Paul Yale smiled. "What other theories do you have?"
"Well, even though the leader isn't a woman, we're convinced there is a woman in the so-called Friends of Freedom, and almost certainly she's close to X-
"Why do you believe that?"
"For several reasons. Number one, X is extremely vain. The tape recordings show that clearly; our 'think group' played all of them many times. Number two, he's strongly masculine. One thing we listened for was any hint of homosexuality, either in intonation or words. There wasn't any. On the contrary the tone, the choice of words . . . well, the description we all came up with after playing the tapes over and over was 'a young, robust male."'
Beth Yale had been listening intently. Now she said, "So your X is macho. Where does that lead you?"
"To a woman, we believe," Nim. answered. "Our reasoning was that a man like X would need to have a woman around; he couldn't exist without one. Also, she has to be a confidante-for the practical reason that she would be close, also because his vanity demands it. Look at it this way: X sees himself as a heroic figure, which is something else the tapes show. Therefore he would want his woman to view him the same way. So that's another reason she has to know about, and probably share in, what he's doing."
"Well," Paul Yale said, "you certainly have an abundance of theories." He sounded amused and skeptical. "I'd say, though, you've pushed supposition-pure conjecture, unsubstantiated-to the limits and beyond."
Nim conceded, "Yes, I suppose we have." He felt embarrassed, foolish. In light of a Supreme Court justice's reaction, all that he had just related seemed unconvincing, even absurd-especially now that he was away from the other three. He decided not to pass on the remainder of the think group's conclusions, though they were clear in his own mind.
The police were convinced, because of the modus operandi and a hint in the latest tape recording, that the Friends of Freedom leader, "X," was the actual murderer of the two guards. The quartet of Nim, London, Van Buren and O'Brien, after discussion, shared that view. Furthermore, they had argued at length among themselves and now believed that 'X"s woman was at the murder site. Their eventual reasoning: the project had been 'X"s most ambitious to date and, consciously or subconsciously, he would have wanted her to see him in action. Which made her not only a witness but an accessory to murder.
So how did that knowledge-or, rather, position-put them closer to learning the identity of "X"?
The answer: It didn't. But it revealed a potential weakness, a vulnerability, of "X," to be exploited. How to exploit it, if at all, was something unresolved.
Now, Nim thought, it all seemed way, way out.
He decided: Paul Yale's assessment was probably the kind of cold douche they all needed. Tomorrow he would consider dropping the whole "think tank" idea, leaving detective work where it belonged with the police, FBI, and various sheriff's departments, all of whom were working on the Friends of Freedom case.
His thoughts were interrupted by arrival of the Yales' housekeeper, who reported, "A car for Mr. Goldman has arrived."
"Thank you," Nim said. He rose to leave. A second company limousine had been ordered for him from the city since Eric Humphrey, who had a later engagement, had left the valley immediately after lunch.
Nim told the Yales, "It was a privilege to meet you both. And when you need me again, sir, I'm available."
"I'm sure I will soon," Paul Yale said, "and I enjoyed our talk." His eyes twinkled. "At least, the substantial part of it."
Nim resolved mentally that in future, when dealing with someone of Paul Sherman Yale's stature, he would confine himself to solid facts.
7
The big break, for Harry London, came swiftly and unexpectedly.
The Property Protection chief was in his small, glass cubicle office the department had still not been given permanent quarters and continued to operate in makeshift space-when he heard his secretary's telephone ring outside. A moment later his own extension buzzed. He picked up the phone lazily because that was how he felt. The past two months had been a desultory period in which nothing major had occurred concerning theft of service. Routine prevailed. In late summer a computer study had revealed a staggering thirty thousand possible cases of power theft and, since then, London, his deputy Art Romeo, and their staff-now increased to five investigators-had been checking out the suspect cases one by one. As Harry London knew from his experience as a Los Angeles detective, it was like most police work-plodding, repetitious, wearying.
And results were mixed.
About ten percent of the investigations so far had produced sufficient evidence for GSP & L to charge customers with cheating and to claim payment for estimated arrears. Another ten percent showed changes in consumption levels to be for valid reasons, such as genuine conservation, the consumers innocent. The remainder of cases were inconclusive. Of the provable cases, only a handful had been sufficiently serious to merit prosecution. To all concerned the task seemed slow and endless. Which was why Harry London, his chair tilted back, feet up on his desk, had reached a state of ennui on this particular mid-December afternoon.
"Yeah?" he said into the phone.
A whispering, barely audible voice inquired, "This Mr. London?"
"Yes, it is."
"This here's Ernie, janitor at the Zaco Building. Mr. Romeo said to call him or you if them guys come back. They're here now."
Harry London's feet bit the floor like slingshots. He snapped upright in his chair. “The same ones who bypassed the meters?"
"It's them all right. They come in a truck, same's before. They're workin' now. Listen, cain't stay on this phone more'n a minute."
"You don't have to," London said, "so listen carefully. Get the license number of that truck."
"Already got it."
"Great! Now, some of us will be down there as fast as we can make it. While we're on the way, don't do anything to make those men suspicious, but if they start to leave, try to keep them talking." While speaking, London pressed a button summoning his secretary.
The caller, still whispering, sounded doubtful. "Do it if I can. Listen, Mr. Romeo said I'd get paid if . . ."
"You'll get yours, my friend. That's a promise. Now just do what I said. I'm leaving now." London slammed down the phone.
His secretary, a young, bright Chinese-American named Suzy, was standing in the doorway. He told her, "I need help from the city police. Phone Lieutenant Wineski; you know where to get him. If Wineski isn't available, ask someone else in the Detective Division to meet me at the Zaco Building. Say the case I told Wineski about is breaking. Then try to get Art Romeo. Tell him the same thing, and to bust his ass and get to Zaco. Got it?"
"I have it Mr. London," Suzy said.
"Good kid!" London hurried out and ran for the elevator which would take him to the basement parking garage.
Going down, be calculated that with fast driving and reasonable traffic he could be at the Zaco Building in ten minutes or less.
* * *
Harry London's estimate overlooked two factors-early commuter traffic out of the city and Christmas shoppers, clogging downtown streets and slowing movement to a crawl. It took him a frustrating twenty minutes to reach the Zaco Building, which was on the opposite side of the city's business district. As he pulled up, he recognized an unmarked police car which had preceded him by seconds only. Two men in plain clothes were getting out. One was Lieutenant Wineski. London blessed his good luck. Wineski was a friend, a police officer whom London had cultivated and whose presence would save time-wasting explanations.
Lieutenant Wineski had seen London and was waiting, the other officer beside him. The second man was a detective named Brown whom London knew slightly.
"What gives, Harry?" Wineski was young, smart, ambitious; he kept his body trim and, unlike most of his detective colleagues, dressed well. He also liked unusual cases because, more often than not, they brought publicity.
Around police headquarters the guessing was that Boris Wineski would go high in the force, possibly to the top.
London answered, "A hot tip, Boris. Let's go." Together the trio hurried across the forecourt of the building.
Two decades earlier the twenty-three story, reinforced-concrete Zaco Building had been modem and fashionable, the kind of place where a topflight brokerage house or advertising agency might have rented several floors. Now, like other office structures of its genre, it was showing signs of seediness, and some of the first-class tenants had moved to newer buildings where glass and aluminum predominated. Most of the Zaco Building's space was still rented, but to less prestigious tenants with a high attrition rate. It was a safe assumption that the building was less profitable than in its heyday.