Michael Connelly - The Poet

I ignored his sarcasm but his question gave me an idea for later.

"There's a receipt?"

"I just read it to you."

"What about the date and time of purchase, that on there? Most of these computer registers put it on there."

Silence. So long I wanted to scream.

"Sunday morning, twelve fifty-four."

I closed my eyes. While Thorson was buying a box of condoms, of which he wouldn't even use one, someone was in his room making phone calls.

"Okay, Jack, what's it mean?" Backus asked.

"It means everything is a lie."

I opened my eyes and pulled the phone from my ear. I looked at it like it was some alien thing attached to my hand and slowly dropped it back into its cradle.

Bledsoe was still in his office and answered on the first ring.

"Dan, it's Jack again."

"Jack Mac, what's up?"

"You know that beer you said you owed me? I thought of something else you can do for me instead."

"You got it."

I told him what I needed him to do and he didn't hesitate, even when I told him I needed it done now. He said he couldn't promise results but that he'd get back to me one way or the other as soon as possible.

I thought about the first call made while Thorson was out of his room. It had been to the general public line at the Quantico center. It hadn't struck me as odd when I called the number on the plane. But now it did. Why would someone call the general number in the middle of the night? I knew now that the answer could only be that the caller did not want to call a direct number at the center, thereby revealing knowledge of that number. Instead, through her computer, she called the general number and when the operator recognized the fax mating beep, the call was transferred to one of the general fax lines.

I recalled that during the Sunday morning meeting on the fax from the Poet, Thorson had recited the details after getting the rundown from Quantico. The fax had come through on the general number and had been transferred to a fax machine.

Without a word an operator at Quantico switched me to the BSS offices when I called and asked for Agent Brad Hazelton. The phone rang three times and I thought I was too late, that he had gone for the day, when he finally picked up.

"Brad, it's Jack McEvoy. In Los Angeles."

"Hey, Jack, how're you doing? Pretty close call for you yesterday."

"I'm doing okay. I'm sorry about Agent Thorson. I know everybody works very closely together there…"

"Well, he was pretty much an asshole but nobody deserves what happened to him. It's pretty awful. Not a lot of smiling faces around here today."

"I can imagine."

"So what's going on?"

"Well, it's just a couple of minor points. I'm putting together a chronology of events so that I have this story down straight. You know, if I ever get to write the whole thing."

I hated lying to this man who had only been friendly to me, but I couldn't afford to tell him the truth because then he certainly wouldn't help me.

"And, anyway, I seem to have misplaced my notes on the fax. You know, the fax the Poet sent to Quantico on Sunday. I remember Gordon said he got the details from either you or Brass. What I wanted to know is the exact time it came in. If you have it."

"Uh, hold on, Jack."

He was gone before I could say I would hold. I closed my eyes and spent the next few minutes wondering whether he was actually looking up the information or first checking to see if he could give it to me.

Finally, he came back on the line.

"Sorry, Jack, I had to look through all the papers here. The fax came to machine number two, in the academy office's wire room at three thirty-eight Sunday morning."

I looked at my notes. Subtracting the three-hour time difference, the fax came in at Quantico one minute after the call to the general number had been placed from Thorson's room.

"Okay, Jack?"

"Oh, yeah, thanks. Uh, I had one other question."

"Shoot-oh, shit, sorry."

"That's okay. Uh, the question I have is, um… Agent Thorson sent back an oral swab from the victim in Phoenix. Orsulak."

"Yes, Orsulak."

"Uh, he wanted to identify the substance. He believed it was the lubricant from a condom. The question I had was whether it was identified as coming from a specific brand of condom. Can that be done? Was it done?"

Hazelton didn't answer at first and I almost jumped into the silence. But then he spoke.

"That's a strange question, Jack."

"Yeah, I know but, uh, the details of the case, and how you people do things, really fascinates me. It's important to have them right-it makes a better story."

"Hold on another second."

Again he was gone before I could agree to hold. This time he came back very quickly.

"Yes, I have that information. Do you want to tell me why you really want it?"

Now it was my turn to be silent.

"No," I finally said, trying the honesty route. "I'm just trying to work something out, Brad. If it goes the way I think it's going, the FBI's going to be the first to know about it. Believe me."

Hazelton paused for a moment.

"Okay, Jack, I'll trust you. Besides, Gladden's dead. It's not like I'm giving away trial evidence and there's not much you can prove with this anyway. The substance was narrowed down to being similar to two different brands. Ramses Lubricated and Trojan Golds. Problem is they are two of the most popular brands in the country. It is not what we'd call unequivocal evidence of anything."

Maybe it wasn't evidence you could take into a courtroom, but Ramses Lubricated was the brand that Rachel had handed me from her purse on Saturday night in my hotel room. I thanked Hazelton without further discussion and hung up.

It was all there and it all seemed to fit. No matter how many ways over the next hour that I tried to destroy my own theory, I couldn't. It was a theory built on a foundation of suspicion and speculation but it worked like a machine, all the parts meshing together. And I had nothing to throw into its gears that could bring it to a grinding halt.

The last part I needed was Bledsoe. I paced the room waiting for his call, the feeling of anxiety churning in my stomach like something that was alive. I went out on the balcony for fresh air but that didn't help. Staring at me was the Marlboro Man, his thirty-foot-high face holding dominion over the Sunset Strip. I went back inside.

Instead of the cigarette I wanted, I decided on a Coke. I left the room, turning the night lock so the door wouldn't close all the way and trotted down the hallway to the vending machines. In spite of the painkiller, my nerves were jangling. But I knew that this intensity would translate to fatigue in a little while if I didn't ante up with a shot of sugar and caffeine. Halfway back to my room, I heard the phone ringing and I ran. I went for the phone before even closing the door, grabbing it on what I thought might be the ninth ring.

"Dan?"

Silence.

"It's Rachel. Who is Dan?"

"Oh." I could barely catch my breath. "He's, uh-He's just a friend at the paper. He was supposed to call."

"What's the matter with you, Jack?"

"I'm out of breath. I was down the hall getting a Coke and I heard the phone."

"Jesus, it must've been the hundred-yard dash."

"Something like that. Hold on."

I went back to the door and closed it, then put my actor's face on as I went back to the phone.

"Rachel?"

"Listen, I just wanted you to know I'm leaving. Bob wants me to go back to Florida and handle this PTL thing."

"Oh."

"It will probably be a few days."

The message light on my phone came on. Bledsoe, I thought, and silently cursed the timing of his call.

"Okay, Rachel."

"We'll have to get together somewhere afterward. I was thinking of taking a vacation."