The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page B

Oh Shit?” he replied with a grin.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “I just thought of something. Have you got a phone in one of these barns?”
    â€œYeah, but they’re just connected to my office. You can’t dial out.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll just drive down the road until I come to a pay phone.”
    â€œThey’re getting rare as hen’s teeth,” said Standish. “Why don’t you just use your cell phone?”
    â€œBattery’s dead,” I said, which was easier—and quicker—than explaining why I don’t like or trust cell phones. It’s not just that they’re newfangled, it’s not just that there should be times when no one can bother you, it’s not even that being a phone seems to be the least of their functions these days. But if you’ve got your checking and savings account numbers and all your passwords and e-mail addresses and the like on your cell phone, any pickpocket can steal your entire life from you. Not that I had anything worth stealing except Marlowe, and anyone who wanted him was welcome to him, but I still objected to the damned things on principle.
    I walked quickly to my car, and when the first three gas stations I passed didn’t have pay phones, I just drove on to the police station, figuring that it was another few minutes in the car versus maybe two hours trying to find a phone.
    I pulled up, got out, blew a kiss to Bernice as I walked past, and let myself into MacDonald’s office. It was empty, of course; we’d had breakfast just a few hours ago, but while that was the start of my day, it was the end of his.
    I turned around, left the office, and went to Lou Berger’s office instead.
    â€œHi, Eli,” he said. “You look . . . I don’t know—tense or excited, or perhaps you’ve been overcome with lust for Bernice. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI need to know something,” I said. “MacDonald probably has it at his fingertips, but he’s asleep.”
    â€œWhat is it?” he said. “If the answer’s in the office, I can find it without too much trouble.”
    â€œYou guys told me that Horatio Jimenez was here the day Tyrone was sold. What time was he spotted?”
    â€œGive me a minute,” he said, getting to his feet. “I know where Drew files his current cases.”
    â€œIs it his case?”
    â€œEver since you spoke to him,” confirmed Berger. “I don’t know who else’s it could be. I’ll be right back.”
    He walked down the hall to MacDonald’s office and returned about two minutes later.
    â€œOur first report of Jimenez being in town came at six in the evening, when he was spotted checking into the Hilton Suites. We kept an eye out for him at the pavilion, but he never showed.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I knew I was missing something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere can’t be a connection.”
    â€œWhat kind of connection?” said Berger. “I’m not following you.”
    â€œSince Jimenez is a hitter and he came to Lexington the day Tony vanished, it was easy to think he might have had something to do with it. But he couldn’t have.”
    â€œJust out of curiosity, why not?”
    â€œBecause he didn’t have time to get to the barn before I got back from dinner, and by then Tony was already worried about . . . well, about whatever it was that had him so upset.”
    â€œCouldn’t he have stopped by on his way to the hotel?” asked Berger.
    I shook my head. “I was there all day. I didn’t go out for dinner ’til about six, and there’s no way he could have talked to Tony after I left and still checked in around six. And I was back by a quarter to seven.”
    â€œOkay,” said Berger. “I know it’s no help to you, but you just made the Lexington police force’s job a