around to the subject of money. That I was sure I should have royalties coming in but that I needed cash now, implying that I'd been living here on welfare checks but that they weren't going very far.
My clothing alone - the now-stained pin-stripe gray trousers, dungaree shirt and tan jacket with leather elbows completed by a lovely pair of dirty white golf shoes - made me look pretty disreputable. Also, I'd 'combed' my hair using my fingers - combing the wrong way - and fluffed my beard against the grain. Add the fact that I'd rubbed a dark wax - from a crayon borrowed from one of the neighbor's kids - under my fingernails, stained my hands with soy sauce, and stuffed pieces of vinegar-soaked paper towel in my jacket pockets and I certainly wasn't someone I'd invite home to dinner.
I was a little surprised that Toland had recognized me at all.
But he had brought the cash, passing me a bank-deposit envelope with a thick stack of twenties. "ATM was only good for five hundred," he'd apologized, then added, "Look, this will hold you for a few days, right. Why don't you get some better clothes and find yourself a better place to stay. Then call me and let me know where you are. I'll get your accounts together and we can go over them ... and I'll go by my bank and get some more cash."
I fumbled with the envelope for a moment, then tucked it clumsily inside my jacket. "T..t..th..anksss," I responded. "T..t..th..this h..h..helpsss."
"I'd really rather disburse a check, of course," he continued. "But you can give me a receipt for the cash - next time will be fine. There's no rush and I don't have one with me. Look, maybe I can help you get a account set up with a local bank. Then I can just write you a check and keep everything in proper order. How would that be?"
"N..n..no d..dr..dri..ver'sss l..l..licence," I stuttered. "C..c..can'ttt ..."
"Don't worry about it," Toland hastened to reassure me. "We'll work it out. Look, this is Thursday, right? Five should hold you 'til Monday and give you time to get cleaned up and relocated. So, call me Monday and we'll get everything set up. That'll give me time to get your statements in order.
"Let's see, your next royalty statement from the publishers isn't due for about a month. Maybe I can jog them to advance it. In the mean time, don't worry about it. I can carry you - no sweat. Tell you what - you get some better clothes - and a haircut - and I'll see if I can't find a furnished apartment. Someplace you can relax and recover a bit." - suddenly, the low tones were missing from his voice - "You just take it easy over the weekend and don't worry about things. We'll get them straightened out okay.
"Look," Toland started to rise, "I've got a few things to take care of today ... and I've got a run this weekend but you just leave the arrangements to me. I'll get the check, don't worry about - agents are supposed to buy lunch for authors." He extended his hand again - this time his shake was gentler ... and the low tones were back in his voice.
As Toland paid the tab - I'd already paid mine, it had been cash up front, no surprise considering my appearance - through the front glass, I could see Dan's BMW parked across the street. Captain Donavi - who had been seated at the counter near the register during our meeting - had exited a minute or two earlier.
I stayed where I was, offering a crooked grin and an awkward wave as Toland left.
"Got a verdict, eh?" the Captain asked as I climbed in the van.
"Not really," I admitted. "How much of it did you hear?"
"Most of it," he replied. "Got it on tape. Figured Dan 'ud like to hear it, eh?"
"Tape?" I climbed in the back, shucking the jacket as the Captain pulled out. Dan's BMW wasn't more than a block ahead, moving slowly. In the back, the tinted windows made me invisible to the outside world.
"Found it in the pawn," came from the driver's seat. "Good place to shop sometimes, eh?"
"Sounds good to me," I agreed, pulling off the dungaree shirt and pants and stuffing them in a plastic bag on top of the jacket. Clean slacks and shirt were lying on the seat. I added the golf shoes to the discards, pulled on clean slacks and slipped my feet in the Birkenstocks, wiggling my toes gratefully.
I pulled out a pack of pre-moistened handiwipes and scrubbed the soy stain off my hands. The crayola under my fingernails was harder to remove.
Finally, after a quick sponge bath with the handiwipes - the perfumed wipes were almost worse than the vinegar - I pulled the shirt on and moved back up front to the passenger seat to use the vanity mirror to comb my beard back into shape before using a rubberband to pull my hair back and gather it in a proper 'tail'.
"Gad," I shook my head rapidly.
"Feel better?" the Captain grinned.
"Like I was human again," I admitted, using my pocketknife to dig a bit more wax from under my nails.
The van was cruising smoothly down the Embarcadero toward the Bay Bridge. It took me a moment but I spotted the BMW less than a dozen cars ahead. Toland, I assumed, was somewhere beyond.
I didn't say much during the drive - now that the encounter was over, I had a lot to think about ... and the steady traffic - since I wasn't driving - was almost as good a background as the surf. The van's seats were wide enough that I could pull my legs up in lotus position and relax.
Early afternoon, the traffic wasn't too bad. We breezed across the Bay Bridge - no toll for east-bound vehicles - through the Yerba Buena tunnel and into Emeryville before taking the 580 south into Oakland. The route was vaguely familiar ... but as much from reading the maps as anything.
Captain Donavi was driving carefully, giving Dan a good lead just as, I assumed, Dan was giving Toland a generous lead. Once, we left 880 and headed east toward the hills beyond Oakland, I pulled out the local map and kept an eye on the street signs. As near as I could tell, we were headed more or less directly toward Toland's listed office address ... which, it appeared, was located in a residential neighborhood.
Nothing unusual in that - agents, like authors, don't necessarily need commercial locations.
Finally, there were only two cars between the van and Dan's BMW ... and only one between him and the quarry ... and we were less than two blocks from the listed address. "Better let Dan take it alone," I suggested.
The Captain nodded and slowed up, looking for a parking spot. We'd wait - Dan would follow Toland in and then come back looking for us.
Ten minutes later, Dan's Beemer appeared behind us. I slid into the back seat, letting Dan take the passenger seat.
"Spotted it," Dan was pleased with himself as he settled in the seat. "Piece of cake. Second corner, take a right, fifth house on the left. Car's parked in the driveway. Yellow brick, California ranch, three oaks in the front, security fence around the back. Just cruise by slow, then take a left at the next corner and you can double back through the alleyway - chain link in the rear and a swimming pool. Caught a glimpse of it through the hedge."
The Captain followed the directions, taking it slow as he passed the fifth house. The lawn was well trimmed, the hedges boxed, low evergreens along the front, wisteria hedges concealing the security fence protecting the rear.
It was a nice neighborhood. All the houses were well tended, late model cars in most of the driveways - the exception was a beautifully restored '47 Chevy in front of one house. Everything was neat, pristine, tidy ... the great American dream.
Turning down the alley, the houses were almost as neat from the back as from the front. Super clean, even the garbage was sanitized with the trash cans neatly concealed behind redwood enclosures.
In the rear of Toland's house, the wisteria was less trimmed than the front but the rear gate - closed with a padlock - was clean and allowed a narrow view of the interior ... and of a exercise bike standing next to the pool. Toland was definitely a fitness fanatic.
"We'd better head back," I suggested. "I've seen enough for now."
"You don't sound too happy," Dan observed, addressing me over the back of the seat.
"I'm not," I admitted, then amplified, "Wait until we get back, I tell you about it then."
I was afraid that I wasn't very good company on the trip back. Still, Captain Donavi didn't seem to mind; he left me along with my thoughts - such as they were - until we'd pulled in to the driveway back in Daly City. The morning's drizzle had ceased but the sky was still overcast - a perfect counterpart to my mood.
Inside, nobody said much immediately. The Captain built up the remnants of the fire and Dan disappeared into the kitchen while I took a seat on the couch. Everything was still muddled.
"All right," Dan commented, returning with three brandy snifters and a bottle. "I think we deserve a drink." He put the snifters on the table, then poured a shot for each of us before raising his glass: "To a successful tail?"
"Sorry," I apologized. "You're right - congratulations. You managed like a pro." I forced a smile and raised my glass in salute.
"Sköl," the Captain agreed.
"Now," Dan lowered his glass and looked at me. "What in the hell's bothering you."
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," I admitted. "Tell me, how much of our conversation did you hear?"
"I didn't," Dan reminded me. "I left right after Toland entered. So I could get the car and be ready to tail him? Did you realize that he parked in the same lot where we did?"
"I guess I'm distracted," I offered as an excuse.
"Why not let him listen," Captain Donavi suggested, placing the microcassette recorder on the table.
"Carry on," I agreed immediately. "I'd like to hear it again myself."
Nobody commented while the tape replayed but both the Captain and Dan - well, I guess I did as well - grinned listening to the stuttering.
It was pretty funny.
But it didn't make me feel much better.
The tape stopped with Toland saying that he'd get the check - that was when Captain Donavi had left.
Again, there was a silence ...
"Doesn't really sound like a villain," Dan broke the hiatus.
"That's what's bothering me!" I exploded. "I mean, here Toland's faced with a creep who stutters, can't finish a sentence, is shaking like a leaf and stinks and he's nothing but concerned and helpful. I feel like I should like the guy. No, damn it! I do like the guy."
"He sounded awfully nice," Dan agreed. "Handing you a fist full of cash, saying he'd see if he could get your royalties advanced, telling you to relax and get some better clothes and he'd help you find a place to live and everything ..."
"And smile and smile, eh?" the Captain suggested.
"Sorry?" I wasn't sure what he meant.
"That one may smile and smile and be a villain? Hamlet, eh?"
"He may be right, Alex," Dan took another sip of brandy. "He did seem awfully smooth. Besides, he didn't say anything about the publishers trying to reach you, did he? Or mention your latest manuscript?"
Dan was right, Toland hadn't mentioned either.
It didn't prove anything - not absolutely - but it was suggestive.
We played the tape again. This time I ignored my own performance and concentrated on Toland's responses ... and his questions.
It sounded oilier the second time around. There were several places where he'd tried to pump me ... to discover what I remembered? And he hadn't mentioned hearing from New York ... neither had he said anything about an unfinished manuscript. For that matter, he hadn't asked if I was going to feel like writing again ... For that matter, he hadn't touched on writing at all - like it was a closed subject.
It should have been the primary topic in Toland's mind. One of the primary topics anyway.
"Gentlemen," I stood and raised my glass. "The game is afoot!"
"And," I added a moment later, raising the glass for a second salute, "Here's to Dan's fledgling flight as a gum shoe. Very well done, my friend. As a reward, I will be pleased to present you with your very own soft-soled golf shoes ... and I'll buy you a spy glass tomorrow."
"Sköl," the Captain seconded.
We played the tape twice more, stopping to allow Dan to make notes of exactly who had said what ... and of what had and had not been said. There wasn't much new - Dan had already hit the high points the first time through.
"Your stutter was pretty thick," Dan summarized. "And there were a couple of times when Toland sounded snappish, filling in what you weren't saying. And you didn't mention that it was a small caliber bullet - he did. Matter of fact, when you stuttered 'ssss...sssmall ccca...calllliberr'," - I smiled at Dan's imitation of my speech impediment - "it was Toland who supplied: 'like a twenty-five slug?' - that's a odd caliber. Why not guess a twenty-two? They're common enough."
"And the slug wasn't recovered," I scratched at the exit wound - it itched at the thought. The police report, I recalled, had said "estimated .22 caliber" - the common small caliber. It was a definite point.
"Twenty-two ammunition's cheap," the Captain suggested. "Twenty-five costs more but has more punch. Used to be popular for Spanish semi-automatics. Astras and such - pocket-sized, eh?"
"I could call him," Dan suggested. "Anonymous like? And say something like: 'I saw what you did ...' That might get a rise out of him."
"Maybe," Captain Donavi agreed. "But what then?"
"Yeah, that's the problem," Dan admitted. "What then? We don't even know if he'd react. But there was a movie on that theme - some girls were calling as a joke but they called the wrong person. Hell, I can't remember what happened in the movie. Forget it."
"Maybe," I suggested, "it would be a better idea to try and find some proof. None of this is really conclusive, you know?"
"It's circumstantial," Dan disagreed, "but it's ninety percent conclusive."
"Not much on motive," the Captain objected. "Possible, yes, but why? Man doesn't do a thing like this for no reason."
"Money," Dan countered. "Yeah, I know - I haven't been able to prove it yet. It takes time ... but, if I could get a look at his books ... He must keep some kind of records."
"Maybe you can," I suggested. "I just might know a way - give me a few minutes to work on it, okay?"
On the computer, I called up Toland and Associates' web page again. This time, I wanted to find out about the other authors he represented.
The first link I followed led me to a lady with a nice title list - more than a dozen books - all with a publisher of romance novels. I knew the publishers by reputation - an English company who had expanded into the US and were now represented by entire shelves in book stores and smaller racks in supermarkets. I'd never sampled the genre and wasn't particularly interested - not my cup of tea at all.
Another link lead to a sports author - three titles dealing with cross-country and mountain bike racing and two publishers' imprints. Both were unfamiliar, specialty houses.
A third link located another sports author - this time a lady who had written four titles, three on running and one of sports jokes. The author also had a variety of magazine articles and - on her own home page - included a roster of marathon events. None of it I found particularly interesting.
The next author - six titles - was heavily into armaments, sabotage and uncivil disobedience. Titles included: Using the Blade for Personal Protection, A Guide To Concealable Weapons and The Home Demolition Guide. All were published by a single press. This author's home page held links to various self-defense sites as well as the Aryan Nation and the White Resistance Movement. The author didn't sound like anyone I wanted to have coffee with.
Returning to Toland's site, I followed another link to the author of a self-help book. I vaguely remembered seeing the title - probably at a supermarket check-out stand - but couldn't really remember much about it. The title had been published nearly ten years ago and was the only one listed.
The next link found an author with two children's books: Pink Elephant Thursday and A Parade of Giraffes.
Then I found another do-it-yourself terrorist author. This one appeared to write histories of insurrections but, looking at his home page, I suspected the histories were more a cover for political diatribes than scholarly. In addition to the histories, there were two 'home brew' titles listed ... but 'home brew' didn't refer to beverages. There were two publisher's imprints for the several titles.
Continuing, I found that Toland also represented a martial artist - The Invisible Ninja - another gun nut - Simple Silencers - and what sounded like a western author - The Sun Sets West and Gold Dust and Cactus.
If there was any guilt by association, then Toland was a white supremacist-terrorist-ninja who liked elephants and giraffes, used a knife and a silencer, carried on torrid romances, ran marathons and was into pop psychology.
Either that or he was a working author's agent ... which I already knew.
Last, I went back and checked his 'personals' page, jumping to the page devoted to the Bay To Breakers race. The page included photos of runners in that unusual marathon. One was dressed as a giant asparagus spear, another looked like some kind of fantasy bird, a third was wearing diapers and a lace-fringed baby's cap. Others - in the background - were more conventionally dressed for the event.
What did Toland wear for the Bay To Breakers, I wondered? A book costume? Or maybe a pencil? Or something based on postage stamps? For that matter, what would be a costume based on the 15% agent's cut? Of course, I could always find out by watching on Saturday.
... Or ...
I swiveled the chair to face Dan ... and the Captain, but mostly Dan. "Tell me, gumshoe," I invited. "You ever pulled a 'black bag' job?"
And, yes, I know - I'd been thinking about this for two days now.
We spent several hours going over the possibilities - except that they all boiled down to Saturday and to playing it by ear. There were a few details that we could handle before then ... but none that needed immediate attention. None that even needed doing today.
For the moment, nothing was the best course of action.
Since Captain Donavi had taken preparing dinner on himself - the entre was going to be something involving calamari of some sort - I returned to cleaning up The Sucker Game while Dan concentrated on Murder On Account.
It was a nice, quiet, domestic evening.