addresses of the PAC officers, which she had taken from her purse. They were hard to make out as the taxi shot from one highway light to the next.
There was no logical way to choose who to visit after Krause. The closest would be easiest, but also probably the most obvious to her pursuers, and therefore the most dangerous. For safety’s sake, she decided to visit the man farthest away, Doctor Sinclair Tieman in San Francisco.
Leaning forward, Marissa told the driver she wanted Kennedy rather than LaGuardia airport. When he asked what terminal, she chose at random: United. If they didn’t have space on a night flight, she could always go to another terminal.
At that time in the evening there were few people at the terminal, and Marissa got rapid service. She was pleased to find a convenient flight to San Francisco with just one stop, in Chicago. She bought her ticket with cash, using yet another false name, bought some reading material from a newsstand and went to the gate. She decided to use the few moments before takeoff to call Ralph. As she anticipated, he was upset she hadn’t called him back sooner, but was pleased at first to learn she was at the airport.
“I’ll forgive you this one last time,” he said, “but only because you are on your way home.”
Marissa chose her words carefully: “I wish I could see you tonight, but .
“Don’t tell me you are not coming,” said Ralph, feigning anger to conceal his disappointment. “I made arrangements for you to meet with Mr. McQuinllin tomorrow at noon. You said you wanted to see him as soon as possible.”
“It will have to be postponed,” said Marissa. “Something has come up. I must go to San Francisco for a day or two. I just can’t explain right now.”
“Marissa, what on earth are you up to?” said Ralph in a tone of desperation. “Just from the little you’ve told me, I’m absolutely certain you should come home, see the lawyer; then, if Mr. McQuinllin agrees, you can still go to California.”
“Ralph, I know you’re worried. The fact you care makes me feel so much better, but everything is under control. What I’m doing will just make my dealings with Mr. McQuinllin that much easier. Trust me.”
“I can’t,” pleaded Ralph. “You’re not being rational.”
“They’re boarding my plane,” said Marissa. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”
Marissa replaced the receiver with a sigh. He might not be the world’s most romantic man, but he certainly was sensitive and caring.
Al told Jake to shut up. He couldn’t stand the man’s incessant gab. If it wasn’t about baseball, it was about the horses. It never stopped. It was worse than George’s eternal silence.
Al was sitting with Jake in the taxi while George still waited in the Essex House lobby. Something told Al that things were screwed up. He’d followed the limo all the way to a restaurant in Soho, but then the girl he’d seen get in didn’t get out. Coming back to the hotel, he’d had Jake check to see if Miss Kendrick was still registered. She was, but when Al went up and walked past the room, he’d seen it being cleaned. Worse, he’d been spotted by the house detectives, who claimed he was the broad’s boyfriend and that he’d better leave her alone. You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to know something was wrong. His professional intuition told him that the girl had fled and that they were wasting their time staking out the Essex House.
“You sure you don’t want to put a small bet on the fourth at Belmont today?” said Jake.
Al was about to bounce a couple of knuckles off the top of Jake’s head when his beeper went off. Reaching under his jacket, he turned the thing off, cursing. He knew who it was.
“Wait here,” he said gruffly. He got out of the car and ran across the street to the Plaza where he used one of the downstairs pay phones to call Heberling.
Heberling did not even try to hide his contempt. “For Chrissake, the woman’s only a hundred pounds or so. It’s not like I’m asking you to take out Rambo. Why the hell is PAC paying you fellows a thousand dollars a day?”