They’d sat at her kitchen table, conversing over coffee and cigarettes, Lockington realizing that for better or for worse, he’d been sucked back into the middle of something he’d just gotten out of. She’d whetted his appetite for the campaign, not with a pep talk that the battle-scarred Chicago police veteran would have scorned, but by permitting him to show the way, listening to his story of the empty matchbook and the thousand dollars, bowing to his experience and knowledge. She’d given him his head, a subordinate maneuver obvious to Lockington, one that he’d seen no reason to question. In essence, their goals were the same—if Natasha reached hers, he reached his. Lockington had sketched the opening phase of a plan, going no further, because there was no further to go. She’d listened attentively, nodding occasionally, making no comment until he’d said, “I don’t know what we’re looking for, but it’s in the Youngstown, Ohio area.”
Her gaze had been quizzical. “And from there, where?”
Lockington had shrugged. “Damned if I know, but we have to get off of this treadmill, don’t we?”
She’d spread her hands. “All right, then go—you’ll be needing me in Ohio?”
“Yes, but not immediately.”
“How soon?”
“Very, probably.”
“And often?”
“Uhh-h-h—are we on the same railroad?”
She said, “Choo-choo-choo!”
At four o’clock he called Edna Garson’s apartment. No answer. He called the Shamrock Pub and Edna was there—she’d just come in. Lockington talked to her for a couple of minutes and she said, “Well, okay, I’ll do it, but I’m gonna miss you!” She growled deep in her throat. “There’d better not be a woman involved!”
Lockington chuckled an insincere chuckle. He said, “Strictly business.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Just a few days.”
“Hurry back—we’ll make up for lost time.”
Lockington broke the connection and called Moose Katzenbach at the Classic Investigations office. He said, “There’s a thousand bucks under the baseball encyclopedia in the bottom left-hand desk drawer. Put a couple hundred in your pocket and get the rest busted into twenties for me.”
Moose said, “Holy Christ, Lacey, we must be in the black!”
“You’ll find my spare keys in the top drawer. Lock up the office, get over to the Randolph Street lot, and pick up my car. Fill the tank and drive to my apartment—Edna Garson will be there, packing my suitcase.”
“You on the lam, Lacey?”
“Just a little bit.”
“For what—singing tenor?”
“Nothing quite that serious—there’s a matter that requires looking into.” Lockington gave him further instructions and a tight schedule. He said, “Got that, Moose?”
“Got it. You’ll be in touch?”
“You still drinking at the Roundhouse Café?”
“Every night but Sundays.”
“Why not Sundays?”
“It’s closed on Sundays.”
“Okay, if I need you I’ll call the Roundhouse—eight o’clock or so.”
“Which way you headed?”
“East.”
“Devereaux?”
“Right.”
“I knew it, goddammit!”
Lockington hung up, glancing at his watch, then at Natasha. “We’ll leave here in an hour.”
She nodded. She’d been perched on the arm of the sofa, watching, listening. She said, “You’re highly efficient. When will you contact me?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Where can I reach you?”
“Why not here?”
“Not a chance—your phone will be tapped by then.”
“And yours?”
“You can bet on it—our little get-together will rattle some cages.”
“All right—I know a nice old lady on the fifth floor. I’ll give you her number. I’ll spend the afternoon in her apartment.”
“Can you get the name of the owner of the house in unincorporated Leyden Township—the place where Rufe Devereaux was staying before he went to Miami?”
“Three thousand North Onines—I’ll have it in the morning.”
“By the way, what if your lady friend isn’t home?”
“She won’t be—she’s in San Bernardino, visiting her daughter.”
“Then how will you get in?”
Natasha Gorky smiled at Lockington.
Put to a top-echelon KGB operative, it’d been a stupid question.