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“We’ve still got—” Jason broke off to peer at the clock. “Hours till the next goodbye.”
They kissed.
“See?” Jason murmured. “That didn’t hurt so much, did it?”
“Not yet,” Sam said quietly. “It will.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jason was still trying to track down Rabab Doody when his cell phone rang and Sam’s ID flashed up.
Come to think of it, he needed to change that ID photo. In a mood of smart-assery, he’d attached a photo of Harry Callahan, AKA Dirty Harry, to Sam’s contact info.
“Hi,” Jason said. He couldn’t help the note of warmth that crept into his voice. He thought of that quick, awkward goodbye kiss at Watertown International Airport that morning. Quick, awkward, but heartfelt.
Sam was brisk and businesslike. “I can’t talk, but I wanted to remind you to send me those cards from Kyser. The actual cards. Not copies. Envelopes too, if you’ve still got them.”
“The cards are at home. I’m at the office. I’ll mail them out tomorrow.”
“Good. Don’t forget.”
“No, sir!” Jason did his best marine corps recruit imitation. “I won’t forget, sir.”
Sam disconnected without comment. Or maybe that was his comment.
Jason shook his head and went back to the task of locating the elusive Mr. Doody. He was reluctant to tap Lux again so soon, though he was going to have to talk to the kid eventually.
Thanks to the time difference, he’d arrived in LA at ten thirty in the morning, and after a disconcertingly congenial meeting with George Potts and SAC Robert Wheat in Wheat’s office, phoned Washington DC for a lengthy call with Karan Kapszukiewicz.
“So F-D is going to settle,” Karan said, once he’d filled her in on the events of the last three days. “Damn.”
“It sounds like they’ve decided to settle with the Ontarios. That doesn’t mean the Ontarios will go for it.”
“They’ll go for it,” Karan said gloomily. “From the first, they said they didn’t want to go to court, if at all avoidable.”
“Even so, the Durrands don’t yet know about Ursula Martin. She’s not going to settle.”
“Martin still hasn’t formally filed charges. That’s the sticking point for a lot of victims. Actually going to court. I’ve got to tell you, Jason, my gut feeling is this one is starting to slip through our fingers.”
Jason felt a flash of alarm. “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. According to one of my sources, there are a number of other clients in similar circumstances to the Ontarios. They can’t settle with everyone. If they had those kinds of financial resources, they wouldn’t be secretly selling off clients’ collections.”
“Is this the source that’s now deceased? The reporter?”
“Chris Shipka, yes.”
“Who was unwilling to reveal his source to you.”
Jason confirmed reluctantly.
“What about the forgery angle? Any progress there?”
“Nothing yet,” Jason had to admit. “It’s still early days.”
Karan made a discontented “Mm,” sound.
“I’m still pursuing leads. An informant gave up the name Rabab Doody. We don’t have much on him, but what there is looks promising. In 2003 we arrested him for selling fake Joseph Zaritskys paintings privately and on eBay. He moved more than 60 pieces for almost $1.9 million. His story was in 1999 he’d discovered a cache of Pollocks while cleaning out a Hancock Park man’s basement. Doody did five years in federal prison.”
“What’s he been up to since he got out?”
