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That was interesting. Maybe—probably—there was something in files somewhere that would be useful.
He turned back to the laptop and scrolled down to Appendix 1.
Appendix 1 was five pages of data, dates, amounts, and account numbers. It made no sense to Castillo at all.
He went into his office. Miller was behind Castillo’s desk, studying his laptop computer screen, his stiff leg resting on an open drawer.
“Where’s Yung?” Castillo asked.
Miller shrugged. “You told him to come in at eight.”
“Where’s he staying? I need him now.”
Miller shrugged again.
“What have you got?” Miller asked.
Castillo handed him the sheaf of papers. Miller glanced through it, then said, “Yeah, you’re right. You do need him.” He paused. “He’ll be here in an hour, give or take.”
“You’re a lot of goddamned help!”
“It is not nice to be cruel to a cripple,” Miller said, piously.
Inspector Doherty came into the office at seven twenty-five.
“Good morning,” he said without much enthusiasm.
“We’ve heard from NSA,” Castillo said and handed him the sheaf of papers.
Doherty examined them.
“It’s gibberish to me,” he announced. “You need an expert, like Yung. I thought you sent for him.” He looked at Castillo for a moment, his face suggesting he didn’t like what he saw, then said, “Well, back to work,” and went into the conference room.
Castillo motioned for Miller to go with him. Miller
nodded, lifted his bad leg off the open drawer with both hands, and got to his feet.
Mr. Agnes Forbison came to work at seven-forty. She knew where Yung was staying—“at the Marriott by the Press Club. He and Mr. Delchamps are both there.”
“Could you call him and tell him I need him now?”
“Well, if you want me to, I will. But you told him to be here at eight and he’s probably already on his way here.”
“He might have overslept,” Castillo said. “Call him.”
Mr. Forbison was still on the telephone when both David W. Yung, Jr., and Edgar Delchamps walked in together.
She gave Castillo a What did I tell you? expression, then exclaimed, “Look at your hand!”
She was making reference to the bloody damage on Yung’s hand.
“Ol’ Dave,” Delchamps volunteered, cheerfully, “ever the gentleman, tried to hold the elevator door for me. It got him. No good deed ever goes unpunished.”
“We’ll have to get you to a doctor,” Agnes said.
“There’s no time for that,” Castillo said, earning him a dirty look from Mr. Forbison.
“I could use a fresh bandage,” Yung said, “but I don’t need a doctor. All the damned door did was crack the scab.”
