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You believe him,” Roarke said when they left Kraus sitting under the umbrella in the pseudosunlight with his head in his hands.
“Yeah. You?”
“I do, yes. The outsider, the last man in, so to speak, doing a favor for the big man’s son. It’s reasonable. And clever of Sloan and the Bullock people not to use each other for alibis.”
“You got a dupe, you use the dupe. You drive,” she told him, and gave him Randall Sloan’s address. “Looks like I’m tagging London again.”
She put in a transmission to Madeline Bullock’s home in London and got what she thought of as a Summerset clone. Not quite as bony in the face, she decided, but just as dour.
“Ms. Bullock is traveling.”
“Where?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“If Scotland Yard knocked on your door in the next thirty minutes, could you say then?”
He actually sniffed. “I could not.”
“Okay. Say the house burns down. How would you reach Ms. Bullock to tell her the bad news?”
“On her private number, on her pocket ’link.”
“Why don’t you give me that?”
“Lieutenant, I am under no obligation to provide foreign authorities with Ms. Bullock’s private business.”
“Got me there. But even in the colonies we have our ways of getting information.” She clicked off. “Do they go to school for that?” she demanded of Roarke. “Is there a Tight-Ass University? Did Summerset graduate cum laude?”
“First in his class. Do you want to drive while I find the number you need?”
“I somehow managed to fumble my way through such pesky chores before I met you.” She started the search, then stopped. Sat back. “You know what? I’ve got a better.” She got Feeney at home.
He was wearing a baggy and faded New York Liberties Arena Ball jersey with a ball cap pulled over his explosion of ginger hair. “There’s a costume party at your house and I didn’t get invited?”
“Game, two o’clock.”
“You look ridiculous.”
He pokered up. “My grandson gave me this jersey. You tag me on a Sunday to critique my wardrobe?”
“Need a quick one. I’m looking for a pocket ’link number, private, and its current location.”
“Game,” he repeated, “two o’clock.”
“Murder. Twenty-four/seven. It’ll be quick. I just need the number and the area. The fricking country. Madeline Bullock. It may be registered to her, or to the Bullock Foundation. Probably her as it’s a personal ’link. London home base.”
“Right, right, right,” he said. And hung up on her.
“I could have done that for you,” Roarke pointed out.
“You’re driving.” And she contacted Peabody. “Take another look at Randall Sloan. Finances, travel, property, real estate. He’s a gambler, so look at it with an eye to that.”
“You got a scent?”
“Yeah, I’m following it now. Mavis?”
“She conked. Been out about a half-hour.”
