Under the Lake

19

Bo Scully was later than usual getting into the office. He came in, glanced at the mail, then went into his office and closed the door. Then he opened it again.

“Scotty, will you get me the number of the Neiman-Marcus department store in Atlanta, please, ma’am? I think it’s at the Lenox Square mall.”

He closed the door and turned away, missing the stunned expression on Scotty’s face. Quickly, she opened her handbag and checked her wallet. It wasn’t there. Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. She recovered enough to dial information, get the number, write it down and take it to him. “Want me to call them for you?” she asked, hopefully. “Those stores will keep you hanging for hours. You ordering something?”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll call ‘ em myself. Close the door, will you?”

She closed his door and returned to her desk but watched him through the plate glass window. He dialed the number, said something, waited a while, said something else, something longer, waited another while, then spoke for about a minute to someone. God, she wished she could hear him. He wrote down something, then hung up and dialed another number. Eleven digits, she counted; long distance.

“Scotty, write me a letter, will you? Neiman-Marcus in Dallas – here’s the address, attention of a Mr. Murray in the credit department. Say that, confirming our phone conversation of today, I request a copy of the charge account application of… he glanced at the paper in his hand ”… an H. M. MacDonald, account number 071107. Say it’s in conjunction with an investigation being conducted by this department, and the information on the application will be kept confidential.“ He handed her the paper. ”Sonofabitch wouldn’t tell me nothing on the phone,“ he said, and walked back into his office.

Scotty quietly thanked God that she had used her initials on the card. If Bo ever got his hands on that application he’d see that the card belonged to a Heather Miller MacDonald, who was employed by the Atlanta Constitution as a reporter; he would figure out in milliseconds who that was, and she’d be dead in the water, or maybe just dead.

Well, she’d take a couple of days to write that letter, that would give her time to think, anyway.

Bo opened his office door again. “Do that letter now, will you, please? I want to get it right off.”

She typed the letter on the word processor, ripped it from the printer, and took it in for Bo’s signature. She addressed it, sealed it, ran it through the postage meter, and tossed it on top of a pile of letters waiting to go to the post office. She’d take them herself at lunch and ditch that particular one.

Bo came out of the office. “I’m going to make a round or two, and I’ll go straight on to lunch. Be back about two, I guess.” He reached into Scotty’s out basket and scooped up the pile of letters. “I’ll drop these by the post office for you,” he said, starting for the door.

“Hey,” she called. He stopped and turned. “No need to go to the trouble. I’ve got to go down there anyway.”

“Oh, no trouble,” Bo grinned. He left.

Scotty buried her face in her hands and tried not to cry. She’d kill John Howell, the clumsy bastard. She was blown, or would be before the week was out. And what could she do in that short a time?

“Hey, Scotty,” Mike, the radio operator, called, “will you keep an eye on the radio for me? I gotta get a haircut.”

“Sure, Mike,” she said, brightly. “Be glad to. Take your time.”

Mike left, and she was alone. Alone with Bo Scully’s Great Iron Filing Cabinet. It was now or never. She took a big breath and dug for her key.