Man on a Leash by Charles Williams Page B

they’d done all that, there was no way in Christ’s world they could get the money. Except that they did.”
    “Well, what are you going to do now?”
    He considered. At the moment he could see two possible leads, both very tenuous and both calling for a hell of a lot of legwork. One was Jeri Bonner, and the other the Mercedes. He couldn’t explore both avenues at once, so the best thing would be to get some help doing the bloodhounding and backtracking here while he went back to Nevada. He had an idea about the car, something Brubaker had overlooked or dismissed as unimportant, and he had a hunch he could find the place. It would just take a lot of driving. He’d had enough of that highway up through Sacramento and across the Sierra, so he’d fly up and rent a car in Reno. He told her.
    “When will you be back?” she asked.
    “Tomorrow night, probably.”
    “Can I go too?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “That desert’s hotter than the floor plates of hell. And you’d just be bored, and choked with dust—”
    “Spare me the bullshit, Romstead. I can’t go because it might be dangerous, right?”
    “Dangerous? Of course not.”
    “You’re looking for a place, but you don’t have the faintest idea what the place consists of or who’s going to be there. If it’s the people who killed your father, they’ll invite you in for a drink—”
    “I don’t intend to carry a sign.”
    “So of course they’ll think you’re the Avon lady. Or you could disguise yourself as a jockey. You and your goddamned CIA ... I might as well get dressed and go home.” She got up and flounced out of the room but reappeared in the doorway a moment later, looking contrite and worried. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
    “Sure,” Romstead said. He brought out his address book and looked up Jeff Loring’s number. Loring was a college classmate who’d been with the FBI for a while and now was practicing law in San Francisco. They’d had lunch together a couple of times in the months Romstead had been in town. Loring was in, and if the question surprised him, he concealed it.
    “Private investigator? Sure, I know several, personally or by reputation, but they specialize a lot: divorce, skip tracing, background investigation, security—”
    “Skip tracing, in that area. General police experience.”
    “Murdock sounds like your man. Larry Murdock. He runs a small agency on Post Street. I haven’t got his number handy, but you can get it from the book.”
    “Thanks a lot, Jeff. I’ll tell you about it later.”
    “No sweat. Give me a call, and we’ll have lunch.”
    He looked up the number and dialed. He introduced himself and said he was calling on Loring’s recommendation. “I’d come there, but I’ve got some more phone calls to make.” He gave the address. “Could you send one of your men over?”
    “I’ll come myself,” Murdock replied. “Half hour be all right?”
    “That’ll be fine.”
    Mayo came out dressed for the street while he was looking up the Nevada area code. “You want me to call about flight times?” she asked.
    “Yeah, if you would, honey. I’ll be tied up here for the next couple of hours.”
    She leaned down to kiss him and went out. Her apartment was in another building of the same complex.
    He called directory assistance in area code 702 for Mrs. Carmody’s number and dialed, praying she’d be in. The information he could give Murdock would be sketchy until he could get hold of her. Carmelita answered. Mrs. Carmody was out by the pool. One moment, please.
    “Eric? Where in the world are you? I thought you went back to San Francisco.”
    “That’s where I’m calling from. How are you?”
    “Fine. But still a little shook about Jeri.”
    “I know. But she’s why I called. Do you by any chance know what her address was here? Or where she worked?”
    “No-o. I don’t think I ever did. The only person who would know would be Lew, but for God’s sake, don’t tackle