Full Disclosure

by Dee Henderson

  She looked surprised by the question, but paused to think about it, and nodded.

  “One piece of good advice about Ann. When it’s silent and you make a remark and she looks startled that you interrupted her, just repeat the remark or question and don’t take offense. She’s busy in her mind. The quieter she is, the more likely she’s listening to dialog, or watching a scene unfold, or having an internal conversation. She goes somewhere else as easily as I breathe. Bothers people who don’t know her well. She’s just listening to a few things the rest of us don’t hear, sometimes misses the first of what you say.”

  Intrigued, for it was unexpected, he thought about it and could see it. “How do you know when her mind is quiet?” he asked, curious.

  “She’ll grab one of those yellow legal pads that go everywhere with her and write it all down longhand. Sometimes the characters go quiet for a bit after that. There are days there is nothing in particular on her mind, and others where she is so busy creating she can’t write it down fast enough. You can tell with just a bit of noticing what kind of day it is. When she goes to get a drink and stands with her hand on the soda can for a minute or two before she remembers to open it, you can bet someone you can’t see interrupted her.”

  “You like her books.”

  “I do. She was writing stories here on my porch when she was a young girl, and I knew she’d have a future at it. She writes for the love of it, rather than thinking of it as work.”

  “That’s going to be very helpful. Thanks, Neva.”

  Paul drove toward town thinking about Ann.

  The cop part of her life he would easily understand—what she saw, what mattered, the crime scene and the people involved. He’d share that slice of her life easily, even have something to contribute. The writing would take much more effort to understand. What he’d just heard was going to be very useful advice. He hadn’t stopped to think about how she wrote. Would have assumed it was like any job, there when you sat to work on it, and out of mind the rest of the time. But writing would be more about puzzling out questions, he decided, a lot more of her subconscious figuring out the details and then playing it out, than sitting to just write. She would create the stories one piece at a time and weave it together on the page. He wondered if she would be willing to share that part of her life with him, and hoped she would.

  The population listed on the Welcome to Medora sign was three thousand twenty-six. He found a center square with benches, grass, a pretty fountain, and two statues honoring soldiers from the town. The square was surrounded by restaurants and businesses spreading out a few blocks. He could see open fields down the road.

  He used the flag and the post office as a guide and found the sheriff’s office beside it, a real estate office on the other side. He parked near the front door, next to a county police vehicle and a light tan vehicle that had police lights and radio antennas but no location markings.

  The doors were glass, heavy, with hours listed as eight a.m. to six p.m., and a phone number stenciled beneath. He stepped inside.

  The office was an open room with three desks and a long counter. A hall disappeared back into the building. From the items on the table and the bulletin board inside the door, it also served as the town’s lost and found, and the hub for community announcements. The pink roses on the far desk still looked reasonably alive. Ann’s desk. A phone, a monitor, a stapler, but not a single piece of paper or personal picture. She had already packed for the move.

  The woman at the nearest desk was town police, the guy talking with her was county police. They were discussing a burglary, based on the snatch of conversation Paul heard before the woman looked over. He was recognized instantly as a stranger, for they both focused on him and slightly turned. He turned the badge on his pocket toward them, knowing he’d raise questions for why he was wearing a side arm under the suit jacket.

  “I’m looking for Ann Silver.”

  The massive dog lying by her desk rose to his feet.

  He made a guess and held out his hand. “Hey, Midnight.”

  The lady stood, her curiosity obvious. “May I ask who’s looking to find her?”

  “Paul Falcon with the FBI.”

  “Bad wreck, driver died?”

  “That’s me.”

  “She was glad to have that off her desk. Midnight, go find Ann.”

  The dog ambled away down the hall.

  “He saves us shouting for each other.”

  She glanced at the roses on the other desk and back at him, but before she could ask, the front door opened behind him. A young man pushed a flat cart inside with a stack of boxes and a tower of tape rolls. “Where d’ya want these, Marissa?”

  “Straight on back to the end of the hall.”

  “Packing day. We’re moving policing to the county, effective Monday morning,” she said to Paul.

  “What’s going to happen with this building? It’s a nice location.”

  “A community center. We’ll fill it with tables, games, and have a place for the young and old to mingle.”

  Midnight came back and flopped into a heap on the floor by the counter, Ann trailing in a few steps after him. She had rubber bands around her wrist, along with a roll of tape worn like a bracelet. She stopped when she saw him. “Falcon.” The idea of it processed, and she smiled. “You’re a long way from Chicago.”

  “I heard you needed a hand to help pack.”

  She leaned against the counter. “A nice story with a bit of fiction in it, I’m thinking. I pack fine—what I dislike is the carrying.” She considered him and dug keys out of her pocket. “You’ll need these. The moving van out back is heading to the county building. The red truck is mine. You have to relock the van padlock every time you come back inside. What do you like to drink?”

  “Root beer, diet orange soda, tea-no-sugar, in that order.”

  “Marissa, why don’t you go buy a case of his root beer and a bag of ice. He’s my roses. When I wear him out hauling boxes, you can rescue the leftovers.”

  “He’s your roses?”

  “He’ll want them back after I have him help clear out the vault.”

  Marissa laughed. “I’ll forward phones to you and be back in ten.”

  Ann pushed away from the counter. “This way, Falcon.”

  She headed down the hall. “Your conscience bothering you about the money?” she asked quietly. “I’ll take the help, but you shouldn’t mind the gift. The only response needed is ‘thank you.’”

  “Not the money. I’ve got a year of vacation time accumulated, and you’re moving. I show up when friends move. Family too, but for them I tend to bring several guys and expect to be doing the packing as well as the carrying.”

  “In that case—how long can I keep you?”

  “I’m staying with Mrs. Rawlins for the weekend.”

  “Nice. Think five star bed-and-breakfast. Don’t pass up her cinnamon rolls or her cherry pie.”

  She pointed to the closed, door-sized bank vault. “Evidence vault. We’ve been hauling out for a week, and it still looks stuffed. And my personal nemesis”—she stepped through an open door and gestured—“years of case files. I’m shredding what I can if the person is dead, if the statute of limitations has passed. The rest go to county. I’ve got five years left to sort.”

  “Why don’t you have half the town crowding in here to help you?”

  “Three reasons. I promised the town council if they agreed to move policing to the county, I’d protect the privacy of those who’d had encounters with the law over the years and manage the move myself. Second, we don’t have to be out on any particular day—it’s my own imposed deadline. I’d just like to get the job done. And third, Nita Stans is also moving this weekend, and she’s the sweetest lady in town. If you show up here, you get sent to help her. My contribution to her hour of need. Along with a side agreement between her and me that no one gets to see the fact her late husband got arrested for driving the mayor’s car into the town fountai
n as a youth.”

  “Everyone probably knows the story.”

  “Not a question. But it still embarrasses her.”

  Midnight trailed in after them. Ann ruffled his ears and absorbed his weight as the dog leaned into her. “If Midnight gets in your way, just tell him to go away. He’ll move a few feet.”

  “He’s a calmer dog than I would have figured.”

  She grinned. “Deceptive. He conserves his energy for what’s important.”

  “These boxes are ready to go?”

  “Those are heading for the county, and that box of pictures—that goes with me.”

  “Return to shredding and sorting. I’ll start carrying.”

  He stacked three boxes high and disappeared.

  By the time she was down to two years to sort, Paul had cleared the room of boxes ready to go to the county.

  He brought back two glasses of ice, took a seat on a rolling chair, and split a root beer with her. “Finish the drink, then you can open the vault for me and give me an overview of what is ready to carry.”

  “You are trying to impress me by doing it all in one day.”

  “I was thinking one afternoon.”

  Ann touched her glass to his. “Appreciate it. Marissa and I flipped for who would be on duty today, and I cheated on the coin toss. Used a mis-stamped coin to make sure she got the duty. I couldn’t handle the last day of calls. I’m going to miss this place, right down to the flag that gets stolen and the candy that gets lifted and the kids speeding around the square on rainy nights. We’ve had four burglaries, six domestic calls, a dozen public intoxications, and four times that in nuisance vandalism, noise, and sidewalk disputes in the last few months. The worst of it was an aggravated assault with two guilty parties, and a fire that was probably deliberate. Not a single murder. It feels so normal, and I haven’t had normal in a long time.”

  “Might have been easier if you’d chosen to be an accountant, or used that engineering degree.”

  She lifted one eyebrow.

  “Dave,” he confirmed.

  “I designed chips for a telecommunication firm for a while. Logic puzzles, tests that could check if you were right or wrong, and I was good at it. I was knocking down solutions to problems and watching my chips go into production. It was good for a summer or two, but I found the desk and design software and a square office with walls as draining as anything I had ever done. I could do the work, but as useful as the work was, it would have a limited lifespan. Two years, five, and my chip would be obsolete and replaced with someone else’s design or a new one of my own. I decided I’d rather do my puzzle solving on something more interesting that might matter more.”

  She finished her drink. “Let me show you the vault.”

  She set the combination and spun the door lock to ease back six inches of balanced steel door. The shelves were neatly arranged to push back and forth, and only one aisle could exist at any one time. Boxes were uniform and in three sizes—small, medium, and large. “Anything in a box sealed with red tape has already been documented and is ready to go to county. I’ve got just a portion of a shelf still to review.”

  “Your personal box is safely set aside so I won’t accidentally load it?”

  “It is.”

  “Do I need to close the vault between each trip?”

  “I’ll lock the front door and ask the dog to maintain vigil in the hall. It will do. Most of the valuable items in evidence were moved by Brink’s last week.”

  “That’s the last one.” Paul slid the box into the moving van.

  Ann pulled down the door and set the padlock. “All right, Kevin. Sign the paperwork, and it is now the county’s evidence and files.”

  She took the signed document and handed him the keys.

  “Greg’s going to drive,” Kevin told her, “and Bob and I will escort just to make sure there’s no road accident. Want me to call when it is settled into its new vault?”

  “It’s your problem now but, yes, give me a call.”

  She watched the van pull out. “Thanks, Paul. I didn’t think it would be done today.”

  “My pleasure.” He held out the keys to her truck. “You’ve got a decent load of personal effects.”

  “I’m a pack rat on occasion. I’m not planning to unload the truck today. I’ll just park it in the garage.”

  “An hour, it can be unloaded, and you’ll be done. Invite me home, Ann.”

  He was amused to see her mentally debate it with herself.

  “I’m the first drive past Neva’s. Follow me.”

  Ann’s crushed-rock driveway took three leisurely turns as it moved through an avenue of trees. Paul tried to imagine clearing snow in winter for this length of driveway. The house was set in an open patch of land, a two-story and classic country, with a new addition of a double-bay garage.

  She opened the garage door and parked the truck outside near it. A car that from the radio antennas and lights was a police issue was in the far bay. He parked far enough to one side to not block either vehicle.

  Her dog bounded out of her truck and disappeared around the house.

  “The boxes with red tape can be stored in the garage. There should be room on the shelves with a little rearranging. The boxes with yellow tape go inside, first door on the left.”

  The dog returned with a ball and considered Paul. “Throw it as far as you possibly can out in the field. He gets offended if you give him a little kid toss.”

  Paul hefted the ball, considered the weight, and threw the ball from home plate into the deep outfield. The dog looked at the sailing ball, looked at him, and took off with a joyous bark.

  Ann smiled. “You just made his day.” She passed him with the box of pictures and disappeared inside.

  Paul turned on lights in the garage and began shifting boxes to make space for the new items. He saw Christmas decorations and several boxes marked Party Supplies. Paul started unloading the red-taped boxes.

  When Paul was done, he started carrying the yellow-taped ones inside. The dog returned, maneuvered around him, and disappeared into the house. Ann came to help him, and between them they got the last of the boxes. Paul locked the truck and followed her inside.

  The doorways were wide and the ceilings high. “The house doesn’t look like what I expected.” Even the hallway was cheery, with soft-toned walls and rich cherrywood.

  “I’ve had most of this level gutted and rebuilt,” Ann commented. “The upstairs is closed with rooms full of what would now be antiques. It looks very much as it did when my grandparents lived here. Come on through to the living room.”

  It was the room he had seen on the video, with its couch and wingback chairs, and a large table serving as a desk with three monitors letting her do her work and research at the same time. There was an easel set up by the north windows.

  “It’s not an office, but I use it as such.”

  “It’s a comfortable room, Ann.”

  The photos on her wall-long murder board were a jarring contrast to an otherwise peaceful setting. He walked across to study, understand, what she was working on. The timeline ran for more than two years. He stopped at the photo of an airline crash, looked at the next photos and saw the house fire, and smiled. “These are the O’Malley books.”

  “I’m working on a background piece on Jennifer.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not going to be a book, or even a story with a spine; it’s just my notes from when I was building the series. I’m doing the days when Jennifer and Tom met. Tom’s going to be at the gathering this fall, and I wanted to give him the piece as a gift.”

  “I’d love to read it. They were a solid set of books.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s it like, being asked to write a book about your friends? Does it make you nervous, wondering if you’ll get it right?”

  “It did at first, and then I realized the request was really a gift. When friends ask if I would write their story, what they are re
ally doing is saying, I trust you, ask what you want to ask. For the months of working on a book, I could ask any question, ask about any event in their life, and they would spend hours giving me the inside history on what they were doing, thinking, and wishing might happen. It’s intense, for both sides. It’s why the stories ring so close to who the person is, even though I’m wrapping it all in fiction. The books turn out to be them at every level I can figure out how to capture in words.”

  He stopped by the third book in the series on the timeline, Lisa and Quinn’s story, looking at the photos on the board and her written notes. “When you chose the themes for the books—that Lisa’s struggle would be about the resurrection and the case would be buried victims—were you choosing those because that was her question, her case, in real life, or because it gives you the best vehicle to present your friend?”

  “Real life is busier and more complicated for both of them than what the novel presented. Lisa’s a forensic pathologist in real life, and she’s that in the book. She came to believe in God as an adult, and that happened because of conversations she had with Jennifer. Quinn is a U.S. Marshal. They married and now live on his ranch out West. How they fell in love is almost word for word what I heard from them as they reminisced. So it’s real life. But the case itself was my creation, the topic of the resurrection my choice of where to focus. I try very hard to find the heart of the matter, the key thing that if you understand this about the two of them, you will know who they really are. That’s what people notice the most when they read the books. The fact it rings true to who they are.”

  “I’ve had dinner with them,” Paul said, nodding, “and you really did get their story right. It was a good series.”

  “That’s what I hoped when I wrote the six books. We’re a close group. I got the people right; I got the people to be real. So the series worked.”

  “The group works because you’re part of it. You’re the eighth O’Malley. You might not be in the books by name, but it is your voice threading through all the stories.”