He reached across the table and took her hand. “You did the best you could do under the circumstances. No one would ever fault you for that.”
They both sat in silence as he gave her a moment to calm herself.
“Do you think Edmund Lane killed your husband?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous. I just don’t believe Adam died of natural causes.” Sadness hung in the air. “I hope our talk helps you find whatever you’re looking for.”
“I hope so, too. Did Adam ever talk about Mort Fields?” Jack asked as they both stood.
“Yes, now and again. I assumed Mort was part of the Council. And Adam mentioned that he, too, spoke to your father about his concerns.”
“I see.” Adam and Mort were part of the so-called Council, and both had gone to his father. Their visits had to be related.
Erma walked him to the door. “If you need any further assistance, call me.” she said.
“Thank you. And please, if you think of anything else, I’m at the Best Western.”
Walking back to the hotel after dinner at a restaurant down the street. Jack felt as if he were being watched. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He turned quickly, taking a few steps backward, only to find the sidewalk behind him vacant.
He noticed his computer and frowned. He was sure he’d left his laptop in his briefcase. Now it sat in plain view on the desk, plugged in. Son-of-a-bitch, someone had been in his room. The maid? No. She had made up the room earlier that afternoon.
Jack went through his computer files. Nothing seemed to be missing. But why would someone break in and not take anything? The bastards were looking for something. He was getting too close. Somebody was getting nervous.
He wondered if his own employer was checking up on him. That was crazy. But was it? He’d seen crazier. And he’d never bothered to find out how the magazine knew he’d been to Missouri before.
He unscrewed the phone and disassembled the light fixtures, hunting for listening devices. Then he tore the room apart looking for anything dangerous. He’d seen bombs planted under toilet seats, toothpaste laced with poison, and a multitude of maiming weapons.
Three hours later, sweat dripping from his brow, he had the room reassembled as if nothing had happened. He flopped down on the bed.
He called the switchboard for messages. The operator told him that Mort Fields’s assistant had phoned to schedule an appointment. A smile lit Jack’s features. Fields was back in town. He could put the pieces of the puzzle together. While Erma had certainty given him interesting information, it was all second hand and speculative. He needed Mort to fill in the blanks.
The dimly-lit parking garage was all but vacant. A small Asian woman dressed in a janitorial suit and carrying a large purse approached the last remaining car. Pausing, she glanced around to assure herself that she was alone. She moved to the side of the vehicle and looked in through the driver’s-side window. The car was unlocked, the alarm disarmed. No surprise, she thought, given the amount of security she’d had to circumvent in order to gain access to the private garage.
With a slight click, the door opened. Silently. she moved around it, dropped to her knees, and leaned into the car, examining the steering column. Finding the standard construction, she set her large bag on the seat and removed her tool pouch. She unscrewed the bolts securing the steering column, and removed the structure, exposing the wiring harness for the airbag.
She found the termination of the wiring harness, made a splice, and inserted a small electrical switch completing the circuit. She threaded it to the speedometer needle, setting the strike point to seventy-five miles per hour.
This was one of her cleverest ideas, she mused. Without the benefit of a Porsche expert directly comparing factory wiring to her revision, no one would ever notice her handiwork.
Her job complete, she replaced the steering column, stuffed her tools back into her purse, and moved out of the car, closing the door behind her. As she stood beside the vehicle, she removed her gloves, shed the janitorial suit, and shoved the items into her bag. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, smoothed her hair, and straightened her dress. Then, she backtracked, making her way out of the garage the way she’d come in.
Mort Fields folded his small frame into his new Porsche Carrera Cabriolet, started the engine, and put the top down. As he drove out of the underground garage, he glanced at his watch: 11:16 P.M. He’d missed the benefit dinner given to support The Airoyo Del Yalle Camp for children with life-threatening illnesses.
