the major any sweetie-pie candygrams. Hold on. I’ve gotta tell the tower something.” Sounding disgusted, Freddy was back on the line twenty seconds later. “You want anything done right these days, you’ve got to do it yourself, damn it. You still there, Cozy?”
“Yeah.”
“So what about your two Japanese suspects? They got names?”
“Takata. Kimiko and Rikia Takata.”
Freddy slipped a pen out of his shirt pocket and jotted the names on a notepad. “Wish I’d had their names before I posted the story I just wrote. Adding those two to the mix would’ve made the piece a whole lot juicier. But what the hell. The way this Tango-11 thing is unfolding, you and I’ll be writing stories for months. So what did you get Major Cameron to give up for the cause besides pheromones, my man?”
Recalling his pledge to Bernadette not to smear the air force and wondering what Freddy had written, Cozy said, “Not a lot. I do know that her boss is having her tailed by some kiss-ass captain, though.”
“Umm,” Freddy said as the second of his two cell phones began ringing. “Wait a sec. Got another call I need to take.” Returning quickly to his conversation with Cozy, he asked, “Where are you on the interstate?”
“Coming up on the Dacono exit.”
“Afraid I’m going to have to turn you around and head you back to Wyoming.”
“What?”
“I need you to head back north, Cozy. That call I just took was from Lillian. I tagged a request for additional information about the Tango-11 murder to the end of that story I posted. Told our readers we were looking for anything out there that might shed light on the killing and that we were willing to pay for it. Lillian says she’s already had more than a dozen responses. Most of ’em pure horseshit, of course, but she said a couple sounded legit. One of them came from some guy who lives up near Buffalo, Wyoming. Needs to be checked out.”
“And I’m guessing that I get the pleasure?”
“You do unless you want to fly
Sugar
down to Albuquerque. The man who called Lillian didn’t give his name. Just told her he knew someone, a rancher neighbor of his, who hated the air force and anybody associated with it. Now, get this, and I’m quoting the guy who called: ‘Especially missile-squadron types.’ ”
“So who’s the missile-squadron-hating neighbor, and what’s his story?”
“You’re going to have to call Lillian for the details. All I know is that she was told his name’s Grant Rivers and he runs a cattle ranch outside of Buffalo.”
“Damn, Freddy. That’s four hours north of Cheyenne.”
“I know,” Freddy said, suppressing a chuckle. “So you get the chance to head back north from Denver in the morning, and maybe even the opportunity to have coffee and doughnuts with Major Cameron. Gotta go. You know how this bird of mine guzzles jet fuel. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“When do you get back from Albuquerque?”
“Tomorrow night, late. I’ll need you back from Buffalo by then because I may also need you to check on that black preacher, Wilson Jackson. And just so you know, I ripped the air force a new one in the first piece I wrote. Go online and have a look. See you tomorrow night.”
“But—” was all Cozy could get out before Freddy was gone. Upset at having to drive all the way to Buffalo and then maybe back to Cheyenne to talk to some preacher before he could head home to Denver, he muttered, “Shit,” and slapped his dashboard with an open palm. Thinking that a four thirty a.m. start from Denver would probably be necessary for the long trip he was staring at, he floored his accelerator and didn’t let up until he was doing a hundred and five.
Silas Breen reached the outskirts of South Bend a little before midnight. Beaming like a starry-eyed teenager with a crush and with a MapQuest printout of the Notre Dame campus lying open on the seat next to him, he headed straight for campus.
A flat tire had slowed him down
“Yeah.”
“So what about your two Japanese suspects? They got names?”
“Takata. Kimiko and Rikia Takata.”
Freddy slipped a pen out of his shirt pocket and jotted the names on a notepad. “Wish I’d had their names before I posted the story I just wrote. Adding those two to the mix would’ve made the piece a whole lot juicier. But what the hell. The way this Tango-11 thing is unfolding, you and I’ll be writing stories for months. So what did you get Major Cameron to give up for the cause besides pheromones, my man?”
Recalling his pledge to Bernadette not to smear the air force and wondering what Freddy had written, Cozy said, “Not a lot. I do know that her boss is having her tailed by some kiss-ass captain, though.”
“Umm,” Freddy said as the second of his two cell phones began ringing. “Wait a sec. Got another call I need to take.” Returning quickly to his conversation with Cozy, he asked, “Where are you on the interstate?”
“Coming up on the Dacono exit.”
“Afraid I’m going to have to turn you around and head you back to Wyoming.”
“What?”
“I need you to head back north, Cozy. That call I just took was from Lillian. I tagged a request for additional information about the Tango-11 murder to the end of that story I posted. Told our readers we were looking for anything out there that might shed light on the killing and that we were willing to pay for it. Lillian says she’s already had more than a dozen responses. Most of ’em pure horseshit, of course, but she said a couple sounded legit. One of them came from some guy who lives up near Buffalo, Wyoming. Needs to be checked out.”
“And I’m guessing that I get the pleasure?”
“You do unless you want to fly
Sugar
down to Albuquerque. The man who called Lillian didn’t give his name. Just told her he knew someone, a rancher neighbor of his, who hated the air force and anybody associated with it. Now, get this, and I’m quoting the guy who called: ‘Especially missile-squadron types.’ ”
“So who’s the missile-squadron-hating neighbor, and what’s his story?”
“You’re going to have to call Lillian for the details. All I know is that she was told his name’s Grant Rivers and he runs a cattle ranch outside of Buffalo.”
“Damn, Freddy. That’s four hours north of Cheyenne.”
“I know,” Freddy said, suppressing a chuckle. “So you get the chance to head back north from Denver in the morning, and maybe even the opportunity to have coffee and doughnuts with Major Cameron. Gotta go. You know how this bird of mine guzzles jet fuel. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“When do you get back from Albuquerque?”
“Tomorrow night, late. I’ll need you back from Buffalo by then because I may also need you to check on that black preacher, Wilson Jackson. And just so you know, I ripped the air force a new one in the first piece I wrote. Go online and have a look. See you tomorrow night.”
“But—” was all Cozy could get out before Freddy was gone. Upset at having to drive all the way to Buffalo and then maybe back to Cheyenne to talk to some preacher before he could head home to Denver, he muttered, “Shit,” and slapped his dashboard with an open palm. Thinking that a four thirty a.m. start from Denver would probably be necessary for the long trip he was staring at, he floored his accelerator and didn’t let up until he was doing a hundred and five.
Silas Breen reached the outskirts of South Bend a little before midnight. Beaming like a starry-eyed teenager with a crush and with a MapQuest printout of the Notre Dame campus lying open on the seat next to him, he headed straight for campus.
A flat tire had slowed him down
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