Cole Perriman's Terminal Games by Wim Coleman, Pat Perrin Page A

computer-simulated murder were somehow the same was another chimera—like that traveler on the ice.
    Besides, Renee was on Auggie’s trail now, and she would undoubtedly get to the bottom of this mystery. Marianne was sure of one thing. If their situations were reversed, Renee wouldn’t have let the cop on the phone treat her like a crackpot, and she wouldn’t have run away from a detective at a crime scene. Renee was more intrepid than Marianne—and certainly more worldly.
    Hell, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm is more worldly than I am. This is what happens when you live in Santa Barbara for a couple of years. You lose your capacity to act decisively in weird situations.
    Marianne had freed herself of Evan and of an aimless life that had never truly been hers. But her recurring glimpses of that figure on the ice and this little incident with the police both suggested that she had not yet come into her own. That was one of the reasons Renee made me feel sad …
    She looked at her watch. It was five-thirty.
    Well, no time to brood. I’ve got just enough time to grab some food before the conference starts …
    *
    “So did you talk to the folks at the airline?” Clayton asked Nolan when the two of them met at their facing desks to talk over the day’s activities.
    “Yeah,” Nolan said tiredly. “So far, everybody’s playing it just like the guys we talked to yesterday. They say Judson was here to make a few brief remarks and give a plaque to some V.P. for setting some kind of regional record. Then they were all going to play a little golf. Just an excuse for Judson to come to La-La Land. They say he doesn’t spend much time in Chicago in the winter. That part I can believe.”
    “We got any kind of profile on him at all? Other than official stuff?”
    “The people in L.A. claim not to have known him real well—not personally. A little gossip is all. They say he screwed around a lot.”
    “I guess you’ll learn more in Chicago.”
    Nolan nodded. He sat down, removed his shoes, and began to rub his feet.
    “So what’s the word from your pals?” Nolan asked.
    Clayton frowned. He got a sour taste in his mouth from just thinking about his small circle of informants—a motley collection of pushers, pimps, addicts, gang members, and petty thieves. He’d never gotten used to the idea of letting those scum run free in exchange for what was usually an inconsequential trickle of information. “They aren’t my ‘pals,’” he said.
    “Sorry.”
    “When’re you gonna stop saying that?”
    “I said I’m sorry. What do they know?”
    “Not a damned thing.”
    “Are they holding out?”
    “There’s no reason they’d know anything about Judson unless he was mixed up in drug deals or shuffling funds. The only reason they’d hold out is if he was big-time Mafioso. They all swear they never heard of him.”
    “You believe them?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So we still ain’t got a laugh,” Nolan observed.
    “Nope. Not even a giggle.”
    Nolan slipped his shoes back on. “I’m going on home to read over some reports about Apex. Then I’m turning in early. My plane goes out at six a.m. ”
    Clayton nodded. “Be sure to wear your mittens and earmuffs.”
    “Yeah, and fuck you, too. See you next week.”
    Nolan padded away through the detective bay area. Clayton sat quietly for a moment. He was not looking forward with pleasure to the report he was going to have to write concerning today’s work.
    Clayton heard an audible moan of discouragement across the aisle. He turned and saw Sergeant Rudolph Wertsch, who had just hung up the phone at his desk. The blond, Aryan-looking, crew cut-sporting rookie had been assigned to take phone tips concerning the Judson case. Clayton had noticed that Wertsch, while never being exactly uncivil, never really made eye contact with him, either. Well, he wasn’t the only one like that on the job.
    Whiter than white. God save me from having one of these types for a partner