Gone Tomorrow

and threaded between two parked blue-and-white prowl cars and stepped up on the curb and stood near her, far enough away to be respectful, close enough to be heard, facing the building so I wouldn’t have the sun in my eyes. I asked, “What was that all about?”
    She said, “They found Susan Mark’s car. It was parked way down in SoHo. It was towed this morning.”
    “And?”
    “They searched it, obviously.”
    “Why obviously? They’re making a lot of fuss about something they claim is no big deal.”
    “They don’t explain their thinking. Not to us, anyway.”
    “What did they find?”
    “A piece of paper, with what they think is a phone number on it. Like a scribbled note. Screwed up, like trash.”
    “What was the number?”
    “It had a 600 area code, which they say is a Canadian cellular service. Some special network. Then a number, then the letter D , like an initial.”
    “Means nothing to me,” I said.
    “Me either. Except I don’t think it’s a phone number at all. There’s no exchange number and then it has one too many digits.”
    “If it’s a special network maybe it doesn’t need an exchange number.”
    “It doesn’t look right.”
    “So what was it?”
    She answered me by reaching behind her and pulling a small notebook out of her back pocket. Not official police issue. It had a stiff black board cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. The whole book was slightly curled, like it spent a lot of time in her pocket. She slipped the strap and opened it up and showed me a fawn-colored page with 600-82219-D written on it in neat handwriting. Her handwriting, I guessed. Information only, not a facsimile. Not an exact reproduction of a scribbled note.
    600-82219-D .
    “See anything?” she asked.
    I said, “Maybe Canadian cell phones have more numbers.” I knew that phone companies the world over were worried about running out. Adding an extra digit would increase an area code’s capacity by a factor of ten. Thirty million, not three. Although Canada had a small population. A big land mass, but most of it was empty. About thirty-three million people, I thought. Smaller than California. And California got by with regular phone numbers.
    Lee said, “It’s not a phone number. It’s something else. Like a code or a serial number. Or a file number. Those guys are wasting their time.”
    “Maybe it’s not connected. Trash in a car, it could be anything.”
    “Not my problem.”
    I asked, “Was there luggage in the car?”
    “No. Nothing except the usual kind of crap that piles up in a car.”
    “So it was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out.”
    Lee didn’t answer. She yawned and said nothing. She was tired.
    I asked, “Did those guys talk to Susan’s brother?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “He seems to want to sweep it all under the rug.”
    “Understandable,” Lee said. “There’s always a reason, and it’s never very attractive. That’s been my experience, anyway.”
    “Are you closing the file?”
    “It’s already closed.”
    “You happy with that?”
    “Why shouldn’t I be?”
    “Statistics,” I said. “Eighty percent of suicides are men. Suicide is much rarer in the East than the West. And where she did it was weird.”
    “But she did it. You saw her. There’s no doubt about it. There’s no dispute. It wasn’t a homicide, cleverly disguised.”
    “Maybe she was driven to it. Maybe it was a homicide by proxy.”
    “Then all suicides are.”
    She glanced up and down the street, wanting to go, too polite to say so. I said, “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.”
    “You leaving town?”
    I nodded. “I’m going to Washington, D.C.”

Chapter 20
    I took the train from Penn Station. More public transportation. Getting there was tense. Just a three-block walk through the crowds, but I was watching for people checking faces against their cell phone screens, and it seemed like the entire world had some kind of an electronic device out and open. But I arrived intact and bought a ticket with cash.
    The train itself was full and very different from the subway. All the passengers faced forward, and they were all hidden behind high-backed chairs. The only people I could see were alongside me. A woman in the seat next to me, and two guys across the aisle. I figured all three of them for lawyers. Not major leaguers. Double- or Triple-A players, probably, senior associates with busy lives. Not suicide bombers, anyway. The two men had fresh shaves