Out on the Cutting Edge

"I'm afraid we wouldn't have that on record," she said, puzzled. "In fact we'd never know that in the first place. As a matter of fact—"

"Yes?"

"I was going to say that my records wouldn't show whether she phoned us to order cessation of service or whether she might have written to us. Almost everyone phones, but she could have written.

Some people do, especially if they've enclosed a final payment. But we didn't receive any payment from her at that time."

I'd never even thought that the disconnect order could have been mailed in, and for a moment that seemed to clear everything up. She could have put a note in the mail long before the twentieth; given the state of the postal service, it might still be en route.

But that wouldn't explain her parents' call to her on the seventeenth.

I said, "Isn't there a record kept of all calls made from a given number?"

"There is, but—"

"Could you tell me the date and time of the last call she made?

That would be very helpful."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I really can't do that. I'm not able to retrieve that information myself, and it's a violation of policy to do it."

"I suppose I could get a court order," I said, "but I hate to put my client to the trouble and expense, and it would mean wasting everybody's time. If you could see your way clear to helping me out, I'd make sure no one ever knew where it came from."

"I really am sorry. I might bend the rules if I could, but I don't have the codes. If you really do need a record of her local calls, I'm afraid you'd have to have that court order."

I almost missed it. I was in the middle of another sentence when it registered. I said, "Local calls. If she made any toll calls—"

"They'd be on her statement."

"And you can access that?"

"I'm not supposed to." I didn't say anything, giving her a little slack, and she said, "Well, it is a matter of record. Let me see what I can punch up. There are no toll calls at all during the month of July—"

"Well, it was worth a try."

"You didn't let me finish."

"I'm sorry."

"There are no calls at all during July, no toll calls, until the eighteenth. There are two calls on the eighteenth and one on the nineteenth."

"And none on the twentieth?"

"No. Just those three. Would you like the numbers that she called?"

"Yes," I said. "Very much."

There were two numbers. She'd called one both days, one just on the nineteenth. They both had the same area code, 904, and I checked the book and found that was nowhere near Indiana. It was north Florida, including the panhandle.

I found a bank and bought a ten-dollar roll of quarters. I went back to my pay phone and dialed the number she'd called twice. A recording told me how much money to put in, and I did, and a woman answered on the fourth ring. I told her my name was Scudder and that I was trying to get in touch with Paula Hoeldtke.

"I'm afraid you have the wrong number," she said.

"Don't hang up, I'm calling from New York. I believe a woman named Paula Hoeldtke called this number the month before last and I'm trying to trace her movements since then."

There was a pause. Then she said, "Well, I don't rightly see how that can be. This is a private residence and the name you mentioned isn't familiar to me."

"Is this 904-555-1904?"

"It most certainly is not. The number here is— wait a moment, what was that number you just read?"

I repeated it.

"That's my husband's place of business," she said. "That's the number at Prysocki Hardware."

"I'm sorry," I said. I had read the wrong listing from my notebook, the number she'd called only once.

"Your number must be 828-9177."

"How did you get that other number?"

"She called both numbers," I said.

"Did she. And what did you say her name was?"

"Paula Hoeldtke."

"And she called this number and the store?"

"My records may be wrong," I said. She was still asking questions when I broke the connection.

I walked to the rooming house on Fifty-fourth Street. Halfway there a kid in jeans with a scraggly goatee asked me for spare change.

He had the wasted look of a speed freak. Some of the crack addicts get that look. I gave him all my quarters. "Hey, thanks!" he called after me.

"You're beautiful, man."

When Flo came to the door I apologized for bothering her. She said it was no bother. I asked if Georgia Price was in.

"I'm sure I don't know," she said. "Didn't you get to talk to her yet?

Though I don't know what help she

could be. I couldn't hardly rent her the room before Paula was out of it, so how would she know her?"

"I spoke to her. I'd like to talk to her again."

She gestured toward the staircase. I walked up a flight, stood in front of the door that had been Paula's.

There was music playing within, with an insistent if not infectious beat. I knocked, but I wasn't sure she could hear me over the noise. I went to knock again when the door opened.

Georgia Price was wearing a leotard, and her forehead glowed with perspiration. I guess she had been dancing, practicing steps or something. She looked at me, and her eyes widened when she placed me.