again, you never know.” He paused. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
Sidney hesitated for a moment as she thought back to her conversation
with Ed Page right before he was murdered. When her eyes came to rest
on her tweed jacket lying over the chair, she almost jerked. The fact
of the disk and her planned meeting with Jeff Fisher came rushing back
to her. She swallowed and then reddened. “Not that I can think of.
No.”
Sawyer continued to watch her for a long moment and then slowly got to
his feet. “While we’re exchanging information, I thought you might like
to know that your buddy Paul Brophy followed you down to Louisiana.”
Sidney froze at his words.
“He searched your hotel room while you went out for coffee. Feel free
to use that information however you see fit.” He started to walk out the
door and then turned back. “And just so there’s no mistake, we have you
under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“I don’t plan on taking any more trips, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”
His response surprised her. “Don’t keep that pistol locked up, Sidney.
Keep it within easy reach, and keep it loaded at all times. In fact . .
.” Sawyer opened his coat, undid his clip-on belt holster, removed his
pistol and handed the holster to Sidney. “In my experience, guns in
purses aren’t all that effective. Please be careful.”
He left Sidney in the open doorway, her thoughts centered on the brutal
fate of the last man to give her that particular piece of advice.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lee Sawyer looked at the carefully sculpted black-and-white marble walls
and floors. They were cut in asymmetrical triangular patterns.
He assumed they were supposed to convey a sophisticated artistic
statement. However, they only served to give the FBI agent a throbbing
headache. Through the gracefully carved lines of a birchwood double
doorway with etched-glass panels and buttressed by a pair of faux
Corinthian columns, the clink of dishes and silverware filtered out to
him from the main dining area. He took off his overcoat, removed his
hat and gave both to a pretty young woman in a short black skirt and
tight blouse that managed to enhance a body that didn’t need much
enhancing. He was given a claim check in return, accompanied by a very
warm smile. One of her fingernails had slid delicately across his palm
when the claim check was passed over, digging just deep enough into his
skin to make his body tingle in certain discreet places. She must do
damn well in tips, he figured.
The makre d’ appeared and eyed the FBI agent.
“I’m here to meet Frank Hardy.”
The man again flicked his eyes over Sawyer’s rumpled appearance.
The severe appraisal was not lost on Sawyer, who took a moment to hitch
up his pants, a duty repeated many times a day by people of Sawyer’s
healthy dimensions. “How’re the burgers here, pal?” he inquired.
He took out a stick of gum, wadded it up and popped it into his mouth.
“Burgers?” The man seemed ready to topple over at the thought.
“We serve French cuisine here, sir. The finest in the city.” His
accented speech bubbled with indignation.
“French? Great, I bet your fries must be damn good, then.”
Turning quickly on his heel the maTtre d’ led Sawyer through the immense
dining area, where rows of crystal chandeliers sparkled above a
clientele that nearly matched the brilliance of the finely cut light
fixtures.
The ever elegantly dressed Frank Hardy rose from a corner booth and
inclined his head at his former partner. Their waitress appeared
moments after Sawyer did.
“What’re you drinking, Lee?”
Sawyer settled his bulk into the booth. “Bourbon and spit,” he grumbled
without looking up.
The waitress looked at him blankly. “Excuse me?”
Hardy laughed. “In his own crude way my friend means straight bourbon.
I’ll have another martini.”
The waitress went off, rolling her eyes.
Sawyer blew into his handkerchief and proceeded to look around the room.
“Gee, Frank, I’m glad you picked the place.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because if I had, we’d be at Shoneys. But maybe it’s best. I hear
it’s tough as hell to get reservations there this time of year.”