Conspiracy by Dana Black Read Free Book Online Page A

part of the upholstery. The car had Colorado plates, which might mean that he was headed home, but that disadvantage was definitely outweighed by the other factors. Groves watched carefully as the man rolled up his window, locked his door, and walked briskly toward the restaurant entrance, undoubtedly seeking a quick lunch. When the man had disappeared from view inside the restaurant, Groves got out of his jeep and strolled after him. As he approached the man’s car, Groves slowed, dug in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, and then into his pants pocket for his lighter. As his hand and the lighter came out, so did some loose change. He crouched at the rear of the blue Chevy and reached underneath as if to retrieve the coins. When he straightened up, two small ampules of glass had been tucked under the right rear tire, one in front of the tire and one behind, hidden from all but the closest inspection. Groves stood beside the Chevy and lit his cigarette. A quick inspection of the car’s interior told him that the owner was in the employ of a major pharmaceutical company, and that there was no radio or CB equipment under the dashboard.
    Then he strolled on into the restaurant. He headed for the men’s room first, prepared for the unlikely event that the sandy-haired man had only made this stop to relieve himself.
    The man was at the urinal; the rest of the room was unoccupied. Groves stepped up beside him, two paces away, unzipped, and let fly, wishing that his tension would flow onto the white porcelain as readily. His quarry took his time with what he was doing. Groves, not wishing to appear conspicuous, went to the washstand, splashed cold water on his face, and made a show of combing his own sandy hair. Yellow dust from the open-topped jeep fell into the white washbasin, small particles dissolving into mud. The salesman, now beside him at the adjoining sink, was also washing up, soaping his hands thoroughly. Probably, Groves thought, the man had to be a model of cleanliness in his line of work.
    Happily for Groves, the salesman walked to the take-out counter instead of to a table, which would have meant a longer time in the restaurant. Groves followed from the gift shop where he had been browsing. As the man was paying the cashier, Groves selected one of the Saran-wrapped sandwiches, meat loaf with yellowing pickle slices visible, and a carton of milk. The salesman evidently intended to eat while driving, for he was already on his way to the exit door, carrying his overfilled white paper bag with both hands.
    Groves took a table by the window and started to unwrap his sandwich, looking out to the parking lot and the blue Chevy. It was unlikely, yet possible, that the man intended to eat in his car while still parked, and if that happened, Groves would remain in the restaurant. He did not want to be out there in his open jeep, chewing meatloaf and grinning about what a coincidence it was that both of them had sandy hair and liked eating outdoors.

13
     
    When Sharon came into the control truck, they were still taping the Argentina-Italy game. At the back, to the left of the door she used, were Jim and Cliff, the two sound men, watching their meters and dials, faces intent under their headphones. At the center were the slo-mo replay apparatus and the master tape: four screens, four decks, and four men, Wesley, Boyd, Frank, and Earvin, on swivel chairs, ringed back to back in a cubicle no bigger than Sharon’s desktop. Wesley and Earvin saw Sharon and nodded a greeting; the other two were facing away and didn’t notice her.
    The familiar voice of Dan Richards came from the ceiling loudspeaker system, “. . . a lesson in ball control from the Argentinians . . . Zico . . . over to Medina . . .”
    She walked forward in the truck, moving sideways in the submarine-sized corridor, to the control room and the director’s console. Fourteen of the eighteen monitor screens were switched on. Seven were taking the feed from