The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [67]
“May I have your name, sir.”
“Jimmy Stewart. That’s J-i—”
“Jimmy Stewart? As in Jimmy Stewart?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you watch a lot of Hitchcock films, sir?”
“Why, yes, yes, I do.”
“Thank you, sir.” She disconnected that call on her own. Her terminal immediately lit up again. Five thousand calls a day and still going strong.
“Jim Beckett is my next-door neighbor!”
“Of course, sir.”
“He just moved in last week. I was suspicious right away. The man’s bald, you know. What kind of self-respecting man goes around looking like a bowling ball? He’s Irish, isn’t he? You can’t trust the Irish.”
“May I have your name and address, sir?”
“My name? Why do you need my name?”
“We just need a contact, sir. A police officer will follow up with you and take an official statement.”
“I don’t want a cop coming to my home.”
“We can do it by phone, but we need your name.”
“Hell, I don’t want a cop coming here. Everyone will think I’m a snitch. I’m not a snitch!”
“Of course, sir, but—”
The caller slammed the phone and the operator winced a little, but there was no time for contemplation. Her terminal lit up again, and with a tired sigh she hit the enter key and started over.
Across the room Special Agent Quincy ran down the log sheets, seeing if anything leapt out at him. He’d been in Santa Cruz working on a series of grave robberies and mutilations. Since many disorganized serial killers started with corpses before graduating to living victims, the local law enforcement had gotten the FBI involved early. The hope was they could catch the guy before young women suffered the same fate as the dead. Unfortunately they weren’t having much success. At eleven P.M. Quincy had caught the red eye to Boston. He was exhausted, rumpled, and unshowered. He was used to it by then.
He moved on to the tenth page of the log sheet, but still nothing leapt out at him. Operators took each call, logging the caller, their address, return phone number, and tip. The police officers on duty then sorted through the log sheets, scratching off about eighty percent as worthless, eighteen percent as worth calling back, and two percent as worth checking out in person. From “Jim Beckett is really Elvis” to reports of grand theft auto, the officers got it all.
Quincy abandoned the log sheet and poured himself a second cup of coffee. Instant. He hated that crap. There would be justice in the world the day police officers had cappuccino machines.
Lieutenant Houlihan spotted him from across the room and approached.
“You look like hell,” the lieutenant stated.
“Thanks. It’s part of the new Bureau regulation. All agents must look overworked or they’re being paid too much. So how’s it going here?”
“The bad news is we still have no sign of Jim Beckett. The good news is we may have found Jimmy Hoffa. Oh, and we’ve averted two attacks of aliens looking to overrun the U.S. government.”
“Not bad.”
“How’s the coffee?”
“Pretty damn awful.”
“Thank you, we take a great deal of pride in that. Notice the economy-size jug of Tums sitting next to it.”
Quincy nodded and finished off the cup. He couldn’t help wincing at the end, but at least it was caffeine. He set down the cup, rolled his neck, shook out his arms, and worked on feeling human. He nodded toward the gold medal Houlihan wore around his neck. He didn’t remember having seen it before.
“New good luck charm?”
Lieutenant Houlihan shifted from side to side, looking suddenly sheepish. “My wedding band.”
“Really?”
“Well, it meant a great deal to my wife that I wear a band. I kept telling her, in my line of work you don’t want to give that much personal info. Three days ago was our one year anniversary. She had my band melted into this medallion and gave it to me. Now we’re both happy. Maybe it is lucky. Luck wouldn’t hurt these days. You married?”
“Recently divorced.”
Houlihan pointed to his necklace. “Third wife,” he confessed. “She’s a trauma nurse, it works out much better. I come home three hours late