For a second he considered just leaving it, but no.
Later he'd regret it. He took out his knife and carefully replaced the screws. Then he forced himself to stand quietly for a moment. Did he have everything? Was anything out of place? He reached into his coat pocket and screwed his pen back together. Then he took a few deep breaths, listened, and stepped out into the hallway.
At the elevator he pressed the button for the parking garage. The doors sighed and opened immediately. That was a good sign, he thought. In all that time since he'd come up, nobody had used that elevator. He glanced at his watch. It was only one fifteen . And then he realized he was getting an erection.
It struck him as funny, but he didn't dare laugh yet.
When the elevator doors opened again and he felt the cold night air he forgot about it. He moved across the parking ramp and out to the lot. At the fenced-in dumpsters he stopped and retrieved his suitcase, then kept on going.
At the first public trash can he came to, he broke his pen in two and threw it in among the crumpled cups and napkins and bottles and cans. He moved again, nursing his injured knee into exactly the right pace for a man disappearing into the night.
The Senator stirred, then woke up. The room seemed awfully cold. The Constellation hadn't been the same since they'd remodeled it in 1972, he thought. It was those damned fancy windows and balconies and things. The workmanship just wasn't any good anymore. People didn't take pride in their work. But then he reminded himself that he was an old man, a cranky one at that, and it was probably just his bad circulation. He rolled over and composed himself to go back to sleep. "A goose probably just walked over my grave."
7
When the telephone rang it tore Elizabeth out of sleep, leaving her in an unknown place. After a second or two she remembered it was Ventura and a motel room, but it took four rings for her to see the telephone and one more to get her hand on it. The call was from Hart, who wanted her to be ready for breakfast in twenty minutes.
Elizabeth hung up and went to the nightstand for her watch. Seven o'clock exactly. Then she went off to the bathroom to brush her teeth and see about a shower. As she hurried through the morning rituals she tried to keep herself from becoming too excited. Even if there were a clue, something to go on, it would probably take months to follow it up, and by then the case would be common property. A hundred people in a dozen overlapping agencies would be 32
involved. And there still wasn't any reason to believe she had finally crossed the trail of a genuine professional hit man or that he'd be of any use if they caught him. It was like trying to capture an animal that was so small and rare and elusive that you sometimes doubted that it existed, but if it did exist it would be capable of killing you. No, this was worse, because there wasn't any point in hunting it down unless you could keep it alive and teach it to talk.
When they walked into the foyer of the Ventura police station, a sergeant carrying a mug of coffee was crossing the floor toward a corridor of tiny offices.
He veered toward them, giving a reassuring half-smile. "Hi. Are you being taken care of?"
"Agent Hart, FBI, and Miss Waring, Justice Department, to see the chief,"
said Hart, flashing his badge.
"Okay," said the sergeant. "This way, please." He shot a look over his shoulder as he conducted them down the hallway. "Chief know you're coming?"
he asked.
"Yes," said Hart.
Elizabeth said nothing, having reminded herself as they were coming up the steps that she'd learn more by listening and watching than by trying to take charge. But the fact that Hart had said FBI and Justice department hadn't been lost on her. Technically the FBI was just one of the divisions of the Department of Justice although that had been very easy to forget the few times she'd been inside the massive J. Edgar Hoover Building with its
Later he'd regret it. He took out his knife and carefully replaced the screws. Then he forced himself to stand quietly for a moment. Did he have everything? Was anything out of place? He reached into his coat pocket and screwed his pen back together. Then he took a few deep breaths, listened, and stepped out into the hallway.
At the elevator he pressed the button for the parking garage. The doors sighed and opened immediately. That was a good sign, he thought. In all that time since he'd come up, nobody had used that elevator. He glanced at his watch. It was only one fifteen . And then he realized he was getting an erection.
It struck him as funny, but he didn't dare laugh yet.
When the elevator doors opened again and he felt the cold night air he forgot about it. He moved across the parking ramp and out to the lot. At the fenced-in dumpsters he stopped and retrieved his suitcase, then kept on going.
At the first public trash can he came to, he broke his pen in two and threw it in among the crumpled cups and napkins and bottles and cans. He moved again, nursing his injured knee into exactly the right pace for a man disappearing into the night.
The Senator stirred, then woke up. The room seemed awfully cold. The Constellation hadn't been the same since they'd remodeled it in 1972, he thought. It was those damned fancy windows and balconies and things. The workmanship just wasn't any good anymore. People didn't take pride in their work. But then he reminded himself that he was an old man, a cranky one at that, and it was probably just his bad circulation. He rolled over and composed himself to go back to sleep. "A goose probably just walked over my grave."
7
When the telephone rang it tore Elizabeth out of sleep, leaving her in an unknown place. After a second or two she remembered it was Ventura and a motel room, but it took four rings for her to see the telephone and one more to get her hand on it. The call was from Hart, who wanted her to be ready for breakfast in twenty minutes.
Elizabeth hung up and went to the nightstand for her watch. Seven o'clock exactly. Then she went off to the bathroom to brush her teeth and see about a shower. As she hurried through the morning rituals she tried to keep herself from becoming too excited. Even if there were a clue, something to go on, it would probably take months to follow it up, and by then the case would be common property. A hundred people in a dozen overlapping agencies would be 32
involved. And there still wasn't any reason to believe she had finally crossed the trail of a genuine professional hit man or that he'd be of any use if they caught him. It was like trying to capture an animal that was so small and rare and elusive that you sometimes doubted that it existed, but if it did exist it would be capable of killing you. No, this was worse, because there wasn't any point in hunting it down unless you could keep it alive and teach it to talk.
When they walked into the foyer of the Ventura police station, a sergeant carrying a mug of coffee was crossing the floor toward a corridor of tiny offices.
He veered toward them, giving a reassuring half-smile. "Hi. Are you being taken care of?"
"Agent Hart, FBI, and Miss Waring, Justice Department, to see the chief,"
said Hart, flashing his badge.
"Okay," said the sergeant. "This way, please." He shot a look over his shoulder as he conducted them down the hallway. "Chief know you're coming?"
he asked.
"Yes," said Hart.
Elizabeth said nothing, having reminded herself as they were coming up the steps that she'd learn more by listening and watching than by trying to take charge. But the fact that Hart had said FBI and Justice department hadn't been lost on her. Technically the FBI was just one of the divisions of the Department of Justice although that had been very easy to forget the few times she'd been inside the massive J. Edgar Hoover Building with its
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