“The organization altered the police records?”
“Somebody did. And I know how this is going to sound, but if it is Catering? You can forget about fact-checking my story anymore.”
“I see. That’s a rather convenient development, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah, it’s very convenient, having you think I’m full of shit…”
“Why ‘Catering’? That’s a strange name for a counterintelligence division.”
“They do a lot of logistics work,” she explains. “One way the organization keeps itself off the radar is by not having a fixed headquarters. Cost-Benefits, the whole bureaucracy, it’s constantly moving around, and Catering are like the movers. They scout new locations, pack and set up equipment, and provide transport for personnel. And as sort of a natural extension of that, they’re also in charge of meetings and special events: scheduling, security, hors d’oeuvres, whatever.”
“So if you needed to arrange a rendezvous with another operative, you’d contact Catering.”
“Right.”
“And how does that work? Is there a number you call?”
“No number. You just pick up a phone and start talking.”
“Operators are standing by?”
“Unless the phone’s in an insecure location. Then you just get a dial tone and look stupid.”
“All right,” says the doctor. “Let’s get back to your story. Once you’d been accepted into the organization, I assume you underwent some sort of training regimen…”
“They call it Probate. Training is part of it, but also they’re still testing you, making sure it wasn’t a mistake to offer you the job. They team you with a senior operative called a Probate officer, and you’re given a Probate assignment, which is like a standard op but more complicated, with more ways to screw up.”
“What was your Probate assignment?”
“A guy named Arlo Dexter.”
“Another serial killer?”
“More like a serial maimer. His thing was explosive booby-traps: he’d take, like, a Scooby-Doo toothpaste dispenser, fill it with black powder, ball bearings, and a motion trigger, and leave it on a store shelf for someone to pick up. He hadn’t actually killed anyone yet, but he was definitely working his way up to it—and then, right before the organization stepped in, he met some people who wanted to leapfrog him straight to mass murder.”
“You stopped him?”
“No.” She frowns again. “I was supposed to, but it went wrong.”
“What happened?”
“He saw me coming.”
Look Both Ways
THE VOICE ON THE PHONE SAID: “Jane Charlotte.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to make an appointment to meet my Probate officer…”
“Southeast corner of Orchard and Masonic, tomorrow, eight-thirty a.m.”
“Do you know what this guy looks like? Or will he know me?”
“Southeast corner of Orchard and Masonic,” the voice repeated, “tomorrow, eight-thirty a.m.”
Dial tone.
Oh well, at least I knew where I was going. That intersection was in the Haight, and assuming I had my compass directions straight, the southeast corner was just across Orchard Street from the elementary school that Phil and I had both attended.