"The Chicago ticket could have been bought to throw everybody off. Dad says he's used the connecting-flight half of one lots of times. No questions asked, no problemo on a boarding pass for the second leg."
Dad Nilsson was also a six-foot-five-inch tax attorney who made grown IRS auditors weep. "'Simpson' isn't an uncommon name," he said, moving to a tray table beside Harriet's glider to confiscate a current telephone directory.
"There are 210,000 of them in the U.S.," Yancy stated. "Easy maththat's forty thou per state. Missouri's total population is roughly 5.8 million. Arkansas, 2.6. What are the odds a Simpson would fly out of Little Rock, and another Simpson into Little Rock, approximately five hours apart on the same Sunday in July?"
It sounded like a middle-school algebra story-question. Jack detested algebra, partly because he'd never given a rat's ass about Train X, Train Y or what time either of them left Baltimore.
"Okay," he said, because he did like Yancy and appreciated the kid's initiative. Tissue-thin phone book pages crackled through the
S
section. "But if deHaven needed two fake IDs to cover his tracks, why use the same last name?"
A pause, then, "You're the detective, Mr. McPhee. I just play one on the computer."
There were thirty-eight Simpsons in the greater Park City phone book. Two Bobs: Bob A. and Bob G. Two single-initial R. Simpsons, both probably female. Several Roberts, Robert Jr.s, Robs, a Robbie, a Robby and a Roberto. All with middle initials. Not a Robert K. in the bunch.
It didn't mean squat, Jack reminded himself now, as he had last night after Yancy hung up. Park City Memorial Airport drew passengers from a 150-mile radius. Robert K. Simpson's phone number could also be unlisted.
The turboprop piccolo with wings began descending, its throttle-back mimicking a stall. Or what he imagined a stall would feel like. He gripped the armrests as the glidey, gently pendulous seconds ticked by, braced to hear God's, or gravity's raucous laughter at the audacity of a multiton aircraft suspended on air.
A staticky, nasal voice on the PA droned, "Ladies and gentlemen, as we begin our approach to Little Rock National
"
* * *
The password entered in the newspaper archive database was taking forever to process. Dina arched her back, wriggled out the leg she'd been sitting on, then hiked a hip to tuck under the other one.
Like every chair in the universe, Jack's office model's seat was too deep to lean back against and too high for her feet to touch the floor. She'd learned by upper elementary school when the desks outgrew her that dangling both legs wasn't as comfortable as dangling one at a time. Even when no one was around to tease her, she felt shorter with her feet just hanging there at the end of her ankles.
"Nope," she said, going for cheerful. "Nobody here but me."
Earlier, the thrill of being Sherlock McPhee's trusty Dr. Watson had sped the morning's shearing of two longhaired cats' feces-matted hindquarters and a poodle's full-length crew cut. Strange how fast her excitement withered after she'd locked herself in Jack's office.
He'd advised against switching on the overheads or desk lamp to keep up a vacant appearance. Not that the office was dark. Light filtered through the tinted plate windows, and the laptop's screen glowed bright enough to read printed pages by.
Alone was relative, too. Vehicles passed by on the parking lot and on Danbury Street. Horns honked. Disembodied voicesmostly maleand occasional laughter were heard. Thuds, rattles and smoke-alarm howls echoed through the diner's common wall.
Dina's solitude was covert, not actual. No reason at allin broad daylight, for pity's saketo feel as if phantom centipedes were creepy-crawling up her arms.
At the screen's polite prompt, she typed in a new search parameter and clicked the mouse. "One moment, please
"
"Yeah, right." In cyberspace, a moment was relative, too.
With Yancy rehearsing for a tent-theater play and Jack snagging airline tickets barely in time to make the first flight, the computer snooping had fallen to her. A scribbled list of sites and their passwords hadn't netted much, besides eye strain. Evidently, TV P.I.s did this sort of scut work during commercials.
Dina sighed and swiveled to empty the color printer's tray. Yesterday, as deHaven's publicist told Mary Jaymes, ace magazine feature writer, photos of the weekend seminar had been posted on the Web site: deHaven at a lectern; deHaven shaking hands with the multitudes; book signings; happy hours; banquet table shotsdeHaven, the only VIP not captured with a fork in his mouth.
He was a good-looking guy, she admitted. Tall, early fifties, graying at the temples. Tanned, fit and trim with an aura of lucking out in the gene pool rather than expending any effort on maintenance. In the photos, his smile muscles had received a serious workout, but his eyes were cold. Predatory, in Dina's opinion, which wasn't objective. In fairness, a man who made a living selling rainbows with pots of gold at their ends wouldn't get far looking like everybody's affable Uncle Lenny.
She moved aside Jack's key ring to lay the printouts flat on the desk's return. Between two square-headed silver keys, a little brass one winked at her in the light cast by the laptop screen. Her eyes flicked to the desk's center drawer's lock and back at the little brass key.
A moment later, she breathed, "Well, what do you know," as the drawer rolled open. "I'd have bet this was the key to the storage cabinet over there."
The pencil trough held several highlighter pens. "Wow, good thing I found
these.
They'll really come in handy when I have to, uh, highlight something."
Pulling the drawer open wider, she chatted, "No
wonder
Jack took his car keys off the ring, instead of giving me the one to the door. In case I needed a, er, staples. For the stapler. Or Wite-Out.
Not
because he was in a hurry to get to the airport."
Sticky notepads, loose business cards, paper clips, take-out menusMr. Neat's junk drawer proved he was human after all. She yelped, then sucked on a fingertip viciously stabbed by a pushpin.
At the back of the drawer, wedged in a corner under books of blank checks, was a rubber-banded envelope. The upper edge had been slit. The return address read, "George Stoughton, Public Defender's Office."
Inside was a small, spiral notebook and two cassette tapes. One of the latter was hand labeled Wexler, Dina J., Orig. The other, Wexler, Dina J., Dupl.
* * *
"Herman Melville," Jack said, having developed a peculiar fondness for the alias. "Postevent supervisor, F.D.I.C."
The initials stood for Financial Dividend Investment Counseling. A stroke of genius, Jack admitted, for Carlton deHaven to reinvent the vaunted FDIC's initials as a beard for his smoke and mirrors, MentalWealth seminars.
Why hadn't the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation issued a cease-and-desist order? Along with indictments for fraud and other probable felonies? Hell if Jack knew.
Charles Dunwoodie, the hotel manager, shook Jack's hand, although clearly perplexed by the introduction. "Melville? Like the author?"
"Distant relative. All I write are reports and memos."
"Yes, well
"
"Let me guess," Jack said. "Our assistant event coordinator forgot to mention I'd stop by this week." He sucked his teeth. "That's two screwups so far this month."
Dunwoodie graciously replied, "It's possible your assistant informed my assistant andwell, just between you and I, my new girl isn't what you'd call upper-management material."
My
girl? Fascinating how revealing a single word can be. "Considering you weren't expecting me, I do hope this isn't a bad time for you, Charles." He glanced at his watch. "I may be able to change to a later afternoon flight, if it's more convenient for you."
"Absolutely not, Mr. Melville." Dunwoodie practically clicked his heels together and bowed. "However, if you could pardon me for a moment or two, there is a matter of some urgency I must attend to before our meeting."
There was a chance Dunwoodie suspected Jack's cover story and was calling F.D.I.C. for the lowdown on Herman Melville. Could be he did have a bona fide priority to resolve. Instinct said the hotel manager was marking territory. He wanted to establish that he, too, was a busy executive unable to immediately cater to whomever waltzed in without an appointment.
Jack approached the desk clerk who'd surreptitiously watched the meet-and-greet. He took the guy for mid-twenties. Reasonably clean-cut, no visible tattoos, holes in both earlobes and bracketing an eyebrow. Ditch the hardware at home and you can make a couple bucks an hour more than a fry cook.
Jack's opening questions affirmed the clerk was on duty from 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. last Sunday. Noting the name badge, he said, "I'm the company complaint department, Michael. Believe me, I know conferences are nightmares for staffers trying their best to accommodate guests."
"Some are," Michael hedged.
"We've never had one yet where hotel employees wept when it was over." Jack grinned. "You wouldn't be the first to call Carleton deHaven a jerk, either." He tapped his leather portfolio. "Thirty-seven, at last count."
"Seriously?"
"Hey, you know how the world works, Mike. He who has the gold breaks the rules. I'm just the strictly confidential cleanup batter."
Still wary, but warming up, the clerk said, "I was off, Friday and Saturday. What I saw of Mr. deHaven, he seemed okay."
"Courteous? No over-the-top demands, nothing like that?"
A hesitation. "Not really."
Jack let silence stretch two beats, three
.
"Well, room service caught it big-time on Sunday when he didn't have his pot of coffee, like two minutes after he called downstairs." A pause, then, "The servers flipped for who'd hustle it up to him. My girlfriend lost, but she made an extra five bucks cash on top of the gratuity. Mr. deHaven even apologized. Told her he had a wicked migraine and coffee always helped."
"Decent of him," Jack said. "I don't suppose you know when this happened?"
"Ten-thirty, eleven maybe." Mike shrugged. "That's why it took so long. The kitchen was hoppin' to get ready for the church crowd. You wouldn't believe how many townies pack into the restaurant for lunch on Sundays."
"You must have great food."
The clerk looked left, right, then lowered his voice. "Have you ever had great food in a hotel restaurant?"
Jack laughed. "Not on my expense account. I'm Super 8, IHOP and Mickey D's all the way."
Mike motioned to hold on while he checked out a guest. On the desk's belt-high staff side, a whisper-quiet printer proffered the guest's statement for Kenneth Liebowitz, 84552 StarCircle Drive, Atlanta, Georgia. During his overnight stay, he'd twice eaten in the restaurant, run up a fifty-seven-dollar bar tab and watched a pay-per-view channel in his room.
Had Jack been inclined, Liebowitz's American Express account number was his for the memorizing. Five minutes in the hotel's business center and he'd have a Social Security number, birth date, credit report, wife's and children's names and birth dates, employment history and previous addresses to go with it.
If the man's maternal grandmother had attended his wedding, or was deceased, either newspaper write-up would provide that worst conceivable security password: Liebowitz's mother's maiden name.
What Jack wouldn't give for the same amount of time alone with the keyboard taunting him a few feet beyond his reach. A fire alarm, bomb threat, faulty water mainany ol' act of God or vandalism would be splendid right about now.
"It wasn't Mr. deHaven that was a pain," Mike said, returning to Jack's end of the counter. "I don't remember the guy's name, but he was, like, a, you know, a director or something. Comb-over? Glasses? About your height, but a lot heavier."
Jack nodded, having not the slightest clue whom that description might fit.
"He was freakin' about somebody deHaven was supposed to pick up at the airport. Paced the lobby, yelled into his cell phone. Shoved around luggage carts and people that got between him and the door. I thought the dude was gonna stroke out, then boom, it was over. Maybe an hour later, Mr. deHaven and this other man pull up in a limo"
Mike tensed. Overcome by a sudden need to consult the registration files in a desk cubby, he said, "I wish we had an F.D.I.C. seminar every weekend, Mr. Melville. Everyone I spoke to was as nice as he or she could be."
Jack knew without looking that Charles Dunwoodie had concluded his urgent matter and was standing directly behind him. "Impressive, Michael. Very impressive."
From the portfolio, he extracted an F.D.I.C. business card formatted and printed with the Web site's logo and contact information. "Our organization is always scouting for young up-and-comers"
A hand clapped Jack's shoulder. The card was artfully plucked from his grasp. "So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Melville." To the desk clerk, Dunwoodie murmured, "If you'll excuse us, Michael."
