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I told him about my conversation with Seymour Little. I told him about the female items and the prescriptions for OxyContin and downers Seymour had been forced to pick up at the pharmacy by a man who trailed a fecal odor into the newsstand.
“Why do you conclude the prescriptions are being used to sedate the waitress?”
“Surrette is a trophy hunter. He’s about to send us one.”
“A lot of people say Surrette is dead.”
“He’s been on the property where we’re currently living. He left a message on the wall of a cave behind the house.”
“What did it say?”
“It was a grandiose statement based on an excerpt from the Bible.”
“Could you take a photograph of that and e-mail it to me?”
“I burned it.”
“You set lots of fires in caves, do you?”
I could feel my pulse beating in my throat.
“You there?” he said.
“It was an impulsive moment.”
“Really? An aunt of the missing woman received a postcard from the missing woman yesterday. It was postmarked Boise, Idaho. The handwriting seems to be hers.”
“You’re wrong, sir.”
“We’ll try to blunder through and see what happens,” he replied.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Forget I called. We’ll update you if we come across any information we think you should have.”
“You’ll do what?” he said.
I hung up, feeling foolish and vain and ultimately old, even for my years. Also, I had not told him about Gretchen Horowitz’s possible contact with Surrette. Why? I thought his agency wanted to hang her out to dry and I would be giving them the ammunition to do it. If they went after Gretchen for obstruction, of which she may have been guilty, they might take Alafair for good measure. What about the waitress named Rhonda Fayhee? I couldn’t get her off my mind. I called Special Agent James Martini back. “Someone I know may have established contact with Surrette,” I said. “This individual ran a notice in the personals and got a response from a guy who sounds like Surrette.”
“You mean you heard his voice?”
“No, I have not heard his voice. My daughter, Alafair, interviewed him in a Kansas prison. I think he has tried to kill her. I think he’ll try again. That’s why I have a personal stake in the investigation.”
“What’s the name of the person who made contact with the guy you think is Surrette?”
My head was pounding, the veins in my wrists throbbing. “Gretchen Horowitz,” I said.
“She’s a friend of yours?”
“You could say that.”
“Believe me, if I meet you in person, I’ll have a lot to say to you,” he replied.
I WENT TO ALAFAIR’S room and told her what I had just done. She looked at me for a long time. The window was open, and I could hear the leaves of last winter scudding dryly across the driveway. “I don’t know what to say, Dave,” she said. “Do you want to tell Gretchen or should I?”
“I will.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Rhonda Fayhee’s life is in the balance.”
