Mrs. Chen was waiting exactly where she'd left her. "Okay?" she asked.
"Everything's fine," Alice said. "Just watch it real close. I'll call you in a day or two to see if anyone has been by. And please, don't tell anyone I was here."
Mrs. Chen listened intently as she moved the table in front of the door. "What about her car?"
"It'll be fine. Just watch it."
"Is she all right?"
They were in the den, almost to the front door. "She's gonna be fine. I think she'll be back in a few days. Thank you, Mrs. Chen."
Mrs. Chen closed the door, bolted it, and watched from the small window. The lady was on the sidewalk, then gone in the darkness.
Alice walked three blocks to her car.
Friday night in the Quarter! Tulane played in the Dome tomorrow, then the Saints on Sunday, and the rowdies were out by the thousands, parking everywhere, blocking streets, roaming in noisy mobs, drinking from go cups, crowding bars, just having a delightful time raising hell and enjoying themselves. The Inner Quarter was gridlocked by nine.
Alice parked on Poydras, far away from where she wanted to park, and was an hour late when she arrived at the crowded oyster bar on St. Peter, deep in the Quarter. There were no tables. They were packed three deep at the bar. She retreated to a corner with a cigarette machine, and surveyed the people. Most were students in town for the game.
A waiter walked directly to her. "Are you looking for another female?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Well, yes."
He pointed beyond the bar. "Around the corner, first room on the right, there's some small tables. I think your friend is there."
Darby was in a tiny booth, crouched over a beer bottle, with sunglasses and a hat. Alice squeezed her hand. "It's good to see you." She studied the hairdo, and was amused by it. Darby removed the sunglasses. The eyes were red and tired.
"I didn't know who else to call."
Alice listened with a blank face, unable to think of something appropriate and unable to take her eyes off the hair. "Who did the hair?" she asked.
"Nice, huh? It's sort of the punk look, which I think is making a comeback and will certainly impress folks when I start interviewing for a job."
"Why?"
"Someone tried to kill me, Alice. My name's on a list that some very nasty people are holding. I think they're following me."
"Kill? Did you say 'kill'? Who would want to kill you, Darby?"
"I'm not sure. What about my apartment?"
Alice stopped looking at the hair, and handed her the printout of the Directory. Darby studied it. It was real. This was not a dream or a mistake. The bomb had found the right car. Rupert and the cowboy had had their hands on her. The face she had seen was looking for her. They had gone to her apartment and erased what they wanted to erase. They were out there.
"What about floppies?"
"None. Not a single one. The expandable files on the kitchen table were placed together real neat and are real empty. Everything else appears to be in order. They unscrewed the bulb in the nightlight, so there's total darkness. I checked it. Works fine. These are very patient people."
"What about Mrs. Chen?"
"She's seen nothing."
Darby stuffed the printout into a pocket. "Look, Alice, suddenly I'm very scared. You don't need to be seen with me. Maybe this was not a good idea."
"Who are these people?"
"I don't know. They killed Thomas, and they tried to kill me. I got lucky, and now they're after me."
"But why, Darby?"
"You don't want to know, and I'm not going to tell. The more you know, the more danger you're in. Trust me, Alice. I can't tell you what I know."
"But I won't tell. I swear."
"What if they make you tell?"
Alice glanced around as if all was fine. She studied her friend. They had been close since freshman orientation. They had studied hours together, shared notes, sweated exams, teamed up for mock trials, gossiped about men. Alice was hopefully the only student who knew about Darby and Callahan. "I want to help, Darby. I'm not afraid."
Darby had not touched the beer. She slowly spun the bottle. "Well, I'm terrified. I was there when he died, Alice. The ground shook. He was blown to pieces and I was supposed to be with him. It was intended for me."
"Then go to the cops."
Chapter Twelve
"Not yet. Maybe later. I'm afraid to. Thomas went to the FBI, and two days later we were supposed to be dead."
"So the FBI is after you?"
"I don't think so. They started talking, and someone was listening very closely, and it found the wrong ears."
"Talked about what? Come on, Darby. It's me. Your best friend. Stop playing games."
Darby took the first tiny swallow from the bottle. Eye contact was avoided. She stared at the table. "Please, Alice. Allow me to wait. There's no sense telling you something that could get you killed." A long pause. "If you want to help, go to the memorial service tomorrow. Watch everything. Spread the word that I called you from Denver where I'm staying with an aunt with a name you don't know, and that I've dropped out this semester but I'll be back in the spring. Make sure that rumor gets started. I think some people will be listening carefully."
"Okay. The paper mentioned a white female near the scene when he was killed, as if she might be a suspect or something."
"Or something. I was there and I was supposed to be a victim. I'm reading the papers with a magnifying glass. The cops are clueless."
"Okay, Darby. You're smarter than I am. You're smarter than every person I've ever met. So what now?"
"First, go out the back door. There's a white door at the end of the hall where the rest rooms are. It goes into a storage room, then to the kitchen, then out the back door. Don't stop. The alley leads to Royal. Catch a cab and ride back to your car. Watch your rear."
"Are you serious?"
"Look at this hair, Alice. Would I mutilate myself like this if I was playing games?"
"Okay, okay. Then what?"
"Go to the service tomorrow, start the rumor, and I'll call you within two days."
"Where are you staying?"
"Here and there. I move around a lot."
Alice stood and pecked her on the cheek. Then she was gone.
For two hours, Verheek stomped the floor, picking up magazines, tossing them around, ordering room service, unpacking, stomping. Then for the next two hours, he sat on the bed, sipping a hot beer and staring at the phone. He would do this until midnight, he told himself, and then, well, then what?
She said she would call.
He could save her life if she would only call.
At midnight, he threw another magazine and left the room. An agent in the New Orleans office had helped a little, and given him a couple of law school hangouts close to campus. He would go there and mix and mingle, drink a beer, and listen. The students were in town for the game. She wouldn't be there, and it wouldn't matter because he'd never seen her. But maybe he would hear something, and he could drop a name, leave a card, make a friend who knew her or maybe knew someone who knew her. A long shot, but a helluva lot more productive than staring at the phone.
He found a seat at the bar in a joint called Barrister's, three blocks from campus. It had a nice little varsity look to it with football schedules and pinups on the walls. The crowd was rowdy and under thirty.
The bartender looked like a student. After two beers, the crowd thinned and the bar was half empty. There would be another wave in a moment.