thought about it, the more he analyzed it, the more he was sure it really was a boring number.
Dixon’s head wasn’t in the game.
She had let him down.
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
He pressed the button for the mini-statement. A slip of thin paper came out of a slot. Faint gray printing, the last five transactions against his account. Neagley’s original deposit from Chicago was still there, first on the list. Then second, his fifty-dollar withdrawal at the Portland bus depot, up in Oregon. Then third, his airfare from Portland to LAX, way back at the beginning.
Then fourth, a new deposit in the sum of one hundred and one thousand, eight hundred ten dollars, and eighteen cents.
Then fifth, on the same day, another deposit, in the sum of ten thousand and twelve dollars exactly.
101810.18.
10012.
He smiled. Dixon’s head was in the game after all. Totally, completely in the game. The first deposit was 10-18, repeated for emphasis. Military police radio code for mission accomplished, twice over. 10-18, 10-18. Herself and O’Donnell, rescued. Or Lamaison and Mahmoud, beaten. Or both things.
Nice, Karla, he thought.
The second deposit was her zip code: 10012. Greenwich Village. Where she lived. A geographic reference.
A hint.
She had asked: Feel like dropping by New York afterward?
He smiled again and balled up the slip of thin paper and dropped it in the trash. Took a hundred dollars from the machine and headed on inside the depot and bought a ticket for the first bus he saw. He had no idea where it was going.
He had answered: I don’t make plans, Karla.
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