"Taber. The government crowd. The police, too, maybe. You killed that guy in the Village, didn't you?" Les King had decided a bold approach was the best way. But he was no fool. He kept his hand on the doorknob and watched the man carefully. "By the way, you haven't told me your name."
"John Dennis."
"You look like a man named Sam Baker. He disappeared about ten years ago—from a little town upstate."
"I am John Dennis."
King shrugged. "Okay, you're John Dennis. All I want to do is stay on top of this thing and have the inside track when it breaks."
"Brent Taber told you to forget about it."
King did not like the odd feeling of helplessness that seemed to have a grip on him. He was not alarmed, though. Over and above this was a sense of excitement. There was money here—he knew damned well there was money here.
"You want money, don't you?"
The question startled King. Could the guy read his mind? "Who the hell doesn't?" he retorted defensively. "If you're heeled you've got it made."
Somehow King felt that the pressure, the odd excitement, lessened in intensity. His nerves, he conceded, were sure playing tricks.