Speaking in Tongues

didn’t understand a thing. But he said, “Sure. Say, is that loaded?”
    Jimmy didn’t respond. From the pocket of his leather jacket he took a videocassette. Set it on the table. Backed up. Nodded toward it. Tate walked over, picked it up. “I should play it?”
    Jimmy’s face scrunched up impatiently.
    Tate put the cassette in the player and fiddled with the controls until the tape started to play. The scene on the TV showed a building, some bushes. The date and time stamp revealed that it had been made that morning, at nine forty-two. He didn’t recognize where. The tape jumped ahead four minutes; now whoever was making the tape was driving, following another car down a suburban street. Tate recognized the car being followed. It was Megan’s Tempo. Because of the rain he couldn’t make out who was driving.
    “Where did you get this?” Tate demanded.
    “Watch, don’t talk,” Jimmy muttered. The gun was pointed directly at Tate’s back.
    Another jump on the tape. To nine-fifty that morning. Tate recognized the Vienna Metro station. The man taping—of course, one of the private eyes hired by Sharpe, despite his protests to the contrary—must have been afraid of getting too close to his subject. He was about fifty yards away and shooting through the mist and rain. Megan’s car stopped at a row filled with other cars. There was a pause and then motion. After a moment he caught a glimpse of someone. A white man, it seemed, wearing a dark jacket, though he couldn’t be sure. Tate could see no distinguishing features. Then there was more motion. Finally a gray Mercedes pulled out of a space and a moment later Megan’s car eased into where the Merce had been. At 10:01 the Mercedes sped out of the lot.
    The tape went fuzzy. Then black.
    Tate stared, his heart pounding. Thinking of the vague motion he’d seen—pixels of light on the screen,distorted to start with, more distorted in the rain and fog. But he believed it might have been the man lifting a heavy object from the trunk of Megan’s car and putting it into the Mercedes. An object about the size of a human body.
    “That’s all,” Jimmy said. “Could you eject it?”
    Tate did. “Did he see anything else?” he asked.
    “Who?” Jimmy asked.
    “You know who. The private eye. Can I talk to him? Please?”
    Jimmy nodded at the table. “If you could just set the tape there and back up.”
    Tate did. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer. This was as far as Sharpe was willing to go. But he asked one more question. “Why did he show this to me? He didn’t have to.”
    Jimmy pocketed the cassette, gun still held steadily at Tate. He backed to the door. “Mr. Sharpe asked me just to mention the old adage that one good deed deserves another. He hopes you’ll remember that next Thursday at the argument down in Richmond.”
    “Look—”
    “He said he didn’t think you’d agree. He just asked me to mention it.”
    Jimmy walked to the sliding door, through which he’d apparently entered. He paused. “The answer to your question? I myself would guess it’s because he’s got two daughters of his own. Good night.”
    After he’d gone Tate drained his wineglass with a shaking hand and picked up the phone and dialed a number.
    When Konnie answered Tate said, “Got a lead.”
    “Asking or telling?”
    “Telling.”
    “Go on.”
    “Long story. That case with Sharpe?”
    “Right.”
    Tate said, “It wasn’t just me he had a PI tailing. It was Megan too.”
    “Why? Dig up dirt?”
    “That’s my guess. Lawyer’s daughter scores drugs. Sleeps around. Something like that. Anyway, a friend of his just showed me a tape.” Tate described it.
    “Hot damn. Get it over here—”
    “Forget it. It’s been atomized. But I think it was Megan the perp was moving from one trunk to another. She was probably drugged.” Tate prayed the girl had merely been unconscious.
    “Tags?”
    “Nope. Sorry.”
    “Damn, Tate. Why’d you think they put those cute little signs on cars?” After a pause Konnie continued. “Okay. So—you don’t think it’s Sharpe?”
    “He didn’t have to show me diddly. He didn’t even bargain—well, not too hard. You know, throw the case and I’ll tell you what the PI saw. He could’ve done that.”
    “Would you’ve agreed?”
    Tate didn’t hesitate for an instant. “Yes, I would have.”
    “Okay, so it’s not Sharpe. Then let’s think. She’s got a stalker after her. He’s checking out her routine.