"It's a mobile," he said. "If I call it up I can't tell whose it is or where it is."
"Listen, Finlay," I said. "I don't care whose it is. All I care is whose it isn't. Understand? It isn't my phone. So you call it up and John Doe in Atlanta or Jane Doe in Charleston answers it. Then you know it isn't mine."
Finlay gazed at me. Drummed his fingers on the desk. Kept quiet.
"You know how to do this," I said. "Call the number, some bullshit story about a technical fault or an unpaid bill, some computer thing, get the person to confirm name and address. Do it, Finlay, you're supposed to be a damn detective."
He leaned forward to where he had left the number. Slid the paper back with his long brown fingers. Reversed it so he could read it and picked up the phone. Dialed the number. Hit the speakerphone button. The ring tone filled the air. Not a sonorous long tone like a home phone. A high, urgent electronic sound. It stopped. The phone was answered.
"Paul Hubble," a voice said. "How may I help you?"
A southern accent. A confident manner. Accustomed to telephones.
"Mr. Hubble?" Finlay said. He was looking at the desk, writing down the name. "Good afternoon. This is the phone company, mobile division. Engineering manager. We've had a fault reported on your number."
"A fault?" the voice said. "Seems OK to me. I didn't report a fault."
"Calling out should be OK," Finlay said. "It's reaching you that may have been a problem, sir. I've got our signal-strength meter connected right now, and actually, sir, it's reading a bit low."
"I can hear you OK," the voice said.
"Hello?" Finlay said. "You're fading a bit, Mr. Hubble. Hello? It would help me to know the exact geographic location of your phone, sir, you know, right now, in relation to our transmitting stations."
"I'm right here at home," said the voice.
"OK," Finlay said. He picked up his pen again. "Could you just confirm that exact address for me?"
"Don't you have my address?" the voice said. Man-to-man jocular stuff. "You seem to manage to send me a bill every month."
Finlay glanced at me. I was smiling at him. He made a face.
"I'm here in engineering right now, sir," he said. Also jocular. Just two regular guys battling technology. "Customer details are in a different department. I could access that data, but it would take a minute, you know how it is. Also, sir, you've got to keep talking anyway while this meter is connected to give me an exact strength reading, you know? You may as well recite your address, unless you've got a favorite poem or anything."
The tinny speakerphone relayed a laugh from the guy called Hubble.
"OK, here goes, testing, testing," his voice said. "This is Paul Hubble, right here at home, that's number twenty-five Beckman Drive, I say again, zero-two-five Beckman Drive, down here in little old Margrave, that's M-A-R-G-R-A-V-E in the State of Georgia, U.S.A. How am I doing on my signal strength?"
Finlay didn't respond. He was looking very worried.
"Hello?" the voice said. "Are you still there?"
"Yes, Mr. Hubble," Finlay said. "I'm right here. Can't find any problem at all, sir. Just a false alarm, I guess. Thank you for your help."
"OK," said the guy called Hubble. "You're welcome."
The connection broke and a dial tone filled the room. Finlay replaced the phone. Leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. Spoke to himself.
"Shit," he said. "Right here in town. Who the hell is this Paul Hubble?"
"You don't know the guy?" I said.
He looked at me. A bit rueful. Like he'd forgotten I was there.
"I've only been here six months," he said. "I don't know everybody."
He leaned forward and buzzed the intercom button on the rosewood desk. Called Baker back in.
"Ever heard of some guy called Hubble?" Finlay asked him. "Paul Hubble, lives here in town, twenty-five Beckman Drive?"
"Paul Hubble?" Baker said. "Sure. He lives here, like you say, always has. Family man. Stevenson knows him, some kind of an in-law or something. They're friendly, I think. Go bowling together. Hubble's a banker. Some kind of a financial guy, you know, a big-shot executive type, works up in Atlanta. Some big bank up there. I see him around, time to time."
Finlay looked at him.
"He's the guy on the other end of this number," he said.
"Hubble?" Baker said. "Right here in Margrave? That's a hell of a thing."
Finlay turned back to me.
"I suppose you're going to say you never heard of this guy?" he asked me.
"Never heard of him," I said.
He glared at me briefly. Turned back to Baker.
"You better go on out and bring this Hubble guy in," he said. "Twenty-five Beckman Drive. God knows what he's got to do with anything, but we better talk to him. Go easy on him, you know, he's probably a respectable guy."
He glared at me again and left the room. Banged the heavy door. Baker reached over and stopped the recording machine. Walked me out of the office. Back to the cell. I went in. He followed and removed the handcuffs. Put them back on his belt. Stepped back out and closed the gate. Operated the lock. The electric bolts snicked home. He walked away.
"Hey, Baker," I called.
He turned and walked back. A level gaze. Not friendly.
"I want something to eat," I said. "And coffee."
"You'll eat up at the state facility," he said. "Bus comes by at six."