“ON-STAR, CUSTOMER SERVICE, this is Courtney, how can I help you?”
Mason’s empty face pressed against the cell phone. “Hi, Courtney. It’s Frank Mason again. We spoke about an hour ago?” His voice was all exasperation and concern, an over-indulgent father with a wayward teenager and missing car.
“Sure, Mr. Mason,” Courtney chirped. “What can I help you with?”
“It’s just,” he apologized. Darn wayward teenager. “Can you do another one of those—what’d you call it—needle points?”
“Pinpoints.”
“Pinpoints, right.”
“Certainly, sir. Just go ahead and give me that account number and password again.”
Mason pretended to fumble for a moment, his face a slab. “Here we go.” He gave her the numbers Horton had given him, an account number and the tracking number for the Lotus. “Can you give it to me like you did before, the map coordinates and all?”
“Of course, Mr. Mason.” Sound of peach-nail polished finger tips over black plastic keys. “Here were are,” she said. “Are you ready, sir?”
“Just give me one little sec,” Mason said, pulling the BMW off the highway, the soft shoulder scratching and popping beneath the wide custom tires. He needed to concentrate on the map screen for this. “Okay, Courtney.”
She paused.
A splinter of concern flickered through Mason’s eyes. “Courtney?”
“Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t like me to inform the police?”
Mason’s fingers, splayed across his thigh, dug into the muscle. “Oh, that’s sweet of you but I’d really rather handle this myself.”
“But the police could maybe—.”
“Courtney,” Mason said, embarrassment flowing into his voice, “I, uh,” he sighed. “Shoot, I’ll just tell you. My son’s been in some trouble with the police. Nothing serious, just prep-school shenanigans. He and some other boys broke into an empty house in our community and threw a rather wild party. There were some damages and well…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s got a record now.”
“And you’d rather it wasn’t added to,” Courtney said. “I understand, Mr. Mason. I was a little wild when I was a teenager too.” She read him the grid numbers.
“Thank you so much, Courtney. I am really embarrassed about all this, and you’ve been perfect about the whole thing.”
“It’s my pleasure, sir. If your son’s moved on by the time you get there give me another call and we’ll get you another pinpoint.”
“Again, my deepest thanks. Oh hey now, what’s your supervisor’s extension? I’d like to put in a good word about you if I could.”
“That’s not necessary, sir, really—.”
“No, no. I’m the customer,” he laughed, his eyes twin paper weights. “You have to do as I ask.”
She chuckled and gave him the name and number of her boss.
“Thanks again, Courtney. You’re the best.”
“Good luck finding your son. And Mr. Mason?”
“Yes?”
“I wish my daddy had looked after me as well as you do with your son. Bye now, sir.”
“Buh-bye, Courtney.”
Mason powered up the BMW’s windows. He’d been driving with them down and since stopping had already drawn a couple of flies. One of them, fat and iridescent green, went to work on his forehead, tasting a fragment of Rosario’s frontal lobe before skittering over to an adjacent flap of Emma Grouwe’s duodenum. Mason ignored it, entering the grid numbers into the BMW’s GPS map reader. A moment later, the car’s micro-processors plotted the fastest course, complete with mileage. Mason scooted the Bimmer back onto the highway. He had to go look after his son.