"That all sounds," Dunphy said, "as if it might take a while.

I'm getting nervous as hell that by the time you nail this guy to the cross—and eventually I'm sure you will nail him—by that time Merle Ostwind will be up there at the top of State Street hill with her pretty little white-lady right hand raised up in the chill January air being sworn in as New York State's next governor. Can you speed this up just a wee bit, Don?

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God, tempus is fucking fugiting. Can you understand the position we're in here? Well, of course you can. And I know you can do this job for us. I've heard that about you. That and all kinds of other good things. Mister-Get-the-Job-Done-One-Way-or-Another. Just do it faster, please, if you don't mind my saying so. I'm putting pressure on you, and pressure is good. Grace under pressure. That's all I'm insisting on. Grace and, more importantly, speed. Can I make it any plainer?"

I said, "Dunphy, I think you need to walk across the street to Jack's for happy hour and take a load off. You're unraveling and that's not helping. In the meantime, either keep me on the payroll to finish this job as fast as I can humanly do it, or fire my ass and bring Pinkerton in, or Rudy Giuliani, or Captain Marvel. Think it over. I'll be in touch."

I left him on the sidewalk looking alone and dejected, and I felt pretty rotten myself. In fact, I had no idea what exactly to do next. I rode back up to my room, popped more Tylenol—the earache had seemed to spread deep into my brain—and stuffed my meager belongings into my bag and prepared to head off to—where?

My cell phone rang.

"This is Strachey."

A long pause. I noted the number calling me, and I saw that it was the same number that was stored in Greg Stiver's phone as belonging to KL.

I said, "Take your time. I know who you are."

More static. Then, weakly, "How could you know who I am?"

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"Your number was stored in Greg Stiver's cell. I saw it there."

More static. Where was he calling from? Finland?

He said, "I need to talk to you."

"Sure. That could be helpful."

"No. I just need to explain. You don't understand any of this."

"Okay."

"Can we meet? Privately?"

"Yes, we can. My house on Crow Street?"

His voice was the one I'd heard countless times on television going on about horrible big government and out-of-control taxes, but now the voice was wobbly and a bit hard to make out. He said, "No, outside of Albany somewhere. Where we can talk and I won't run into anybody."

"There's a Motel 6 on Route 7 just east of Troy. I'll get a room."

Another pause. "I suppose that would work."

"Seven o'clock?"

"No, it's better after dark. Ten is better. Ten o'clock."

"My car will be parked in front of my room. I'll tape a note to the door that says Don." I described my car and gave Louderbush the license number.

"I've got that. Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Will you be coming alone, Assemblyman?"

"Absolutely. That's the whole point."

"Right. See you at ten."

He rang off and I wondered how I was going to sit still for the next three and a half hours.

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136

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Chapter Fifteen

Louderbush didn't show. I sat waiting, my Smith & Wesson under a pillow—precautions wouldn't do any harm—and kept on waiting for over half an hour. At ten forty I dialed Louderbush's number and got his voicemail.

I said, "I understand this is no picnic for you. But your impulse in calling me was a decent one. You said you wanted to explain. I'm ready to listen. So please call again, and we'll do what we need to do to get this sorted out. I hope to speak with you soon."

What was Louderbush up to? He seemed to be presenting himself as the aggrieved party here, the fellow who was being misunderstood. But how could he possibly come up with a story that cast himself in any kind of positive light? I didn't get it, but I was immensely curious.

I took the Don sign down from my door and locked myself in. Through the motel's thin walls, I could hear a TV going in the next room, one of those hair-raising real housewives shows that leaves you convinced civilization is basically over and a kind of human devolution is well underway.

I phoned Janie Insinger and asked if she was safe and doing all right. She said she was, but she sounded tipsy and she asked if she could speak to me some other time because at that moment she and Kevin and Anthony were "like, having a party."

When I called Virgil Jackman, he said he was just getting off work, and he hadn't been bothered by any Serbians either.

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He said he was going out with Kimberly and he would talk to me Monday if that was okay. I said sure.

It was Friday night, so maybe even the Serbians were out doing the club scene.

I reached Timmy at home, and all was well there. I told him where I was and what had happened with Kenyon Louderbush.

"Wow."

"You bet."

"Maybe he knows you're on his trail, and he's going to drop out of the race."

"I doubt it. He wouldn't do it through me. He'd just announce he had a brain tumor, or he wanted to spend more time with his family, or a voice had spoken to him in the night and told him to move to Salt Lake City."

"You're right. These guys never just spit it out."

"No, Louderbush seems to think of me as somebody who can somehow defuse the accusation. I want to hear his story, and I'm irked that he didn't show up at the motel. But this thing was plainly eating at him, and I'm guessing he'll call again."

"So, are you spending the night up there?"

"Yeah, and I think I've finally shaken the Serbians loose. I checked out of the Crowne Plaza. Maybe I'll be back home tomorrow night. It's possible Louderbush has called off the dogs while he tries to negotiate something. Not that there's anything to negotiate, really, if he admits to having had a physically abusive affair with Greg Stiver."

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"Maybe Louderbush was the second person somebody saw on the roof with Stiver, and he shoved the kid off in a rage, and now he wants to confess."

"That's disgusting and tidy and not altogether implausible, but the confession part seems unlikely. What he said to me was that I didn't understand, and he wanted to explain what happened. That doesn't sound like a confession in the offing.

It sounds like a defense."

"Let's hope he calls back soon."

"Not tonight necessarily. I'm beat. And I still hurt all over.

I guess I should change the dressing on my ear again. Maybe even have it checked. It feels as if something is gnawing at the side of my head. Rats or ferrets."

"This is becoming too graphic for me. I may have to go watch the Oprah channel. Should I come up there? I could be in Troy in fifteen minutes. I hate it when you don't feel good.