“Is there a question in there?”
“It’s coming now: Has all your digging helped? Has all your digging made Esperanza look more guilty or less?”
Myron hesitated. But it didn’t matter. Bonnie hung up before he had the chance to answer. Myron put the phone back in his lap. He looked at Win.
“I’ll take Awful Songs for two hundred, Alex,” Win said.
“What?”
“Answer: Barry Manilow and Eastern Standard.”
Myron almost smiled. “What is ‘Time in New England,’ Alex?”
“Correct answer.” Win shook his head. “Sometimes when our minds are that in tune—”
“Yeah,” Myron said. “It’s scary.”
“Shall we?”
Myron thought about it. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Call Terese first.”
Myron nodded, started dialing. “You know how to get there?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll probably take three hours.”
Win hit the accelerator. No easy trick in midtown Manhattan. “Try two.”
Chapter 33
Wilston is in western Massachusetts, about an hour shy of the New Hampshire and Vermont borders. You could still see remnants of the old days, the oft artistically rendered New England town with V-shaped brick walks, colonial clapboard homes, the historical society bronze signs welded onto the front of every other building, the white-steepled chapel in the center of the town—the whole scene screaming for the lush leaves of autumn or a major snowstorm. But like everywhere else in the US of A, the superstore boom was playing havoc with the historical. The roads between these postcard villages had widened over the years, as though guilty of gluttony, feeding off the warehouse-size stores that now lined them. The stores sucked out the character and the quaintness and left in their wake a universal blandness that plagued the byroads and highways of America. Maine to Minnesota, North Carolina to Nevada—there was little texture and individuality left. It was about Home Depot and Office Max and the price clubs.
On the other hand, whining about the changes progress imposes upon us and longing for the good ol’ days make for easy pickings. Harder to answer the question of why, if these changes are so bad, do every place and everybody so quickly and warmly welcome them.
Wilston had the classic New England Christmas card—conservative facade, but it was a college town, the college in question being Wilston College, and was thus liberal—liberal in the way only a college town can be, liberal in the way only the young can be, liberal in the way only the isolated and protected and rose-tinted can be. But that was okay. In fact, that was how it should be.
But even Wilston was changing. Yes, the old signs of liberalism were there: the tofu sweet shop, the migrant-friendly coffeehouse, the lesbian bookstore, the shop with the black lightbulbs and the pot paraphernalia, the clothing store that sold only ponchos. But the franchises were sneaking in quietly, slowly eating away at the gray stone corners: Dunkin’ Donuts, Angelo’s Sub Shop, Baskin-Robbins, Seattle Coffee.
Myron started softly singing “Time in New England.”
Win looked at him. “You realize, of course, that I’m well armed.”
“Hey, you’re the one who got the song stuck in my head.”
They sped through town—with Win driving, you only sped—and arrived at the Hamlet Motel, a quasi-dump on Route 9 hovering on the town’s edge. A sign advertised FREE HBO! and the ice machine was so large you could see it from your average space station. Myron checked his watch. Less than two hours to get here. Win parked the Jag.
“I don’t get it,” Myron said. “Why would Clu stay here?”
“Free HBO?”
“More likely because he could pay in cash. That’s why we didn’t see anything about this on his credit cards. But why wouldn’t he want anyone to know he was here?”
“Such good questions,” Win said. “Perhaps you should go inside and see if you can find some of the answers.”
They both stepped out of the car. Win noticed a restaurant next door. “I’ll try there,” he said. “You take the desk clerk.”
Myron nodded. The desk clerk, definitely a college kid on break, sat behind the counter and stared straight ahead at nothing. He could have looked more bored, but only if a qualified physician induced a coma. Myron took a glance around and spotted the computer terminal. This was a good thing.
“Hello?”
The kid’s eyes slid toward Myron. “Yeah?”
“This computer. It keeps track of outgoing calls, right? Even local ones.”
The kid’s eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”
“I need to see records for all outgoing guest calls from the tenth and eleventh of this month.”
That got the kid to his feet. “You a cop? Let me see your badge.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Then—”
“I’ll pay you five hundred dollars for the information.” No sense in playing around here, Myron thought. “No one will ever know.”
The kid hesitated but not for long. “Hell, even if I get canned, that’s more money than I clear in a month. What dates did you need?”
Myron told him. The kid punched a few buttons. The printer started cranking. It all fitted on one sheet. Myron handed the kid the money. The kid handed him the sheet. Myron quickly scanned the list.
Instant bingo.
He spotted the long-distance call to FJ’s office. It had come from room 117. Myron looked for other calls made from the same room. Clu had called his answering machine at home twice. Okay, good, fine. Now how about something more local? No reason to come up here just to make long-distance calls.
Bingo again.
Room 117. The first call on the list. A local number. Myron’s heart started pumping, his breath growing shallow. He was close now. So close. He walked outside. The driveway was gravel. He kicked it around a bit. He took out his phone and was about to dial the number. No. That might be a mistake. He should learn all he could first. If he called, he might tip someone off. Of course, he didn’t know whom he’d tip off or how they’d be tipped off or what they’d be tipped off about. But he didn’t want to screw up now. He had the phone number. Big Cyndi at the office would have a reverse directory. These were easy to come by now. Any software store sold CD-ROMs that had the entire country’s phone books on them or you could visit www.infospace.com