Dirt

children in the park. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed and he had nearly dozed off when the telephone rang and was answered in another room. Then it rang again; Stone could see two lighted buttons on the instrument next to Bernard’s chair.
    Another few minutes passed, and Bernard returned, holding two sheets of paper. When he had settled himself in his chair and poured himself some more coffee, he looked up at Stone. “Now. You and I must understand each other; what I am about to impart to you goes no further, and I include the police in that admonition. In fact, you may not even say to anyone that we met. Is that understood?” “Completely.”
    “Your man’s name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old. His father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his parents are both dead. He has an electronics engineering degree from Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles, thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven. He was recruited out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a year’s training before being assigned overseas. He served in half a dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago. He was separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks. His last known address was in northern Virginia, but that was three years ago.” “Is there an address for his brother or sister?”
    Bernard scribbled down something on a pad and handed it to Stone. “A New Jersey housewife, apparently — Mrs. Randall Burch — but that address is three years old, too.”
    “Thanks, I’ll check that out.”
    “The brother is quite something else,” Bernard continued. “His last known address was the California correctional institution at Chino. He was serving five to seven years for — you’ll like this — burglary. He went in four years ago, and I should think it’s quite likely that he has been paroled by now. I suppose you could locate his parole officer and get his last address, but from what you’ve told me it sounds very much as though he might have left California, doesn’t it?” “It does. Anything else?”
    “Thomas Bruce was rated very highly for his technical skills, but his psychological evaluation showed a propensity for violence. He was in trouble a couple of times; had to leave one Central American country after an incident with a woman.” He looked up. “That’s it,” he said. He went to the fireplace and fed the two sheets of paper into the flames.
    Stone stood up. “Dr. Bernard, I can’t thank you enough. I know that what I asked you to do was irregular, and I’m very grateful to you.”
    “Not at all,” Bernard said. “I hope it will help you find this man. He sounds as though he shouldn’t be on the streets.” He held up a finger. “Oh, one more thing; the sort of training he had would have included establishing false identities.” “That doesn’t surprise me, sir. Thank you again.” The two men shook hands, and Stone found his way downstairs and out of the house. Back on the street, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand. Rahway, New Jersey. He’d have to rent a car.
     
Chapter 50
     
    By the time Stone had rented a car it was snowing steadily, and he was already across the George Washington Bridge before he realized he shouldn’t have come. The car was a small one — the only thing available — and he felt unsafe in it, sliding on patches of ice. The snowplows were doing their work, though, removing the accumulation and depositing grit, so he made it to Rahway. He asked a policeman for directions, and he found the house easily enough, in a pleasantly posh neighborhood, the kinds of houses owned by commuters who held executive positions in the city. Louise Bruce Burch lived in a two-story red brick Georgian revival house with slender columns in front; there was a BMW under the carport. He parked in front of the house, made his way up some snowy steps, wishing he’d brought galoshes, and rang the bell. Louise was, somehow, a surprise.
    She was of medium height, with sandy blonde hair and a particularly taut body for a suburbanite. Lots of tennis and treadmill, he thought. She did not appear displeased to see him. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
    “Mrs. Burch?”
    “Louise Burch.”
    “My name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney. I wonder if I might speak to you for a few minutes.”
    “Why not?” she said gaily. “Come on back to the kitchen.”
    He