8
Jamie had been working late—as usual—when Robertson called. His voice had sounded tight and he'd said he needed to talk to her. Now. Something had come up—something big and very strange.
Well, she'd been ready to leave anyway. After she assured him that the line had been checked for taps, he said he'd pick her up in his car, a big, black Crown Victoria. When she'd reminded him about her Dementedist shadows, he told her where to meet him and exactly how to get there.
So here she was at 8:15 walking west through the Forty-second Street tunnel. One of the Dementedist shadows was following her, laying back about fifty feet or so. Where was the other? They usually had a crew of two waiting outside The Light. It bothered her that she didn't know where he was.
Jamie was puffing by the time she reached the Eighth Avenue station. Damn those cigarettes. Had to quit some day.
Instead of heading for one of the train platforms, she rushed up the steps to the street.
Now she was really breathing hard. She spotted a big black car idling at the corner. That had to be Robertson, but he'd told her to wait until he gave a signal. Why? She didn't want to wait with one of those nutcases coming up behind her. She wanted in that car now.
Suddenly the passenger door flew open and his voice called from within.
"Let's go!"
Jamie didn't need to hear that twice. She trotted over and jumped in. The car was roaring up Eighth Avenue before she closed the door.
"We've got to stop meeting like this, Robertson."
Light from passing street lamps flashed against his face. His features looked tight, tense.
"Call me Jack, remember?"
"Oh, right. Hey, tell me, why did you want me to wait by the top of the steps instead of just jumping in and going?"
"I wanted the traffic lights the right color. Not much point in burning rubber just to stop a block away. Now they'll have to find a cab before they can come after us. And they're not going to find us when they do."
"Not they—he. Only one tonight. But he probably got a look at your license plate."
The line of his mouth tightened further. "Might have got a look at more than that. While I was waiting for you a guy I'd seen in Jensen's office when I was getting my Entry Card came out of a deli carrying a paper bag. Coffee and sandwiches, probably. Walked right past the car."
"Think he saw you?"
"Looked at me but didn't seem to recognize me."
"Oh, hell. If they've got your plate numbers—"
He smiled, but even that was tight. "Won't do them much good. And they're in for a pile of trouble if they start hassling the real owner of these tags."
"So this is a borrowed car?"
"No, it's mine, but the plates are duplicates of someone else's. Someone you don't want to mess with."
"Who?"
He shook his head. "Trade secret."
That again. But he'd piqued her curiosity. "Would I have heard of him?"
"As a reporter? Oh, yeah."
The way he drew out the oh was enough to make her crazy. Who was he talking about? But she sensed that asking again would be like talking to a statue.
He took a left onto Fifty-seventh and headed farther west.
"Where are we going?"
"We need someplace quiet and private. Any ideas?"
"We're only a few blocks from my place but I think it's got a surveillance situation."
"Wouldn't be surprised, but let's go check it out anyway."
She directed him to her block on West Sixty-eighth.
She pointed right to the front door of her apartment building. "That's me."
Jack jerked a thumb toward his side window. "And there's the Dormen-talist stakeout team."
Jamie saw a dark coupe, parked curbside, no lights on inside or out. A man sat alone in the front seat. Her stomach crawled.
"Let's get out of here."