"What?" Russo asked.
At that moment, the cell phone on Juhle's belt went off with a ringtone from an old-fas.h.i.+oned telephone that was so loud it made them both jump.
"You gotta change that," Russo said.
But Juhle, already on the call, didn't even hear her. "Yeah," he said, and then again. "Yeah, but we'll be in the field most of the day. Nothing so far, but if he's interested, he can catch us down at the Hall when we get back in. I'll be on this phone. Right." He listened for another few seconds, then said, "You could tell him that maybe he ought to be checking those himself, but I wouldn't waste too much time on it if I were him." He rolled his eyes over at Russo. "Because we've already got a person of interest with no alibi for that night, as he knows . . . no . . . no . . . no, we like thorough, that's fine. All right. Just a sec, I need something to write with." Resting the phone against his ear, he pulled out his little notebook and the pen from his pocket. "Okay, shoot. You want to spell that? All right, you're not sure, it's phonetic. Got it. We'll try. Okay. Fine. Later."
Hitting the disconnect b.u.t.ton, he said to Russo, "That was Hunt's girl, and-"
"You mean his secretary?"
"Yes, of course. What could have gotten into me that I said 'girl'? You'd think that after all those weeks of sensitivity training . . . what I meant to say was that was Hunt's executive a.s.sistant, is what I was saying. He wanted us to know that Turner's Communities of Opportunity, including Neshek, had a meeting at City Hall on Monday night before she was killed."
"And he wanted us to check everybody's alibi. I told her to tell him we already had Alicia's lack of one and liked it a lot, but if he got a better one, he should let us know."
"I heard you. So what'd she have you write down?"
"A guy's name." Juhle looked down at his pad. "Keydrion Mugisa or something like that. He'll have a sheet somewhere. We'll find him. One of Len Turner's people. I'm thinking probably not Irish."
"What about him?"
"I don't know. That's what Hunt's asked me to find out."
"We gonna do it?"
"Might as well. I don't see how it could hurt."
Al Carter was sitting in the lobby at a fold-up lunch-style table among a large group of what Mickey had come to recognize as Battalion members-mostly young men, but some young women as well, all reasonably well-dressed and well-groomed. A hum of comfortable, loose banter floated out across the lobby all the way to the door where Mickey entered.
He was here mostly to see Lorraine Hess about her whereabouts and activities on Monday night, but when he saw Carter, Mickey thought of a question he wanted to ask him and headed over that way first. They were working from boxes filled with perforated forms-pledge cards-that they were tearing into thirds, organizing in some way, and then sending the oblong mailing thro
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