“Sure.”

“Bryan Kim’s cell records show a call to a number in Northern California two days before he was killed. It’s to a motel in Mount Shasta, the Pine Cone Inn. I talked to the motel manager, but they have no way of knowing who Kim was calling. They would just have connected Kim to a room extension. It seems weird that Kim would call the motel instead of whoever it was’s cell phone. People don’t do that so much anymore.”

“Unless,” I said, “Kim was calling somebody who didn’t own a cell phone.”

“Possible. You still run into a few.”

“Or there was no cell phone reception in Mount Shasta.”

“The motel manager says reception is good. Another possibility is, Kim tried the party’s cell and he wasn’t getting any response. And him being so anxious to talk to this party, he tried the motel to see if his caller was actually still there.”

“That could be. I’ll find out what I can. I’ll be in Mount Shasta tomorrow.”

“What for?”

I explained to Davis the Hal Skutnik/HLM/Mount Shasta connection and how my search for Eddie Wenske was leading north into the California mountain wilderness.

Davis said, “If you need law enforcement assistance up there, call me. The area is crawling with feds, DEA mostly. That’s a big pot-growing area. It’s where most of the domestic crop comes from.”

I said, “I’ve heard that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Paul Delaney’s apartment turned up little of interest, which I didn’t get. I tossed the place at my leisure but found nothing that seemed to have any direct connection to Hey Look Media or Eddie Wenske’s gay media research. There was a desktop computer that refused to spring to life without a password and some disks with labels that were unrelated to the Wenske project, as far as I could tell.

The master bedroom contained a neatly made queen-sized bed. The bathroom was squeaky-clean, Yolanda’s handiwork. There might have been one piece of luggage missing from a hall closet, but I was basing that on Mrs. French’s report of Delaney getting into an airport shuttle as much as anything. A second smaller bedroom had a single bed in it, also freshly made, and some clothes that I suspected were Wenske’s, not Delaney’s. Delaney’s closet contained middle-aged-grown-up suits, shirts and slacks, and the items in the guest bedroom were shorts, jeans, and t-shirts.

One item in a stack of odds and ends on Delaney’s desk did look as if it would be more than useful. It was a printout of a motel reservation in Delaney’s name with an arrival on March 22, eight days earlier, at the Pine Cone Inn, in the town of Mount Shasta.

After a night of restless sleep, I checked out of the hotel and made my way to the airport for my nine thirty-five flight to San Francisco. It took only two and a half hours to get to LAX this time, and my GPS complimented me before I returned the rental car.

I had an hour and a half layover at SFO before my flight to the North. I phoned Timmy from a United Express gate and caught him in his office. I told him where I was on my way to, and he was of course unhappy. I had considered not telling him, but it was better that he received a phone call from me that made him worry than his getting a call from someone else saying I had been badly injured when I was run over by an ATV.

He said, “So you think Wenske is up in the California pot-growing region? I mean Wenske or his decomposing corpse.”

“It makes sense for him to have gone up there. It’s the center of the Skutnik family enterprises, and it’s the apparent source of much of HLM’s income these days. It’s also the chief lair of Martine and Danielle Desault, the two sisters who are the Skutnik family financial wizards who most company people think keep HLM from collapsing in on itself.”

“And you think these two uber capitalists will talk to you? You’re quite the charmer, I always tell people, Donald, but your wiles have their limits.”

“There’s evidence that the sisters might have been spilling the beans on company malfeasance to Wenske, so if they talked to him maybe they’ll talk to me, his mother’s representative. Or maybe I’ll find Wenske alive, and he’ll introduce me to the salt sisters, as they’re called, and we’ll all join together and see to it that Hal Skutnik ends up behind bars. That’s my hope.”

“That would be great. Good luck.”

“There is some unsettling business about Wenske’s main information source—presumably the Desaults—freaking out about a month ago and shutting off all contact. I’m concerned about that. Also, Wenske’s old Boston Globe friend Paul Delaney apparently went looking for Wenske in Mount Shasta last week and hasn’t been heard from since. Anyway, I just wanted you to know where I am.”

A significant pause. “Right. So I won’t worry.”

“I thought about not telling you.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I figured that on balance you’d rather know.”

“On balance, you’re right.”

“Good.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“Okay.”

“But I’m sorry I know.”

“Yeah, well, now I’m a little sorry I told you.”

“Oh, swell.”

“But I guess I can’t un-tell you.”

“No, but you could—where did you say you are?”

“San Francisco airport.”

“You could take a cab into town and have a nice—what time is it there? Lunch?”

“I just had a veggie wrap.”

“Dinner then. And I could fake a serious illness at work and fly out to San Francisco, and we could have a nice couple of days and then come on home where we have such a good life together. How about that?”

“Sounds lovely, but what about Eddie Wenske? What about his mother, who loves him and aches for him and is paying for my plane tickets?”

“She could—hire somebody else.”

“Timothy?”

“Okay, okay.”

“It’s always like this. I know.”

“Just—stay in touch, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Call me twice a day.”

“If I can.”

“You can.”

I had another incoming call, and I saw it was from Marsden Davis.

“Gotta go—love you,” I told Timmy and rang off.

It was good that I took the call. Davis was calling to tell me that Boo Miller had been found dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Miller’s body had been found by hikers on the edge of a swamp on Cape Cod, near West Yarmouth. He had been bound and gagged and then stabbed. Davis said it appeared that Miller had been dead a little under a week, and was probably killed the same day Bryan Kim was stabbed. So far, there was no helpful forensic evidence, Davis said, but the Massachusetts State Police were working on that.

I had brought along my Smith & Wesson. It was in my checked airline bag along with my permit to carry it. More and more, it seemed as though I was going to be dealing with people who were not merely obnoxious but a danger to life and limb. The hard job would be sorting out the murderous people from the mere assholes. If I were going to successfully finish the job I was hired to do—or finish any more jobs at all—it was going to be an important distinction to make.

My flight landed in Redding just before two, and I was soon in a rental Honda for the hour’s drive up to Mount Shasta. The ride along Interstate 5 was lovely, with hilly pine forests on either side, gauzy fair-weather clouds in an azure sky, and high rocky peaks in the distance. I was glad to see that I had good cell service along the route and then as I approached the town of Mount Shasta, in case I needed to call 911.

The GPS found the Pine Cone Inn on Mount Shasta Boulevard, the main drag. I’d called ahead from SFO and arranged for a nice woody clean room at what in Albany would have been considered a good rate. When I checked in, I told the desk clerk I was meeting a friend who was staying at the motel, Paul Delaney, and was he around anywhere? The clerk, a leathery woman in a bandanna, said she didn’t know, that she hadn’t seen Delaney all day. So far, so good.