it has one too many digits.’
‘If it’s a special network maybe it doesn’t need an exchange number.’
‘It doesn’t look right.’
‘So what was it?’
She answered me by reaching behind her and pulling a small notebook out of her back pocket. Not official police issue. It had a stiff black board cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. The whole book was slightly curled, like it spent a lot of time in her pocket. She slipped the strap and opened it up and showed me a fawn-coloured page with 600-82219-D written on it in neat handwriting. Her handwriting, I guessed. Information only, not a facsimile. Not an exact reproduction of a scribbled note.
600-8221 9-D.
‘See anything?’ she asked.
I said, ‘Maybe Canadian cell phones have more numbers.’ I knew that phone companies the world over were worried about running out. Adding an extra digit would increase an area code’s capacity by a factor of ten. Thirty million, not three. Although Canada had a small population. A big land mass, but most of it was empty. About thirty-three million people, I thought. Smaller than California. And California got by with regular phone numbers.
Lee said, ‘It’s not a phone number. It’s something else. Like a code or a serial number. Or a file number. Those guys are wasting their time.’
‘Maybe it’s not connected. Trash in a car, it could be anything.’
‘Not my problem.’
I asked, ‘Was there luggage in the car?’
‘No. Nothing except the usual kind of crap that piles up in a car.’
‘So it was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out.’
Lee didn’t answer. She yawned and said nothing. She was tired.
I asked, ‘Did those guys talk to Susan’s brother?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He seems to want to sweep it all under the rug.’
‘Understandable,’ Lee said. ‘There’s always a reason, and it’s never very attractive. That’s been my experience, anyway.’
‘Are you closing the file?’
‘It’s already closed.’
‘You happy with that?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Statistics,’ I said. ‘Eighty per cent of suicides are men. Suicide is much rarer in the East than the West. And where she did it was weird.’
‘But she did it. You saw her. There’s no doubt about it. There’s no dispute. It wasn’t a homicide, cleverly disguised.’
‘Maybe she was driven to it. Maybe it was a homicide by proxy.’
‘Then all suicides are.’
She glanced up and down the street, wanting to go, too polite to say so. I said, ‘Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.’
‘You leaving town?’
I nodded. ‘I’m going to Washington D.C.’
TWENTY
I TOOK THE TRAIN FROM PENN STATION. MORE PUBLIC transportation. Getting there was tense. Just a three-block walk through the crowds, but I was watching for people checking faces against their cell phone screens, and it seemed like the entire world had some kind of an electronic device out and open. But I arrived intact and bought a ticket with cash.
The train itself was full and very different from the subway. All the passengers faced forward, and they were all hidden behind high-backed chairs. The only people I could see were alongside me. A woman in the seat next to me, and two guys across the aisle. I figured all three of them for lawyers. Not major leaguers. Double- or Triple-A players, probably, senior associates with busy lives. Not suicide bombers, anyway. The two men had fresh shaves and all three of them were irritable, but apart from that nothing rang a bell. Not that the D.C. Amtrak would attract suicide bombers anyway. It was tailor-made for a suitcase bomb instead. At Penn the track is announced at the last minute. The crowd mills around on the concourse and then rushes down and piles on. No security. Identical black roll-ons are stacked on the luggage racks. Easy enough for a guy to get off in Philadelphia and leave his bag behind, and then explode it a little later, by cell phone, as the train pulls into Union Station
‘If it’s a special network maybe it doesn’t need an exchange number.’
‘It doesn’t look right.’
‘So what was it?’
She answered me by reaching behind her and pulling a small notebook out of her back pocket. Not official police issue. It had a stiff black board cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. The whole book was slightly curled, like it spent a lot of time in her pocket. She slipped the strap and opened it up and showed me a fawn-coloured page with 600-82219-D written on it in neat handwriting. Her handwriting, I guessed. Information only, not a facsimile. Not an exact reproduction of a scribbled note.
600-8221 9-D.
‘See anything?’ she asked.
I said, ‘Maybe Canadian cell phones have more numbers.’ I knew that phone companies the world over were worried about running out. Adding an extra digit would increase an area code’s capacity by a factor of ten. Thirty million, not three. Although Canada had a small population. A big land mass, but most of it was empty. About thirty-three million people, I thought. Smaller than California. And California got by with regular phone numbers.
Lee said, ‘It’s not a phone number. It’s something else. Like a code or a serial number. Or a file number. Those guys are wasting their time.’
‘Maybe it’s not connected. Trash in a car, it could be anything.’
‘Not my problem.’
I asked, ‘Was there luggage in the car?’
‘No. Nothing except the usual kind of crap that piles up in a car.’
‘So it was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out.’
Lee didn’t answer. She yawned and said nothing. She was tired.
I asked, ‘Did those guys talk to Susan’s brother?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He seems to want to sweep it all under the rug.’
‘Understandable,’ Lee said. ‘There’s always a reason, and it’s never very attractive. That’s been my experience, anyway.’
‘Are you closing the file?’
‘It’s already closed.’
‘You happy with that?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Statistics,’ I said. ‘Eighty per cent of suicides are men. Suicide is much rarer in the East than the West. And where she did it was weird.’
‘But she did it. You saw her. There’s no doubt about it. There’s no dispute. It wasn’t a homicide, cleverly disguised.’
‘Maybe she was driven to it. Maybe it was a homicide by proxy.’
‘Then all suicides are.’
She glanced up and down the street, wanting to go, too polite to say so. I said, ‘Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.’
‘You leaving town?’
I nodded. ‘I’m going to Washington D.C.’
TWENTY
I TOOK THE TRAIN FROM PENN STATION. MORE PUBLIC transportation. Getting there was tense. Just a three-block walk through the crowds, but I was watching for people checking faces against their cell phone screens, and it seemed like the entire world had some kind of an electronic device out and open. But I arrived intact and bought a ticket with cash.
The train itself was full and very different from the subway. All the passengers faced forward, and they were all hidden behind high-backed chairs. The only people I could see were alongside me. A woman in the seat next to me, and two guys across the aisle. I figured all three of them for lawyers. Not major leaguers. Double- or Triple-A players, probably, senior associates with busy lives. Not suicide bombers, anyway. The two men had fresh shaves and all three of them were irritable, but apart from that nothing rang a bell. Not that the D.C. Amtrak would attract suicide bombers anyway. It was tailor-made for a suitcase bomb instead. At Penn the track is announced at the last minute. The crowd mills around on the concourse and then rushes down and piles on. No security. Identical black roll-ons are stacked on the luggage racks. Easy enough for a guy to get off in Philadelphia and leave his bag behind, and then explode it a little later, by cell phone, as the train pulls into Union Station
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