“Male.”
“How long ago?”
“About forty-five minutes. He gave me the sheet and a list of numbers. The machine is still faxing them.”
“Can I see the list of numbers?”
“Well…”
Stone produced another twenty.
The young man produced a sheet of papers with around fifty numbers on it. Some were in New York, some in L.A.
“This Hispanic teenager; he ever been in here before?”
“I never seen him.”
“You ever fax something like this before?”
“First time. Entertaining, ain’t it?”
“Thanks,” Stone said, and turned to go.
“I’ll tell you this for free,” the young man said.
Stone stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“I think somebody gave the kid a few bucks to bring it in here, you know?”
Stone nodded and left, tucking the list of phone numbers into his pocket. He got a cab home, went back to his study, and poured himself a bourbon. The message light was flashing on his answering machine. Probably Amanda, he thought, pressing a button. The machine rewound quickly; only one message.
“This is Arrington Carter,” a woman’s voice said. “Give me a call when you get a chance.” She left a number.
“My goodness,” Stone said aloud while he dialed the number. “It certainly pays to stay home on a Saturday night.” The phone rang, and there was a click.
“Hi, I’m out, leave a message,” her recorded voice said.
Stone slumped with disappointment. He must have just missed her. “It’s Stone Barrington, returning your call,” he said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
He hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately. He grabbed it on the first ring; it must be her. “Hello?”
“ Barrington?” a man’s voice said. He sounded angry.
“Yes.”
“This is Richard Hickock.”
“Hello, Dick.”
“Is it true that you’re working for Amanda on this thing?”
“What thing?”
“This DIRT business. The goddamned thing came in on my home fax machine. My wife could have seen it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Dick. You’ll have to talk to Amanda.”
“I’ll do that, don’t worry; I just want to say this: You find out who’s doing this, and I’ll double whatever Amanda’s paying you.”