The Gentlemen's Hour

145

Petra opens the door.

John Kodani is standing there.

“Cute,” she says.

“I take it,” he says, “Boone isn’t here?”

“You take it correctly,” she answers. “And, as a lady, I should take umbrage at your assumption that he is, at this late hour.”

“It’s the middle of the day for me,” Johnny says. “Well, do you know where he is?”

“I assume he’s at home.”

Johnny shakes his head.

“Then I haven’t a clue.”

“May I come in?”

“Why?”

“I think you might be in possession of some material germane to a murder investigation,” he says. “Boone told me all about Blasingame and Paradise. About some records . . . what’s it . . . Nicole gave him? I didn’t believe him.”

“And now?”

“I might believe him.”

That’s interesting, she thinks. Boone didn’t ring me to tell me of any new developments.

“May I enquire what has occurred to change your mind?”

“No,” Johnny says. “May I come in?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I can get a warrant.”

“Off you go, then.”

He smiles. “I could just take you in, you know.”

“For about five minutes,” she says, calling his bluff. “Is it chilly out? Should I get a wrap?”

Johnny blows a puff of air out of his mouth and says, “Look, I’m worried about Boone.”

“I thought you were no longer friends.”

“We’re not,” Johnny says. “That doesn’t mean I want to see him dead. You neither, for that matter.”

Petra feels a sharp stab of fear, more for Boone than for herself. He left her to talk to Johnny and Dan Nichols, he didn’t come back, now something new has clearly occurred, and Johnny is worried about his life? She’s tempted to let him in, give him Nicole’s papers, show him the computer screen with its interwoven networks, but . . .

Can I trust him? she wonders. Boone didn’t trust him enough to actually give him the records. If he’d wanted Johnny to have them, he would have given them to him already. But what’s new? What’s happened? Where is Boone? She asks, “What do you mean?”

“All right, look,” Johnny says. “Shall we both get undressed here?”

“Why, Sergeant . . .”

Johnny takes out his cell phone, flips it open, and shows her the photo of Bill Blasingame he took at the house.

She gets dizzy, feels like she might vomit, but controls it and listens as he says, “Bill Blasingame. They broke his fingers and every bone in his feet before they cut off his hands, and then killed him. I think they were looking for the records that Boone has . . . or maybe he gave them to you? I don’t think they know you have them or they’d already have been here, but it’s just a matter of time. I’m concerned that Boone’s time may have already run out. So do you want to talk to me now?”