Free Think Of a Number (2010) by John Verdon Page B

man?”
    “I think so.”
    “Did he give any indication what time tonight he planned to call?”
    “No.”
    “Is there anything else you remember, anything at all, no matter how trivial?”
    Her brow furrowed a little. “I got a sort of creepy feeling—a feeling that he wasn’t very nice.”
    “He sounded angry? Tough? Threatening?”
    “No, not that. He was polite, but …”
    Gurney waited while she searched for the right words.
    “Maybe too polite. Maybe it was the odd voice. I can’t say for sure what gave me the feeling. He scared me.”
    After she left to go back to her office in the main building, Mellery stared at the floor between his feet.
    “It’s time to go to the police,” said Gurney, picking this moment to make his point.
    “The Peony police? God, it sounds like a gay cabaret act.”
    Gurney ignored the shaky attempt at humor. “We’re not justdealing with a few crank letters and a phone call. We’re dealing with someone who hates you, who wants to get even with you. You’re in his sights, and he may be about to pull the trigger.”
    “X. Arybdis?”
    “More likely the inventor of the alias X. Arybdis.”
    Gurney proceeded to tell Mellery what he had recalled, with Madeleine’s help, about the deadly Charybdis of Greek myth. Plus the fact that he had been unable to find a record of any X. Arybdis in Connecticut or any adjoining state through any online directory or search engine.
    “A whirlpool?” asked Mellery uneasily.
    Gurney nodded.
    “Jesus,” said Mellery.
    “What is it?”
    “My worst phobia is about drowning.”

Chapter 12
The importance of honesty
    M ellery stood at the fireplace with a poker, rearranging the burning logs.
    “Why would the check come back?” he said, returning to the subject like a tongue to a sore tooth. “The guy seems so precise—Christ, look at the handwriting, like an accountant’s—not a guy who’d get an address wrong. So he did it on purpose. What purpose?” He turned from the fire. “Davey, what the hell is going on?”
    “Can I see the note it came back with, the one you read me on the phone?”
    Mellery went over to a small Sheraton desk on the other side of the room, carrying the poker with him, not noticing it until he was there. “Christ,” he muttered, looking around in frustration. He found a spot on the wall where he could lean it before taking an envelope from the desk drawer and bringing it to Gurney.
    Inside a large outer envelope addressed to Mellery was the envelope Mellery had sent to X. Arybdis at P.O. Box 49449 in Wycherly, and inside that envelope was his personal check for $289.87. In the large outer envelope, there was a sheet of quality stationery with a GD SECURITY SYSTEMS letterhead including a phone number, with the brief typed message that Mellery had read over the phone to Gurney earlier. The letter was signed by Gregory Dermott, with no indication of his title.
    “You haven’t spoken to Mr. Dermott?” asked Gurney.
    “Why should I? I mean, if it’s the wrong address, it’s the wrong address. What’s it got to do with him?”
    “Lord only knows,” said Gurney. “But it would make sense to talk to him. Do you have a phone handy?”
    Mellery unclipped the latest-model BlackBerry from his belt and handed it over. Gurney entered the number from the letterhead. After two rings he was connected to a recording:
“This is GD Security Systems, Greg Dermott speaking. Leave your name, number, the best time to return your call, and a brief message. You may begin now.”
Gurney switched off the phone and passed it back to Mellery.
    “Why I’m calling would be hard to explain in a message,” said Gurney. “I’m not your employee or legal representative or a licensed PI, and I’m not the police. Speaking of which, it’s the police you need—right here, right now.”
    “But suppose that’s his goal—get me disturbed enough to call the cops, stir up a ruckus, embarrass my guests. Maybe having me call the