He smiles. "Sure, Mr. Carpenter. No problem. I'll start tonight on my computer at home. Whole thing should be wrapped up by tomorrow."
Sam notices my slightly worried expression and reassures me that this is definitely within Barry's expertise. Additionally, Sam will call in from his trip to make sure everything is going smoothly.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Puerto Rico. Do a little gambling … get some sun …"
I can't help myself. "So you're leaving on a jet plane? You don't know when you'll be back again?"
He smiles. "Oh, babe, I hate to go."
I'M SICK OF STUFFING PETE STANTON'S MOUTH with expensive food, but I do need to talk to him, so I suggest we meet at a Taco Bell. He calls me a "cheap son of a bitch," but since he has a genetic weakness for grilled stuffed burritos, and since I promise him an extra-large Pepsi, he ultimately agrees.
We meet at six o'clock, and I'm finished bringing him up to date on my progress by six-oh-two. He tells me that Sabonis is taking Laurie's report of the phone call seriously and that the investigation into Dorsey's possible whereabouts, as well as the possible misidentification of the body, is proceeding.
"How many lieutenants are there in the department?" I ask.
"Why? You thinking of signing up? You'll have to start a little lower."
"Come on … how many?"
He thinks for a few moments. "Including me … six."
"Are they the same as two years ago, when Dorsey was being investigated?"
He thinks a little longer. "Well, Dorsey was part of the group then. As far as the rest? Almost the same … I think we had five then. I'm pretty sure McReynolds got promoted a while after that. Now you gonna tell me why you want to know?"
I nod. "I have information that Dorsey was working with another lieutenant. They weren't defending the cause of truth and justice. Any idea who it could be?"
"No." His answer is a little too quick, a little defensive. "I don't buy it. Not that group."
"What about Sabonis?" I ask.
He shakes his head firmly. "Nick? Absolutely not possible; Nick's as straight as they come. There's more chance it was me."
Having taken that as far as it can go, I move on. "They identified the body against Dorsey's DNA. Where would they have gotten it from?"
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"Well, I don't keep a bottle of DNA in my medicine cabinet. How would they have Dorsey's?"
"Every cop has to give blood for typing when we join the force," he says. "I assume they used that."
"Where is it kept?" I ask.
He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe the precinct first-aid room, maybe the lab."
"Could somebody, could a cop, have gotten in there?"
"You mean could Dorsey have gotten in there before he disappeared, and replaced his blood with somebody else's? I don't see why not. Especially if it's in the first-aid room. It's not high-security."
"You think you could find out where the blood is kept?"
"I believe that everybody is put on this good earth for a purpose," he says. "Mine is to carry out whatever assignments you have for me."
"And you're doing a hell of a job."
I get home about eight o'clock, a half hour later than I told Laurie I would. She had dinner prepared, and my being late probably made that difficult, but that isn't the kind of thing that upsets her. She is, however, growing increasingly frustrated that she can't help defend herself, and that frustration translates to isolation. I understand it, but I can't fix it.
Actually, we're living a kind of weird sit-com. Maybe I'll head out to Hollywood and pitch it to some TV executive. "It's about two people who decide to move in together, and they start to get on each other's nerves. But she can't move out, you see, because--get this … she's wearing this ankle bracelet …"
One thing that I've noticed is how bonded Laurie and Tara have become. Tara is constantly at her side, graciously accepting the petting that Laurie seems comforted to give. Tara might even be more inclined to be near Laurie than to be with me. A less secure person than myself would be jealous, but the way I figure it, whenever I have the chance to be stroked by either Laurie's hand or my own, it's a no-brainer to pick Laurie's. Why should I expect a smart dog like Tara to make a different choice?
Laurie and I have settled into a kind of pattern, where after we have dinner, we sit in the living room and I bring her up to date on the events of the day. Very often she knows a lot of it, since my office is operating out of the house. But in this case I tell her about Celia Dorsey and ask her if she can make an educated guess as to the identity of the other lieutenant who was in cahoots with Alex. It seems as improbable to her as it did to Pete.
We're finished talking at about ten o'clock, and we go upstairs to bed. I'm just falling asleep when the phone rings, and I get it.
It's Barry Leiter's voice on the line, a little tentative. "Mr. Carpenter? This is Barry … from Sam's office? I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I found something, and I figured--"
I interrupt. "You traced the money?"
"Part of the way, and then I sort of ran into a road-block. I wanted to talk to you before I went any further."
"What about?"
"These guys are good--I mean really good. I think … well, they were waiting for somebody to try and follow this money."
This isn't terribly surprising news: Once we knew that Dorsey was alive, it became a predictable way to try to follow him. "How do you know that?"
"Believe me, I can tell," he says. "But that's not the strange part. The strange part is they were geared up to trace the tracer. That's what I thought you should know."
"I don't even know what you're talking about," I say.
"I mean they were set up to know who was tracking the money. They know it's me."
Now I'm fully alert and growing uneasy. "Did you give them your name or address?"
He laughs. "Mr. Carpenter, no offense, but this is the twenty-first century. They can get that by pressing a button."
It's amazing how fast unease can turn to panic. "What's your address?"
"Three eighty-three Vreeland Avenue."
"Okay. Barry, lock your doors and turn your lights off. I'm coming right over. Don't let anybody in unless you know it's me."
"Why? What's going on?"