“What else?”
“He may be implicated in the murder of a retired police officer, a man who sometimes worked for me.”
“That’s very serious indeed,” Bernard said. “What exactly is it you wish me to do?”
“If you still have contacts in place, I would be very grateful if you could make some inquiries for me. Any background information on this man would be very helpful. I don’t even know his real name.”
“What aliases has he been using?”
“Jonathan Dryer.”
Bernard burst out laughing.
“What is it?” Stone asked, puzzled.
“That is the name of a man who ran some of the training courses at a place called ‘The Farm.’ He was not terribly well liked by many of his students.”
“What did he teach, if I may ask?”
“The sort of skills that might be useful in a burglary.”
“I see.”
Bernard picked up the telephone at his side, pressed a single button, and waited. “Hello, this is Samuel Bernard,” he said. “Is he in?” He waited a moment for his party to come on the line. “Good morning, Ben,” he said. “I’d like to fax you a photograph and see if you can come up with anything on the subject. He may have had some training at The Farm; he’s been using the alias Jonathan Dryer.” He smiled. “Yes, I thought that would amuse you. I’ll send it along now, shall I? Good, see you soon, I hope.” He hung up and turned to Stone. “Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Barrington?” He rose and went into an adjoining room and, through the open door, Stone could see him using a fax machine. While it was working, he came back to the door and closed it.
Stone poured himself some more coffee and gazed idly out the window at the children in the park. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed and he had nearly dozed off when the telephone rang and was answered in another room. Then it rang again; Stone could see two lighted buttons on the instrument next to Bernard’s chair.
Another few minutes passed, and Bernard returned, holding two sheets of paper. When he had settled himself in his chair and poured himself some more coffee, he looked up at Stone. “Now. You and I must understand each other; what I am about to impart to you goes no further, and I include the police in that admonition. In fact, you may not even say to anyone that we met. Is that understood?”
“Completely.”
“Your man’s name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old. His father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his parents are both dead. He has an electronics engineering degree from Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles, thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven. He was recruited out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a year’s training before bei
ng assigned overseas. He served in half a dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago. He was separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks. His last known address was in northern Virginia, but that was three years ago.”
“Is there an address for his brother or sister?”
Bernard scribbled down something on a pad and handed it to Stone. “A New Jersey housewife, apparently – Mrs. Randall Burch – but that address is three years old, too.”
“Thanks, I’ll check that out.”
“The brother is quite something else,” Bernard continued. “His last known address was the California correctional institution at Chino. He was serving five to seven years for – you’ll like this – burglary. He went in four years ago, and I should think it’s quite likely that he has been paroled by now. I suppose you could locate his parole officer and get his last address, but from what you’ve told me it sounds very much as though he might have left California, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Anything else?”
“Thomas Bruce was rated very highly for his technical skills, but his psychological evaluation showed a propensity for violence. He was in trouble a couple of times; had to leave one Central American country after an incident with a woman.” He looked up. “That’s it,” he said. He went to the fireplace and fed the two sheets of paper into the flames.
Stone stood up. “Dr. Bernard, I can’t thank you enough. I know that what I asked you to do was irregular, and I’m very grateful to you.”
“Not at all,” Bernard said. “I hope it will help you find this man. He sounds as though he shouldn’t be on the streets.” He held up a finger. “Oh, one more thing; the sort of training he had would have included establishing false identities.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, sir. Thank you again.” The two men shook hands, and Stone found his way downstairs and out of the house. Back on the street, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand. Rahway, New Jersey. He’d have to rent a car.
Chapter 50
By the time Stone had rented a car it was snowing steadily, and he was already across the George Washington Bridge before he realized he shouldn’t have come. The car was a small one – the only thing available – and he felt unsafe in it, sliding on patches of ice. The snowplows were doing their work, though, removing the accumulation and depositing grit, so he made it to Rahway. He asked a policeman for directions, and he found the house easily enough, in a pleasantly posh neighborhood, the kinds of houses owned by commuters who held executive positions in the city. Louise Bruce Burch lived in a two-story red brick Georgian revival house with slender columns in front; there was a BMW under the carport. He parked in front of the house, made his way up some snowy steps, wishing he’d brought galoshes, and rang the bell. Louise was, somehow, a surprise.
She was of medium height, with sandy blonde hair and a particularly taut body for a suburbanite. Lots of tennis and treadmill, he thought. She did not appear displeased to see him. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.