by Steven James
I smacked the couch. “Well, I am mad.”
Then I stood and I was towering over her and she was easing backward.
“I needed to find out why he never came looking for me and whether or not he loved Mom, things like that. And he didn’t.” Her voice cracked slightly. “He didn’t love her.”
Despite how distraught she sounded, I was still furious. “He says here that he doesn’t want me to find out about any of this; that he was afraid I’d take things out on you. Why would he write that? Is that what you told him?”
“No! I swear! I told him how much you love me, how you’d do anything for me, how you saved my life. But he kept asking me all these questions about you, and that’s when I left.”
Her voice was crisp with pain, and I felt the delicate bridge we’d been building for the last sixteen months splintering apart. But I had a right to be angry. I said nothing.
“Please. You have to believe me.”
I wanted to ask her why I should believe her now. Why, when she’d been deceiving me for the last three weeks? And I probably would have said it if the realization of what Paul had been doing hadn’t hit me so hard.
He was doing research for his lawsuit.
He was using Tessa to dig up dirt on you.
Something cold and uncertain began crawling around inside of me. “Did you tell him where we were staying for the summer? Is that how his lawyers found out where to send the letter?”
She was quiet. “What letter?”
I hesitated.
“You just said his lawyers sent a letter,” she said. “What letter?”
“Tessa, right now, what matters is—”
“Tell me!”
I took a breath, evaluated things, finally plowed forward. “Paul Lansing is trying to assert his rights as your biological father. That’s probably why he—”
“Assert his rights?” It took her only seconds to connect the dots. “You mean custody. He’s trying to get custody of me?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer—”
“Oh?” Now, it was her turn to look betrayed. “Really? And when were you planning on telling me all this?”
“I only found out about the letter last night after you went to bed, and then this morning you were asleep when I left.” A seismic shift had happened in the conversation. It was a little disorienting. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. I was going to tell you at lunch.”
As I watched her, I could almost see the anger she’d felt toward me only a moment ago evaporating and something darker taking its place. A shiver of fear. “This isn’t happening,” she said. “This can’t be happening.”
Her hands were shaking slightly.
I held my good arm out to her. “Come here.”
She came to me then, and, careful to avoid touching my injured arm, she leaned against my chest. And she held me in a way that broke my heart.
I didn’t feel right telling her that things were going to be okay, that it would all work out, because I couldn’t guarantee any of that, but then I realized she was crying and I knew I had to say something. “Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m here.” I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that.”
After a long, painful moment, she eased back to look at me. A single, round tear traced down her cheek. “I love you,” she said, and her words were soft and deep and real.
I wiped the tear away. “I love you too, Tessa.”
“You can’t let this happen. You can’t let him take me.”
Then I said what I’d been hesitant to tell her only a moment before: “I won’t let him take you away. I promise.”
And this was one promise that I swore to myself I was going to keep.
No.
Matter.
What.
43
Thirty minutes later, after things had calmed down somewhat and Tessa was feeling at least a little better, she asked me to tell her about how I got shot, but to leave out any gross parts.
Obviously, I couldn’t divulge details about the case, but I did tell her as much as I could about the race through the hotel and the shooting in the basement.
And in that strange way that shared tragedy seems to draw people together, my story about the shooting made me feel closer to her, reassured me that we could both be vulnerable in front of each other and it was okay.
When we finally went to the fridge for supper, it was after 8:00.
She found some leftover Thai and headed to the microwave. “Aren’t you guys always supposed to wait for backup?”
“Ideally, yes.” I grabbed a couple cans of root beer. “But it doesn’t always work out like that.”
“So, what is this? The third time? Fourth time you’ve been shot?”
“Only the third, but I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years and—”
“Maybe you wouldn’t get shot so much if you’d follow the rules.”
“That’s never exactly been my strong suit, Raven.”
A stretch of silence.
“You could have gotten killed, Patrick.”
Honestly, I hadn’t thought about the shooting in those terms, and her words brought a sudden seriousness to the conversation. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let that happen.”
Unsure where to go with this, I replied simply, “I’ll do my best.”
After supper, we talked for a long time about things we’d never really shared before: her years growing up in Minnesota, her first boyfriend, my high school basketball days, the two women I’d loved before meeting her mother.
Eventually, for a late dessert, we broke into my secret stash of vegan brownies I’d bought for her at a bakery a few days ago. I anticipated that they would taste like baked chalk, but they were amazingly good.
“This lawyer you have,” she said, her mouth full of brownie, “is he good?”
“It’s a woman, and I think she is. I’ve never worked with her before, but she comes highly recommended.”
“And she’s the one who wanted the diary?”
“That’s right.”
We both munched for a moment, then she said, “Don’t go after him, okay?”
“Who?”
“Paul.” Another bite. “Just leave it to the lawyer.”
I felt a tug of disappointment for being the kind of person to whom she needed to say something like that.
I’m sure my hesitation telegraphed my thoughts, and I decided to change the subject. “I have to make a few calls,” I told her. “I need to tell the lawyer about Paul contacting you, and I should probably touch base with my boss, let her know there aren’t any broken bones in my arm, that I’ll be fine to teach my classes tomorrow.”
“Maybe you should take a day off?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” she said, and it almost sounded like she was disappointed. She stood. “I gotta print out some stuff anyway. I did some research for you.”
“Really?”
“On that Gunderson Foundation place, and on primates. I think it might help you with your case.”
Hmm. Nice.
“Forward Paul’s emails to me first,” I said, “so I can send them to the lawyer.”
A pause. “Okay.”
She left the room, and I dialed Missy’s home number.
44
Missy Schuel listened silently as I told her about Paul Lansing’s emails to Tessa and his rendezvous with her earlier in the day.
“Who initiated the electronic communication between them?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What about the meeting?”
“He did.”
“Forward the emails to me.”
“I’m doing it right now.” I tapped at my keyboard.
“It might be considered intimidation if you contact him, so don’t. I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t help ou
r case. Also, your friend dropped off the diary. Thank you.”
“Yes.”
“I have a few other cases on my plate, but I’ll read as much of it as I can tomorrow.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“I left a message for Lansing’s lawyers; they haven’t returned my calls. I’ll try again in the morning. Hopefully we can still set up a meeting next week. They might not like it, but I think we should move forward as soon as we can.”
I thanked her again, and when I ended the call, I saw a text from Lien-hua asking how I was doing—she’d heard about the shooting and was concerned.
Considering all that was on my mind and my tumultuous feelings toward her, I didn’t think I was up for the emotional roller-coaster ride of talking to her right now. I texted her that I was fine, thanked her for teaching my class today, and then told her I’d call her first thing in the morning.
Finally, I phoned Margaret and asked if Mollie Fischer had been found.
“Not yet.”
“You’ve searched every room in the hotel?”
“Yes, we—”
“Any video of her leaving?”
“No. There’s been no word from her, and there’s nothing on video. We’re wondering if the killers somehow managed to get her into a car and out of the parking garage before the perimeter was set up. Patrick, I spoke with the doctor who treated your arm—”
“No.”
“No what?”
“The timing doesn’t work. I was right behind them. They couldn’t have gotten her out, especially if they used the taxi.”
Unless only one of them was in the storage room.
But how would they have gotten Mollie down eight flights of stairs?
And who were the two people the Rainey children saw?
“We’ll find her,” Margaret responded.
“But if she didn’t leave the hotel, she has to be inside it.”
“We’re on it.” Her tone had become more terse, and since I’d already gone over most of this with Doehring earlier, I moved the discussion into a slightly different direction. “Did you follow up on the laptop and duffel bag Danny Rainey mentioned?”
“Nothing was left in the cab they used. But we did find the bullet that traveled through your arm. The lab says it’s a 9mm, fired from a Walther P99.” She told me a few more details that the Rainey children had shared with her: the man and woman were walking; she was thinner than their mom and was really pretty. Danny thought he’d seen her somewhere before on a TV show. The man had black hair and a lot of scars on his face and was “pretty much normal sized.”
Scars.
Hmm. Should make him easier to identify.
That was a lot of good information from the children who hadn’t told me anything. “Where did you learn to do that, by the way?”
“Do what?”
“Talk to kids like that. You seem like an old pro.”
“I work with children every weekend,” she replied. “Yesterday you informed me that you didn’t see the man you were chasing . . .” Since eyewitnesses don’t often recall specific details until hours or even days after a traumatic event, I had a feeling I knew where she was going with this. “Have you thought more about it? Can you give us any kind of description?”
“I only caught a glimpse of him at the doorway to the stairwell, and I never saw his face. But based on the security video footage of him wheeling Mollie into the hotel, we know he’s Caucasian, medium build, approximately five-foot-eleven or six foot tall. He used his left hand to press the elevator button and to open the stairwell door.”
“So, left-handed.”
“Most likely, yes. And he favors his right leg.” My curiosity was getting the best of me. “You work with children on the weekends?”
“I volunteer at a shelter for battered women; I watch their children for them. When you say he favors that leg, do you mean he puts more weight on it or less?”
“Less weight.” It was as if we were carrying on two conversations at the same time. “Margaret, helping at the shelter, that’s impressive. That’s a side of you I never knew existed.”
“Agent Bowers, there are many sides of me you have never seen.”
A comment like that begged for a different context, but as I considered her words, it occurred to me that Margaret Wellington actually had a life outside the Bureau.
Fascinating.
At last she asked about the gunshot wound, and I assured her that I was fine. “One more thing.” I took a seat in the living room. “Are you the one who told Congressman Fischer not to release the information about his daughter, that it might jeopardize the investigation?”
“No.”
“What about my daughter? Did you tell him about the custody case?”
A small silence. “What custody case?”
I heard no hint of deception in her voice.
All right, then, I would deal with all that when I met with Rodale tomorrow. “Never mind.”
“One last thing,” Margaret said formally. “Because of your injury, I’m excusing you from your teaching responsibilities for the rest of the week. If you’re feeling up to it, you can return to the classroom when the NA classes begin on Monday.”
“I’m not teaching arm wrestling, I’m teaching geospatial investigative strategies. I’ll be all right.”
“I’m not debating this with you. There are liability issues at stake here that the Bureau needs to be cognizant of and responsive to.”
“Honestly, Margaret, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“I’ve already spoken with Agent Vanderveld, and he’s agreed to take your classes.”
Not Jake.
Please, not Jake.
“Margaret, he’s screwed up two major investigations he’s worked with me.”
“He’s a valued member of the NCAVC and one of the most experienced profilers we have. He’s qualified to take your classes for two days.” She took a breath. “Besides, I looked it up: Bureau policy clearly states that anyone with a firearm injury caused by adversarial action must be released from duty, with pay, for a minimum of forty-eight hours.”
“I don’t remember that policy.”
“How many policies do you remember?”
Okay, now that wasn’t even nice.
“But what about the case?” I said. “Mollie is still missing. You can’t just expect me to step away and then—”
“I’ll keep you posted on our progress, but for the next forty-eight hours, you are officially on medical leave.”
I didn’t respond.
“Do you understand?”
I said nothing.
“Are we on the same page here or not?”
“I hear you,” I said noncommittally, and left it at that.
A pause, as she no doubt considered how far to press things, but finally she moved on: “Don’t forget, I’ll need your incident report. I’d like it on my desk by 9:00. Also, I spoke with the hospital. They said you need to complete the forms they gave you, that filling in the d’s and b’s was not sufficient.”
I’d had a feeling that would come back to haunt me.
“Paperwork. Good. Sounds like fun.”
“I’ll see you in a couple days. Just get some rest. Good night, Agent Bowers.”
“Good night, Margaret.”
End call.
And when I looked up I saw Tessa standing in the doorway. “Did you hear that?” I said.
“Sort of. I mean, your part at least. I could pretty much fill in the rest.”
She placed a stack of manila folders filled with printouts on the table. The folders had been labeled “Primate Metacognition,” “Primate Aggression,” and “Altruism in Higher Primates.”
Primate metacognition? Altruism in higher primates?
“That was Assistant Director Wellington.” My eyes were on the folders. “I’m not sure you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting her.”
“Has anyone?”
Ooh. Nice line.
That one was worth remembering.
Tessa took a seat beside me. “Is she always like that?”
“Pretty much.” Curious, I flipped through the altruism folder. Tessa had printed out more than a dozen scientific journal articles on reciprocal altruism, cognitive empathy, primate intentionality, and partner-specific reciprocity among chimpanzees. I caught the gist of what the phrases were referring to, but I wasn’t sure how these articles could possibly relate to the case.
“The word uptight doesn’t even come close, does it?” Tessa said, referring to Margaret again.
“The words that come close would not be appropriate for a seventeen-year-old girl to hear.”
“I’ll bet I can guess ’em.”
“I’ll bet you can.”
As I paged through the printouts I was impressed with the thoroughness of Tessa’s research. “You did a lot of good work here. I’m proud of you.”
“I hope it helps.” She was setting up the chessboard.
I closed the folder. “I’ll take a look at these in the morning when I have a little more time.”
When she’d finished arranging the pieces, she quietly rotated the board so that the white pieces were in front of her, and then without a word, moved her king’s pawn to e4 and glanced at me.
I positioned myself across from her and played e5. Tessa favored a Ruy Lopez opening, so I wasn’t surprised when she countered with knight f3.
But I went with Petrov’s Defense to see how she’d respond, so instead of knight to c6, I played knight to f6.
She eyed me.
Smiled in a soft, confident way.
And as the game progressed, the stress from the case began to drain away, the pain in my arm became less and less noticeable, and although Tessa and I hardly spoke, it seemed like we were both opening up to each other in ways deeper than words.
I was just a dad spending time with his daughter.
It struck me that it was times like these that Paul Lansing was trying to steal away from me.
Then I made a move, she took my knight, and I realized that I needed to change my entire strategy or I might end up losing this match before it had barely begun.
45
Oasis Hotel