71
CAITLIN
I was roused from sleep by the ringing telephone. I rolled over, groaning, and snatched the receiver off its cradle. “Hullo?” I mumbled as I pressed it to my ear, upside down at first.
“Blondie, it’s me.”
“Jack?” I was instantly alert. “What time is it?”
“You don’t want to know.” He paused. “Harry Lambert’s dead.”
I sat up in bed. “How?”
“Would you believe suicide?”
“No.” I pushed my hair away from my face. “Would you?”
“He was found at his place, supposedly having ODd on barbiturates and booze,” Jack said.
“Harry didn’t drink,” I remembered. “He had an ulcer.”
“He also had some kind of lead on the GenTech case.”
“Meet me at Reagan National,” I said.
“I’m already on my way.”
“The official story is that Rhys-Williams also committed suicide,” I told Jack when we pick
