They jogged into the lobby. Shoving through the plate-glass doors, they ran past the taxis and limousines lining the hotel's driveway. Their breath clouded in the cool spring night. Blancanales looked at Lyons, noting the champagne soaked tuxedo, the bits of glass sparkling on the sleeves and lapels. The Puerto Rican laughed, put his arm around his partner's shoulders as they ran.
"Lyons, you're my friend, but this is the last time I take you to a party."
7
Passengers bound for Washington, D.C., crowded from the lounge to board the jet. Floyd Jefferson ran to a pay phone. He punched the number of David Holt's Mill Valley home. After a few rings, he heard the voice of Mrs. Holt.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, ma'am. This is Floyd Jefferson. The plane's leaving and Mr. Holt isn't here yet. Did he..."
"He left an hour ago. Could there be a traffic problem?"
"I don't know… I'll call the office."
"And I'll call the office if he calls here."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Holt."
The young journalist punched another number. The law-office receptionist answered.
"Holt, Lindsey, and Stein…"
"This is Floyd Jefferson. I'm calling from the airport. Mr. Holt and I are supposed to fly east this morning, but he hasn't shown up. In fact, he just missed the plane. Did he call? Leave a message?"
"No, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Holt hasn't called. Perhaps a jam delayed him. Why don't you give me your number? I'll call you when he calls."
He read the number to her. "It's a pay phone but I'll be here. I'll get seats on the next flight east and wait by the phone."
Four hours later, he called the office for the tenth time. He heard the alarm in the receptionist's voice before she told him.
"The police just called! They found Mr. Holt's car in Oakland."
Jefferson felt his body go cold. "What about him?"