Act of God

for me?”
    She got frosty again. “Why?”
    “Why should you find it out, or why do I need it?”
    “Both.”
    “I need it because I think that flight revolves around a murder.”
    “Oh, great.” Jorgensen looked at me as we stopped in front of the professional building. “So why should I find it out for you?”
    “Same reason you went back in after the little girl.” Jorgensen looked at me some more, then shook her head. “God, I have to find another line of work.”
    I waited, but she didn’t get out of the car.
    Finally, Jorgensen used her good hand cross-body to yank on the door handle. “There’s a pay phone inside the lobby. I’ll call somebody, but it’ll probably get you just a name, not an address or anything.”
    “That’d be more than I have now.”
    “What I mean is, the woman might live in the Washington area. She could have been heading home instead of down there on business or something.”
    “That would make things harder, but I’d still like the name.”
    Jorgensen got out of the car, closing the door with the window still down. Then she leaned in. “Thanks.”
    “The information more than covers the ride.”
    “I didn’t mean for the ride. I meant for what you said about my giving that little girl a chance.”
    Despite the bad arm, Becca Jorgensen trotted into the lobby.

    The name could have been “Smith.” Even “Taylor” or “O’Brien.” Fortunately, it was Iturraldi.” There were none in the Boston White Pages, and only two in the rest of the metropolitan area. The first was a dead end, no female in the family. As I dialed the second, first initial “K,” I began to picture myself sitting in the Boston Public Library, going through the shelves of nationwide directories, trying all the ones around D.C.
    Then a woman’s voice answered. K. Iturraldi heard me out, then said, “Yes, that was me,” and “Sure, I can see you.”
    Half an hour later, I parked in front of the address she’d given me over the phone. A small cape, it had a nice lawn and hedges trimmed in the shape of popover tarts.
    I walked up the front path and rang the bell at the side of the screened door, the inner wooden one standing open. A large figure filled the foyer, and I found myself smiling as she moved closer to me on the other side of the screen.
    A wave preceded her, washing over me before she asked if I was the private investigator. A wave of perfume, Shalimar or Opium maybe. K. Iturraldi reeked of it.

29

    As I drove out there, I thought about how to play it. Maybe it would work andmaybe it wouldn’t, but either way, I’d have tried.
    I left the Prelude in front of the house and walked up the flagstoned path. At the door between the white Doric columns I pushed the button and heard the deep, bong-bong chiming inside. This time he answered the door.
    “What...?”
    “I’m afraid I have to bother you again, Mr. Houle.”
    His hands were empty, his clothing just shorts and another T-shirt with a breast pocket. The chin forced the rest of his face into a smile. “Sure. Sure, come on in.”
    I let him precede me into a living room with a traditional sofa and love seat arranged around a marble fireplace. On the mantel sat the covered urn I’d last seen in the garden my first visit there.
    Houle said, “Take the couch, it’s more comfortable.”
    I did as he moved to the love seat, some newspapers scattered at the base of it. Houle stepped over them but instead of settling into the love seat, he perched on the front cushion of it. “Caroline was always after me about leaving papers on the floor like this.”
    I nodded. “I take it you really didn’t get around to spreading the ashes.”
    Houle looked at me strangely, blinking rapidly. “What was that?”
    I gestured toward the mantel. “The urn there. You told me yesterday that you’d spread the ashes in the garden your wife loved so well. Since the urn’s still here, I’m guessing you were mistaken, that you just haven’t found the time yet.”
    More blinking. “That’s pretty... harsh, don’t you think?”
    “Harsh. Now that’s a word that could cover a lot of ground, Rog.”
    The blinking stopped.
    I said, “Abraham Rivkind’s death was harsh. The plane crash was harsh. Rush Teagie’s death was harsh. The only death I’m not sure of is the fourth one.”
    “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I think you do. It was a hell of a plan, Rog, and it should have worked. And it would have,