Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

“She wanted to cover the press conference for the school newspaper,” Marvin said. “What should we do, tell her to fuck off?”

“Did you check her out?”

“She’s a kid!”

“Was she alone?”

“Her father brought her.”

There was a business card stapled to the form. “Peter Shoebury, from Watkins, Colefax and Brown. Did you check him out?”

Marvin hesitated for a long moment, realizing he had made a mistake. “No,” he said finally. “Brian decided to let them into the press conference, and afterward I never followed up.”

Judy handed the form with the business card to Carl. “Call this guy right away,” she said.

Carl sat at the nearest desk and picked up the phone.

Marvin said: “Anyway, what makes you so sure we talked to the subject?”

“My father thinks so.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized she had made a mistake.

Marvin sneered. “Oh, so your daddy thinks so. Is that the level we’ve sunk to? You’re checking on me because your daddy told you to?”

“Knock it off, Marvin. My father was putting bad guys in jail when you were still wetting your bed.”

“Where are you going with this, anyway? Are you trying to set me up? You looking for someone to blame when you fail?”

“What a great idea,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of it?”

Carl hung up the phone and said: “Judy.”

“Yeah.”

“Peter Shoebury has never been inside this building, and he has no daughter. But he was mugged on Saturday morning two blocks from here, and his wallet was stolen. It contained his business cards.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Marvin said: “Fuck it.”

Judy ignored his embarrassment. She was too excited by the news. This could be a whole new source of information. “I guess he didn’t look like the E-fit picture we got from Texas.”

“Not a bit,” Marvin said. “No beard, no hat. He had big glasses and long hair in a ponytail.”

“That’s probably another disguise. What about his build, and like that?”

“Tall, slim.”

“Dark hair, dark eyes, about fifty?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

Judy almost felt sorry for Marvin. “It was Ricky Granger, wasn’t it?”

Marvin looked at the floor as if he wanted it to open up and swallow him. “I guess you’re right.”

“I would like you to produce a new E-fit, please.”

He nodded, still not looking at her. “Sure.”

“Now, what about Florence Shoebury?”

“Well, she kind of disarmed us. I mean, what kind of terrorist brings a little girl along with him?”

“One who is completely ruthless. What did the kid look like?”

“White girl about twelve, thirteen. Dark hair, dark eyes, slim build. Pretty.”

“Better do an E-fit of her, too. Do you think she really is his daughter?”

“Oh, sure. That’s how they seemed. She showed no signs of being under coercion, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Yes. Okay, I’m going to assume they’re father and daughter, for now.” She turned to Carl. “We’re out of here.”

They went out. In the corridor Carl said: “Wow. You really did tear off his balls.”

Judy was jubilant. “But we’ve got another suspect — the kid.”

“Yeah. I just hope you never catch me making a mistake.”

She stopped and looked at him. “It wasn’t the mistake, Carl. Anyone can screw up. But he was willing to impede the investigation in order to cover up. That’s where he went wrong. And that’s why he looks like such an asshole now. If you make a mistake, admit it.”

“Yeah,” Carl said. “But I think I’ll keep my legs crossed, too.”

Late that evening Judy got the first edition of the San Francisco Chronicle with the two new pictures: the E-fit of Florence Shoebury and the new E-fit of Ricky Granger disguised as Peter Shoebury. Earlier she had only glanced at the pictures before asking Madge Kelly to get them to the newspapers and TV stations. Now, studying them by the light of her desk lamp, she was struck by the resemblance between Granger and Florence. They’re father and daughter, they have to be. I wonder what will happen to her if I put her daddy in jail?

She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Bo’s advice came back to her. “Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need.” It was time to go home. The overnight shift was already here.

Driving home, she reviewed the day and what she had achieved. Sitting at a stoplight, looking at twin rows of streetlights converging to infinity along Geary Boulevard, she realized that Michael had not faxed her the promised list of likely earthquake sites.

She dialed his number on the car phone, but there was no answer. For some reason that bothered her. She tried again at the next red light, and the number was busy. She called the office switchboard and asked them to check with Pacific Bell and find out whether there were voices on the line. The operator called her back and said there were not. The phone had been taken off the hook.

So he was home, but not picking up.

He had sounded odd when he called to cancel their date. He was like that; he could be charming and kind, then change abruptly and be difficult and arrogant. But why was his phone off the hook? Judy felt uneasy.

She checked the dashboard clock. It was just before eleven.

Two days left .

I don’t have time to screw around .

She turned the car around and headed for Berkeley.

She reached Euclid Street at eleven-fifteen. There were lights on in Michael’s apartment. Outside was an old orange Subaru. She had seen the car before but did not know whose it was. She parked behind it and rang Michael’s doorbell.

There was no answer.

Judy was troubled. Michael had crucial information. Today, on the very day she had asked him a key question, he had abruptly canceled an appointment, then had become incommunicado.

It was suspicious.

She wondered what to do. Maybe she should call for police backup and break in. He could be tied up or dead in there.

She returned to her car and picked up the two-way radio, but she hesitated. When a man took the phone off the hook at eleven P.M., it might mean a variety of things. He might want to sleep. He might be getting laid, although Michael seemed too interested in Judy to play around — he was not the type to sleep with a different woman every night, she thought.

While she was wavering, a young woman with a briefcase approached the building. She looked like an assistant professor returning home from a late evening at the lab. She stopped at the door and fumbled in her briefcase for keys.

Impulsively Judy jumped out of her car and walked quickly across the lawn to the entrance. “Good evening,” she said. She showed her badge. “FBI special agent Judy Maddox. I need access to this building.”

“Something wrong?” the woman said anxiously.

“I hope not. If you go to your apartment and close the door, you’ll be just fine.”

They went in together. The woman entered a ground-floor apartment, and Judy went up the stairs. She rapped on Michael’s door with her knuckles.

There was no reply.

What was going on? He was in there. He must have heard her ring and knock. He knew no casual caller would be so persistent at this time of night. Something was wrong, she felt sure.

She knocked again, three times, hard. Then she put her ear to the door and listened.

She heard a scream.

That did it. She took a step back and kicked the door as hard as she could. She was wearing loafers, and she hurt the underside of her right foot, but the wood around the lock splintered: thank God he did not have a steel door. She kicked it again. The lock seemed almost to break. She ran at the door with her shoulder, and it burst open.