Cold Case by Linda Barnes Page A

said. “Operation Rescue. Citizens for Limited Taxation, Mass. Militia.”
    Gloria chimed in with, “How ’bout that guy at Harvard, one wrote The Bell Curve? Book saying how blacks are generally just stupider than whites? I think the DEA ought to pay him a visit.”
    â€œYou get his number and figure out how to make the calls from his office, you can dial Thurman W. Vandenburg ten times a day.”
    â€œI know somebody who can work pure magic with call forwarding.”
    â€œI knew you were the one to handle this.”
    â€œI’ll need some money for a payoff or two, but I’ll do it. It’s a deal. What should the message be?”
    â€œOught to be in my voice.”
    For a while all I could hear was the whirr of Gloria’s mechanized wheelchair. “I got tape spooling. Go right ahead.”
    It took a few tries to get it right.
    â€œThurman, babe,” I said, like I’d called the shark “Thurman” all my life. “Urgent I know CRG’s status pronto. Call C., in loco parentis.”
    â€œGuess that’s okay,” Gloria said doubtfully. “Can’t we add some stuff about wanting that shipment of coke fast? So people get in deep shit?”
    â€œLong as it’s not me.”
    â€œTrust me, babe. I got contacts everywhere. Phone company practically has to ask my permission before they install a new line.”
    I believed her. Gloria isn’t mobile. She uses phones like weapons. She’s the spider at the center of a communications network that puts the Internet to shame.
    I tried again. “Thurman, babe, you want those twenty keys, you gotta tell C. about CRG. Pronto.” I left out the “parentis” bit. The fewer people who had any idea that Carlos Roldan Gonzales had a kid, the better.
    â€œHe might ignore it,” Gloria said.
    â€œNot if he gets the call every hour,” I said. “Twenty-four hours a day.”
    â€œHeavy annoyance,” she said.
    â€œThat’s what I want, Gloria. Heavy annoyance.”
    â€œYou came to the right place.”
    â€œAnybody pisses you off, call from there.”
    I gave Gloria Thurman W. Vandenburg’s private number with confidence. We share the same set of pet peeves: rich folks who resent paying for government services, Bible-thumping folks who want everybody to act the way they do, hypocrites, bedroom peepers, privacy invaders.
    â€œMake me a copy of the tape, okay?” I said. “Any place you can’t get access, I’ll turn Roz loose.”
    â€œFun, fun, fun at the DEA this week,” Gloria said. “Paolina’s daddy up to something?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I’d like to find out.”
    Gloria said, “I plan to enjoy this.”
    â€œAnd if I happen to find myself at a creep’s house, I’ll give Vandenburg a ring,” I said.
    â€œYou do that, but make sure you use the exact same words as the tape, okay, so we get the DEA going.” Gloria’s voice got soft and sweet. “You might try calling from your shrink’s house.”
    I hung up, quickly punched the number she’d given me.
    Two rings. Pickup.
    â€œAvon Hill School. Emerson speaking.”
    â€œHi,” I said. “This is the woman who visited your campus today, Carlotta Carlyle.”
    â€œMiss Carlyle, I’m so glad you rang back. My wife was unaware that several of our prospective students have chosen to attend other—”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t have any Colombian nieces who want to go to Avon Hill.”
    â€œYou’re—”
    â€œNot interested. It’s okay, Mr. Emerson. I was hired to find a former student. I found her.”
    â€œYou’re some sort of investigator?”
    â€œPrivate sort.”
    Silence. He didn’t end the call. Neither did I.
    â€œMay I ask for whom you were looking?”
    Confidentiality didn’t