Free Trace (Trace 1) by Warren Murphy

asked.
    “Don’t start. Of course, Tennessee.”
    “Listen,” he said. “This is important. How did you find me?”
    “A little Oriental guile. Why?”
    “Because if you found me this easily, Svetlana, my ex-wife, can find me too. I can’t have that.”
    “She doesn’t even know you’re in New Jersey,” Chico said. “And her name’s Cora.”
    “You don’t know what she knows,” Trace said. “That woman knows every move I make. A chance word in the lobby of our condo…a talkative bellhop. I tell you, that woman can find out. It might have gotten out and maybe something was in the social columns. Jim Bacon might have written a piece. ‘Mr. Devlin Tracy and his Sicilian fortune cookie are traveling east to New Jersey.’ I tell you, that woman subscribes to a clipping service. She turns the reports directly over to the Mafia. I’ve got a contract on my head. How’d you find out where I was?”
    “I remembered the town, so I called police headquarters and asked for the name of the hotels. I figured there’d be a couple and I’d call person-to-person for you, but the cops said there was only one and there you were. How do you stand that desk clerk?”
    “Dexter? Actually, he’s kind of charming. If you don’t mind being treated like rancid meat. He liked you a lot.”
    “Mutual, I’m sure,” Chico said. “How are you doing anyway?”
    “I’m just about all done with this thing. There’s nothing that I can see to that old guy’s death at the sanatorium, and all I’ve got to do is stop in and pay my respects to the Carey family and I can go anytime.”
    “You going back to Vegas?” Chico asked.
    “Absolutely. I don’t want to be around here, I told you. When are you coming back?”
    “Probably not for a few days,” she said.
    “Oh. How’s your sister?”
    “Sist—Oh, sure, she’s fine. We’re having a wonderful time. I didn’t know how many relatives I had down here.”
    “Want me to come down and do the tea ceremony with them?”
    “The last time I put you near my family and you wanted to do a tea ceremony, you larded up the tea with vodka and everybody threw up.”
    “Come on, I’ll behave this time,” he said.
    “No,” she said quickly. “Just me and the sister. We don’t get much of a chance to be together.”
    “So I have to fly back to Vegas alone?”
    “Don’t pout. Why not? You’ve done it before.”
    “Never by choice. All those old women with blue hair, they’re lurking on those planes, just waiting for one like me. And they eat all the chicken and all I get is codfish. Ah, the hell with it. You’re not interested in my troubles. Where are you staying anyway? Where can I reach you?”
    “That’s why I called back,” she said. “I’m at a public phone. Sis and I didn’t like our motel room, so we moved out. We haven’t found another one yet, so I don’t have a number.”
    “All right,” Trace said flatly.
    “So I’ll call you, if you’re still there. Otherwise, I’ll see you back in Vegas.”
    “Whatever you want.”
    “Cheer up. I’ve got a question for you. How high is Mount Fujiyama?”
    “Who cares?” Trace said.
    “It’s 12,365 feet high. You know how I know?”
    “’Cause you used to live there when you were master-minding World War Two. How do I know?”
    “Because there’s twelve months in a year and 365 days in a year: 12,365. That’s the height.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” Trace said. “Does it grow a foot every four years for leap year?”
    “Disregard leap year.”
    “How can you disregard one year out of four?” he asked.
    “If I knew you were going to be crabby, I wouldn’t have called.”
    “Why should I be crabby? Enjoy yourself in Memphis, Tennessee. It’s all right. I’ll sit here in this old folks’ home, drinking myself into oblivion.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “That’s the answer to everything, isn’t it?”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “You’re an alcoholic, Trace.”
    “I know