“I’ll call back from a pay phone.”

He called back just when I was sure he had been mugged or shot or dispatched by some other means. “Goddamn, it’s hard to find a public phone that works around here!” he said.

“Just glad to know you’re safe. What are you doing in town?”

“Had to check up on a property I just acquired.”

“The Angelus?”

He grunted. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you already know that, but I am. Yes, the Angelus. I was going to talk to you about it anyway. I saw my kids today and-well, never mind, I’ll explain all that later. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“I have to do this my own way.” There was a silence, then he said, “Why don’t you meet me at the little park on the corner of Twentieth and Laguna?”

I wasn’t too familiar with that area, but I had seen the park and supposed I could find it easily enough. “When?”

“Two-thirty okay with you?”

I looked at my watch. It was one o’clock. I figured I could make a phone call, get over to Ray Aiken’s office, and still have plenty of travel time to spare. “Sure.”

“See you then.”

ICALLED FRANK, told him about my morning, and gave him Nadine’s Social Security number. When he’d asked the coroner about heart medications, Carlos had told him yes, they’d thought of that, and to be patient, the toxicology work would take at least another week.

“Jeff McCutchen?”

“It’s really weird, I know, but sometimes these guys at the police department-my lieutenant, people like that? They like to look over at my desk and see me doing work on the casesthey’ve assigned to me.”

“Sorry. I know you’re busy. Thanks for all you’ve done-I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m just saying it might take a little time, okay?”

“Okay. And I do appreciate it. I’ll try to think up some suitable reward for you.”

“Extra innings?”

I laughed. “Sure. But what are we going to do for you?”

We talked for a while about household matters-what was needed from the store, who would pick up the dry cleaning, and was the bank deposit made.

“I called a couple of repair places,” he said, and quoted a range of prices, naming the two shops which were most reasonable. “Which one do you want to take your car to?”

“You didn’t have to do that on top of everything else you’ve got on your plate,” I said.

“I knew you’d put it off,” he said with annoying accuracy. “They’re saying there’s a chance of rain tomorrow. Let’s get your window fixed today.”

“Don’t know if I’ll have time.”

“Take the car in. I’ll pick you up after work.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

That didn’t make him happy, but he got another call, so we said good-bye with the understanding that I’d phone again a little later in the afternoon.

My phone rang a few minutes later. As soon as I picked it up and identified myself, I got an earful.

“Are you trying to kill him? I don’t know what the hell you think you’re up to, but I won’t stand for it!”

“Jerry?”

“My father’s relationship with that woman is none of your business. I won’t have him upset. Do you understand?”

“Jerry, I called you, not your father. I’m not trying to harm him. I just want to know about Nadine Preston.”

“No good will come of this,” he said. “Leave us alone.”

He hung up.

I was disappointed, but figured his father’s illness had placed him under a strain. Maybe he’d settle down and talk to me later.

I took my pager out, saw that it still had Ivy’s old message on it, along with all the others I had received. I tried to clear them. All the functions on the pager were handled by pressing two buttons, both made for someone with fingers the size of a chipmunk’s. I pushed the buttons in frustration, ultimately succeeding in my task by default-I have no idea which combination of button-pressing did the trick.

Feeling that unparalleled sense of satisfaction that comes to a conqueror of electronic devices, I dropped the pager into my purse. (The manufacturers should give out karate-type belts: yellow belt, can use memory dial on the phone; brown belt, can use all the functions on a VCR; black belt, can install peripheral devices on home computer.) I told Lydia where I’d be, grabbed the fax envelopes, and took off.

“HERE YOU ARE,” Charlotte said, handing me a section of black fax ribbon that was about two feet long.

“Ray said that if you could make anything of this, you were welcome to it. I just think it’s sad, myself.”

I held the ribbon up to the light. The first page was a cover page with Ben Watterson’s letterhead on it. Written in the same handwriting I had seen in his calendars was a brief note:

Here it is.

Now what will you do, Allan?

I don’t believe I can bear to learn the answer.

The next page was the note to Ben from Lucas, the one I had already seen, saying that what followed was Jeff McCutchen’s note.

McCutchen’s note began in a tight, careful hand and ended in a loose, erratic scrawl:

After all he has done, I should want revenge. I don’t. I wish I did. It would be something to look forward to. Alas, I’m nothing more than a miserable son of a bitch who can no longer afford nor find pleasure in his vices. A sad state of affairs, my friend. I can’t feel a thing.Starvation without appetite. Emptiness. Worse than pain.

I just want out.

Don’t blame yourself for any of this. I’ve always had less courage than you, Lucas. If I had any courage, I would have told you about him a long time ago.

I owe you something for that.

I watched from a distance the last time you were betrayed by him. It only cost me a quarter.Jeff McCutchen, Budget Spy.

What good is the truth if you don’t have the power to make anyone believe it? I don’t have to tell you the answer to that one. And I don’t have the truth. I just have a guess. My curiosity is gone, Lucas. Here’s my last guess about anything:

33 44 30

118 9 36

I won’t make this easy for you, simply becauseI believe you would be better off not knowing.But my judgment is notoriously poor, so if you decide you must know, this hint should be enough.

Maybe this will never do anyone any good.

Am I Judas if he is not Jesus?

Will the dead rise again?

You’re good at math, Lucas, but how are you with numbers?

Charlotte was watching me. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s sad that anyone should have ever felt this way.” I didn’t say more because I didn’t want Charlotte or her boss to believe they were giving me something important. No matter how rambling or affected by drugs Jeff McCutchen’s words were, these were his last. I’ve yet to read an unimportant suicide note.

I tucked it into the envelope which held the other section of fax ribbon, asked Charlotte to give Ray my thanks, and left.

I thought about the note as I drove to meet Keene Dage. “How are you with numbers?” McCutchen had asked. What could they represent? A pair of combinations for a safe? Was the second set “118 and 9” or “11 and 89”? Perhaps these were some kind of computer passwords. If Ben Watterson had so quickly understood their meaning perhaps they were terms of a loan, or dollar figures. But what had only cost a quarter? The more I thought about the note, the less sense it made to me.

“WHAT HAPPENEDto your window?” Keene asked when I stepped out of the Karmann Ghia. I told him and he shook his head. “Supposed to rain tomorrow. I know a guy not far from here that does good work. Reasonable. Come on, follow me over there and we’ll get it fixed.”

I was about to protest, but figured the time I’d save in answering questions about my broken window would make up for whatever it’d take to drop the car off. Besides, I didn’t want to start out on the wrong foot with Keene.