"Jesus, you truly don't get the picture, do you?" He paused for another early-morning reefer hack.
"I 'get' that you—"
"Missy, it was a high official at that very establishment 'suggested' I fly you up there. Why the hell else would I do it, for chrissake? You know I'm not a citizen of this fun house. Said party noted that if I didn't, he could make a few phone calls about my residency status, my pilot's license . . . Let's just say it was an offer I didn't see fit to take issue with."
"Oh, my God." I felt like a knife had just plunged into my back. "Was his name Barry Morton? Please tell me."
"Taking the Fifth on that one," he said coughing again. "But you've got primal instincts."
I heard a noise outside and sank lower in the chair. What was I going to do now?
"Listen, do you have any idea where Steve is? They're looking—"
"No shit, Madame Sherlock. I had a long, deeply uninspiring interrogation by a couple of upscale assholes who showed up here in an Army Jeep. They wanted to know where the fuck he was, when I'd supped with him last. Let me inform you, love, you got my old heartstrings buddy in some decided doo-doo."
"I feel guilty enough about that as is, so stop." In spite of all Alex Goddard had done, I felt horrible about Steve, like a self-involved witch. "But do you know where he is now?"
"Haven't the foggiest fucking idea, never heard of the jerk. Shit, hang on." The line went silent, and I could feel my pulse pounding.