When Marlee called back ten minutes later, she was put straight through, pursuant to Mr. Fitch's orders. Fitch was now standing with his boxers pulled almost to his chest but still sagging down past his fleshy thighs, scratching his forehead and wondering how she'd found him. "Good evening," he said.
"Hi, Fitch. Sorry to call so late." She wasn't sorry about a damned thing. The "i" in "Hi" was deliberately flat, something that happened occasionally with Marlee. It was an effort to sound a little Southern. The recordings of all eight phone conversations, however brief, along with the recording of their chat in New Orleans, had been scrutinized by voice and dialect experts in New York. Marlee was a Midwesterner, from eastern Kansas or western Missouri, probably from somewhere within a hundred miles of Kansas City.
"No problem," he said, checking the recorder on a narrow folding table near his bed. "How's your friend?"
"Lonely. Tonight was conjugal night, you know?"
"So I heard. Did everybody get conjugated?"
"Not exactly. It's pretty sad, really. The men watched John Wayne movies while the women knitted."
"Nobody got laid?"
"Very few. Angel Weese, but she's in the middle of a hot romance. Rikki Coleman. Millie Dupree's husband showed up but didn't stay long. The Cards were together. Can't tell about Herman. And Savelle had a guest."
"What manner of humanity did Savelle attract?"
"Don't know. It was never seen."
Fitch lowered his wide rear to the edge of the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you visit your friend?" he asked.
"Who said we're lovers?"
"What are you?"
"Friends. Guess which two jurors are sleeping together?"
"Now how would I know that?"
"Guess."
Fitch smiled at himself in the mirror and marveled at his wonderful luck. "Jerry Fernandez and somebody."
"Good guess. Jerry's about to get a divorce, and Sylvia is lonely too. Their rooms are just across the hall, and, well, there's little else to do at the Siesta Inn."
"Ain't love grand?"
"I gotta tell you, Fitch, Krigler worked for the plaintiff."
"They listened to him, huh?"
"Every word. They listened and they believed. He turned them around, Fitch."
"Tell me some good news."
"Rohr's worried."
His spine stiffened noticeably. "What's bugging Rohr?" he asked, studying his puzzled face in the mirror. He shouldn't be surprised that she was talking to Rohr, so why the hell was he shocked to hear it? He felt betrayed.
"You. He knows you're loose on the streets scheming up all sorts of ways to get to the jury. Wouldn't you be worried, Fitch, if some guy like you was hard at work for the plaintiff?"
"I'd be terrified."
"Rohr isn't terrified. He's just worried."
"How often do you talk to him?"
"A lot. He's sweeter than you, Fitch. He's a very pleasant man to talk to, plus he doesn't record my calls, doesn't send in goons to follow my car. None of that sort of stuff."
"Really knows how to charm a girl, huh?"
"Yeah. But he's weak where it counts."
"Where's that?"
"In the wallet. He can't match your resources."
"How much of my resources do you want?"
"Later, Fitch. Gotta run. There's a suspicious-looking car sitting across the street. Must be some of your clowns." She hung up.
Fitch showered and tried to sleep. At 2 A.M., he drove himself to the Lucy Luck, where he played blackjack at five hundred dollars a hand, sipped Sprite until dawn, when he left with close to twenty thousand dollars in fresh winnings.
Chapter Twenty
The first Saturday in November arrived with temperatures in the low sixties, unseasonably cool for the Coast and its near-tropical climate. A gentle breeze from the north rattled trees and scattered leaves on the streets and sidewalks. Fall usually arrived late and lasted until the first of the year, when it yielded to spring. The Coast did not experience winter.
A few joggers were on the street just after dawn. No one noticed the plain black Chrysler as it pulled into the driveway of a modest brick split-level. It was too early for the neighbors to see the two young men in matching dark suits exit the car, walk to the front door, ring the buzzer, and wait patiently. It was too early, but in less than an hour the lawns would be busy with leaf rakers and the sidewalks busy with children.
Hoppy had just poured the water into the Mr. Coffee when he heard the buzzer. He tightened the belt of his ragged terry-cloth bathrobe and tried to straighten his unkempt hair with his fingers. Must be the Boy Scouts selling doughnuts at this ungodly hour. Surely it wasn't the Jehovah's Witnesses again. He'd let them have it this time. Nothing but a cult! He moved quickly because the upstairs was filled with comatose teenagers. Six at last count. Five of his and a guest someone had dragged home from junior college. A typical Friday night at the Dupree home.
He opened the front door and met two serious young men, both of whom instantly reached into their pockets and whipped out gold medallions stuck to black leather. In the quick rush of syllables, Hoppy caught "FBI" at least twice, and nearly fainted.
"Are you Mr. Dupree?" Agent Nitchman asked.
Hoppy gasped. "Yes, but-"
"We'd like to ask you some questions," said Agent Napier as he somehow managed to take a step even closer.
"About what?" Hoppy asked, his voice dry. He tried to look between them, at the street, across it where Mildred Yancy was no doubt watching all of this.
Nitchman and Napier exchanged a harsh, conspiratorial look. Then Napier said to Hoppy, "We can do it here, or perhaps somewhere else."
"Questions about Stillwater Bay, Jimmy Hull Moke, things like that," Nitchman said for clarification, and Hoppy clutched the door frame.
"Oh my god," he said as the air was sucked from his lungs and most vital organs froze.
"May we come in?" Napier said.
Hoppy lowered his head and rubbed his eyes as if to weep. "No, please, not here." The children! Normally they'd sleep till nine or ten, or even noon for that matter if Millie let them, but with voices downstairs they'd be up in a minute. "My office," he managed to say.
"We'll wait," Napier said.
"Make it quick," Nitchman said.
"Thank you," Hoppy said, then quickly closed the door, and locked it. He fell onto a sofa in the den, and stared at the ceiling, which was spinning clockwise. No sounds from upstairs. The kids were still sleeping. His heart pounded fiercely and for a full minute he thought he might just lie there and die. Death would be welcome now. He could close his eyes and float away, and in a couple of hours the first kid down would see him and call 911. He was fifty-three, and bad hearts ran in his family, on his mother's side. Millie would get a hundred thousand in life insurance.
When he realized his heart was determined to continue, he slowly swung to his feet. Still dizzy, he groped his way to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. It was five minutes after seven, according to the digital on the oven. Fourth day of November. Undoubtedly one of the worst days of his life. How could he have been so stupid!
He thought about calling Todd Ringwald, and he thought about calling Millard Putt, his lawyer. He decided to wait. He was suddenly in a hurry. He wanted to leave the house before the kids got up, and he wanted those two agents out of his driveway before the neighbors noticed. Besides, Millard Putt did nothing but real estate law, and was not very good at that. This was a criminal matter.