“Oh.”
“Tell me exactly what they asked you.”
“It was a list of names, nothing else.”
“What were the names?”
“Robert Graves was the first.”
“The poet?”
“They asked me if I knew the name in any other context.”
“Who else?”
“Two women’s names—an Irish first name, and the last name was odd—Klein something or other.”
“Maureen Kleinknect?”
“Yes, that’s it. Who is she?”
“It doesn’t matter; she’s dead. What was the other one?”
“Joanna with a double-barreled last name.”
“Scott-Meyers?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Then there was Erica and Monica Burroughs, Lance Cabot, Sarah Buckminster, and you.”
“And what did you tell them about each of these people?”
“The bare minimum.”
Hedger sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Once again, describe the two men who dragged you into the car. This time I want every detail.”
“I told you—big.”
“What else?”
“Come to think of it, they both had dark skin—not very dark, but a little, and black hair.”
“Describe the three men who interrogated you.”
“They were seated behind the lights in the room, in shadows, so I could only see silhouettes.”
“Tell me about the silhouettes.”
“The two on the ends were just shadows, lumps, but the one in the middle—the one doing the interrogating—was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. That was all I could see of him, really.”
“That’s interesting; you were very good to pick that up, in the circumstances.”
“Thank you. Now give me a good reason why I should continue to work for you while this sort of thing is going on.”
“Two reasons. First, this won’t happen again; they believe they have everything you know. Second, I’m doubling your hourly fee.”