CONSULTING THE SLIP OF paper Daniels had given him, Kane punched out Paul Cutler’s phone number. As he waited, he let his gaze wander appreciatively around the large, luxurious hotel room, billed to Daniels, Inc. Never, as a corporate pilot, could he have lived so lavishly. Never would—
“Yes?”
“Is—ah—is this Mr. Cutler?”
“That’s right. Who’s this?” It was an impatient question.
Trying for the shallow, tentative inflection of his younger self, Kane said, “My name is John Williams. I’m a friend of Diane’s, from New York. Could I speak to her, please?”
“John Williams?” It was a cautious question. “From New York, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Diane tell you she’d be here?”
“No, she didn’t. But she told me she was coming to San Francisco. She said it’d be okay to call, even though the number’s unlisted.” He tried for a youthful, earnest note: “I hope that’s okay, Mr. Cutler.”
“Of course. No problem, John. But she’s not here now. I’ll tell her you called, though. Where can she reach you?”
“Well, ah, I can’t be reached, not really. I’m—see—I’m staying with friends. Or, anyhow, I was staying with friends. I’m not even sure how long I’m staying in town. I’m headed down south, really, to Los Angeles. But I promised Diane I’d call her, if I got to San Francisco. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“Are you friends from college?”
“No, sir. From New York. My dad is in business with Mr. Daniels. Real estate.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen Diane?”
“About two weeks, I guess it was. Something like that.”
“Did she—” Cutler broke off, then continued more slowly, as if he was exploring, experimenting: “Did she—had she planned to come to San Francisco? That’s to say, did she think about it for a while? Or was it a sudden decision?”
“Oh, it was sudden. Very sudden. She just called me, and said she was taking off. Driving her BMW. And then she was gone. Just like that.”
“Yes …” Cutler said it slowly, speculatively. Then, as if he’d made a decision, he spoke crisply, decisively: “As a matter of fact, I just got off the phone with Diane. She’s in San Francisco. The, ah, truth is, I’m not sure where she is, who she’s staying with. Friends, that’s all I know. She, ah—” A delicate pause. “She and my wife—my present wife—don’t get along all that well. So …” Cutler’s voice trailed off.
“I know, sir. Diane told me about it. She has the same problem with Mr. Daniels, I guess.”
A rueful laugh. Then: “You and Diane must be good friends.”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
Another moment of silence. Finally Cutler said, “The fact is, John, that I’m worried about Diane. She—she makes things hard for herself. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir, I do. And I think you put it just right. She does make things hard for herself. That’s just how she is.”
“You understand, then. You understand why I’m concerned.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“The reason I say it, John, is because I’d like you to do me a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Yes. If you do find her, I wonder whether you’d be good enough to call me. Would you do that?”
“Why—why yes, sir, I certainly will.”
“Let me give you my office number. It’s my private line, so you won’t find it listed.”
“Yes, sir.” Smiling broadly, he copied down the number and repeated it. Then: “Any idea where I could find her?”
“I’d try Carley Hanks, if I were you. They’re old, old friends. Try her first. I don’t have her number, but she’s probably in the book. If she isn’t, call me. I can put you in touch with her father.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.”
“Thank you, John. I hope to hear from you.”
“Yes, sir. I hope I can find her.”
“Good. Well, good-bye, John. And thanks again.”
“Thank you, sir.” Still smiling broadly, he broke the connection, went to the small wet bar and poured bourbon from a crystal decanter. Adding water and taking ice from a silver ice bucket, he turned to face his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He raised the glass in grave self-salute. Murmuring: “Thanks, Jeff Weston. Thanks very much.”