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“OK, Finlay, let’s get it done,” I said. “I don’t have an address because I don’t live anywhere. Maybe one day I’ll live somewhere and then I’ll have an address and I’ll send you a picture postcard and you can put it in your damn address book, since you seem so damn concerned about it.”
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She took it well. She must have figured it out for herself, anyway. Must have run every possible speculation through her head. This explanation was the one which fit. That was why she didn’t look surprised or outraged. She just nodded. Then she relaxed. She looked like it had done her good to hear someone else say it. Now it was out in the open. It was acknowledged. It could be dealt with.
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“Great,” Finlay said. “That only leaves me another nine to find.”
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The buzzer on the desk went off. Stevenson’s voice came over the intercom asking for Roscoe. They had files to check. I opened the door for her. But she stopped. She’d just thought of something.
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“He’s shaking all over the place,” Finlay said. “Then I tell him we know about the phone number in the shoe. His phone number printed on a piece of paper, with the word ‘Pluribus’ printed above it. That’s another poker up the ass.”
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I became like a spectator. The situation became abstract. My job had been not that different from Finlay’s. I had an odd feeling of conferring with him about somebody else’s case. Like we were colleagues discussing a knotty problem.
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