by P. J. Tracy
“Ginny, it’s Elias.”
Dead silence on the line, and Elias knew what that was about. Nobody thought Marian would get through the first night, let alone the second, and everyone at the office had been dreading this call.
“It’s okay, Ginny, she’s still with us. And she woke up, which is a good sign, but it’s still touch and go.”
“Oh, thank God. I was afraid you were going to say—”
“I know. Listen, who’s on the desk today?”
“Theo.”
Chief Frost rubbed at his face. Theo was two weeks on the job and had about three whiskers on his whole face. “Anybody else?”
“Just me, and I’ve got every light on the board blinking. The press is driving me nuts. So you want to talk to him or not?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Theo had a spindly little frame and the face of a twelve-year-old boy, but a voice that boomed like he had an amp plugged into his chest. He could probably scare a criminal to death as long as they never saw him. “What do you need, Chief?”
“Marian woke up . . .”
“GREAT!”
Frost winced and held the phone a little farther from his ear. “Anyway, she managed to write down three letters. E, N, G. Could be the beginning of a last name, a first name, maybe initials, I don’t have a clue. Check with the people she works with at the bar and the diner, see if it means anything to them. If you don’t get anywhere on that track, hit the phone books, the computer, whatever you can think of.”
“Will do. Did you ask the daughter?”
“I will. She’s in with her mother now. I’ll call you back if she has anything for us. If not, keep working it.”
“No problem. Uh, have you been watching the tube this morning . . . ?”
The question was so out of left field Frost almost hung up on him.
“. . . because, the thing is, there was this attack on another waitress in Wisconsin last night. Tied her up, knocked her around, then came at her with a knife, kind of like what happened to Marian. I thought maybe it might be worth a call to that FBI agent who put us on to the scene in the first place to see if there’s any connection.”
Frost took a breath. “Son of a bitch, Theo, you may have some cop in you.”
“Yes, sir. You want his number?”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
Alissa came out before he could place the call, and he spent some time talking to her before he showed her what Marian had written. She stared sad little holes through those shaky, barely formed letters, and nearly wept when she finally shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know anybody with a first or last name that begins with ENG. I know all her friends and the people she works with. But you know what the traffic is like at the diner and the bar. It could have been a customer she never mentioned.”
“Maybe. We’re checking on that right now.”
Like any human being on the planet, Alissa’s eyes were drawn to the television in the waiting room. Didn’t matter if you were in a sports bar, an airport, or even a hospital, Svengali lived in pixels these days, and if there was a screen around, it didn’t take long before everybody’s attention was drawn to it. Personally, Frost hated that you couldn’t get away from the damn things. He’d gone to Europe once, gotten out of a taxi at an airport where about a thousand people were standing with bags in hand before they went into the terminal, all staring up at a screen the size of an old drive-in movie. There was nothing really interesting about it—just a bunch of rockers in a music video that sounded like cars crashing—but everyone seemed hypnotized by the image. They just stood motionless in front of the thing, no one talking, no one interacting, all looking up, oblivious to anything around them. That had creeped him out big-time. Reminded him of Soylent Green or one of those other futuristic movies where everyone lived in some kind of a weird zombie state, as if the brains had been sucked right out of their heads.
But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be mindless in an ICU waiting room; to get a brief respite from the bad thoughts and fears that kept you just on this side of screaming. Alissa looked almost vapid, which was about as close to serenity as she was going to get for a while.
She made a soft noise in her throat, and Frost looked at the TV. They were showing a full screen of one of those nonspecific police sketches that always end up looking like somebody you know.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. That man looks a little like one of my teachers, is all.”
“How much like him?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “Not much. The mouth, a little.”
Frost tipped his head and looked at the guy. “Looks like Owen Wilson to me.”
“I’m going to go back in and sit with Mom now, okay?”
Frost didn’t answer. He was just another automaton in front of a television, mouth-breathing like an idiot while he read the crawl line under the sketch that identified it as the attacker of the Wisconsin waitress Theo had told him about. “Alissa?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your teacher’s name?”
“Mr. Huttinger.”
“First name?”
Alissa pursed her lips as she tried to remember. “Cliff, I think . . . no, Clinton. That was it. Clinton Huttinger.”
Frost kept his disappointment to himself. Why couldn’t it have been Engleburton Huttinger, or something like that? “Okay.”
“He was the best English teacher I ever had, actually. A really super guy.”
After she went back to her mother’s room, Chief Frost tried to talk himself out of jumping to conclusions because he wanted an answer so damn bad, but all he kept seeing was his own high school report cards with all the classes abbreviated to three letters because the space was too small.
He had Theo back on the phone within minutes. “Go, Chief.”
“ENG might be an abbreviation for English.”
“You think the guy’s a Brit?”
“Just listen, Theo. Don’t repeat anything I say out loud. I don’t want anyone in the office or out of the office getting wind of this, because I’m going on my gut here and nothing else, and I don’t feel like trashing the life of someone who might be a decent guy.”
“Got it, Chief. Go ahead.”
“There’s an English teacher at the high school . . .”
“Ah. English. ENG.”
“Right. Name of Clinton Huttinger. I need his photo and five other similars for a spread. Don’t let anybody see what you’re doing, just put the package together and get over to the hospital as soon as you can.”
Frost waited in the downstairs lobby, facing the big glass doors, but he heard Theo coming long before he saw him. Didn’t matter how well you packed and settled your belt if you were as rail-thin as Theo. Damn thing banged on his bony hips, and handcuffs and light and everything else clattered with every step. He sat down next to his Chief and pulled the photo spread out of a large envelope.
“Fast work, Theo, and it looks good. Which one is he?”
Theo pointed.
“Jesus. He looks like an altar boy.”
“Actually, he was. Also Teacher of the Year and voted students’ favorite past three years in a row.”
“Is there a sheet on him?”
Theo snorted. “Sort of. He ran into his elderly neighbor’s burning house to save her cat. The officer on-site wrote him a warning on interfering with firefighters.”
“Terrific. I picked a hero.”
“Hey. A lot of people thought Ted Bundy was Mr. Wonderful.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’ve got a nurse, a doctor, Alissa, and you for witnesses when we show the spread to Marian. It’s going to be tight in there, but I want this covered seven ways from Sunday in case we get anything. By the book, every second. Let’s go.”
It was worse than tight when they all crowded into Marian’s tiny room, because everyone had to stand at the head of the bed, where they could see the silent identification if it happened.
&
nbsp; Marian looked at Frost, then at the photo spread, then back at Frost. He felt his heart fall to his stomach when he saw a tear fall from the corner of her eye. He’d been way out in left field with this leap, and way off base. He’d let her down, and he wondered if he’d ever get over that.
Then he watched her finger, stronger now than when she fumbled with the pen and paper earlier, but still wavering as it moved slowly, but certainly, to the photo of Clinton Huttinger.
CHAPTER 23
THE PROBLEM WAS THAT GRACE’S BRAIN HAD FALLEN OFF the genetic assembly line before they’d installed an off switch. Annie, Roadrunner, and Harley all had some sort of mindless activity where their brains literally seemed to shut down in a kind of weird living death, which gave them respite from the frenetic mental gymnastics required in programming. Grace’s brain just kept working like the Energizer Bunny, and the only way she could blank out the endlessly repeating lines of programming language was to focus that laser attention on something else she was passionate about.
Now, this was simple. Basic. Look at the artichokes. Assess the green, the darker tinge at the edge of the leaves that screamed no, not perfect, move on. And then you find the mother lode, fresh off the truck, firm leaves lightened at the tip by the good California sun, drops of liquid crystal when you pushed your thumbnail into the flesh. Perfection.
Grace was a million miles away from her computer, totally focused on smelling Italian parsley, elephant garlic, waving her arms over vine-ripened tomatoes like a Jewish mother at Shabbat, pulling the aroma to her nose.
She’d walked into Whole Foods pissed, because she’d had to drive the few blocks to the store instead of walking. It was a little cooler than yesterday, perfect weather for a sidewalk stroll, but there were other considerations that made that impractical. Walking to the store on a lovely summer day was a pleasant notion, but if you had to carry more than one bag, you wouldn’t be able to pull your gun fast enough if the need arose. And today there would be three bags, maybe four, because she was making lunch for all of them.
Lately she’d been thinking about her passions, about how the only two she had—work and cooking—had nothing whatever to do with people. Magozzi had made a ripple in her smooth pool of solitude. The man simply would not give up. He continually banged on the door of her life, foolishly ignoring all the signals that would discourage a lesser man, as if persistence could break through the barriers she had carefully put in place. She was a pragmatic woman, cognizant of her simple biological needs as a human being, accepting that weakness that occasionally succumbed to the mandate of human physical contact. She knew Magozzi wanted much more, and deserved it, but there were sad limits on what Grace was capable of giving. Fear had always defined her life, and she was beginning to think it always would. It was like trying to live underwater after you had exhaled all the air in your lungs, desperate to take a breath, terrified of the consequences.
She thought of the concern of Annie, Harley, and Roadrunner, who kept telling her she was isolating herself from the only thing that mattered—a lasting relationship. It seemed they didn’t ever look inward to see the obvious: they were all isolated. Annie’s flirtations and Roadrunner’s obsessive exercise and Harley’s ever-changing and short-lived liaisons kept them as separated from lasting human connection as she was. Perhaps there was no hope for any of them, except for the connection they had to each other, the one constant in all of their lives.
JOHN SMITH WAS SITTING upstairs alone in the Monkeewrench office, staring out the window and wondering what the hell to do with himself. The past forty-eight hours had been a workaholic, adrenaline junkie’s fantasy; but the problem with being both of those things was that time was always your enemy—either there was never enough of it, or too much of it, like now.
Most agents at his stage in life had plenty of places to redirect their focus and energy when the action died down. They had kids, grandkids, a wife, and a social life. He had none of those things, which simplified the job. The problem was, he wouldn’t even have the job in a few months, and the thought of only himself for distraction was truly depressing.
The Monkeewrench crew, on the other hand, didn’t share his lack of imagination—they all seemed to have their own places of retreat where they recharged their batteries and shut off their minds. And with the exception of Grace MacBride, they’d all offered to include him. But he hated exercise, which precluded Roadrunner’s offer of a bike ride; and he hated opera even more, so he’d politely declined Harley’s offer of sitting with him in a room and listening to people screech out some hackneyed story line. He had no idea what Grace’s sanctuary was—he only knew she’d taken off in her Range Rover early this morning. The only remotely intriguing offer had been Annie’s, but he really had no idea what one did in a spa, and he was pretty certain there wasn’t much they could do for him, anyhow.
Jesus, what was happening to him? He’d even tried to play fetch with the weird dog as a last resort, but the mongrel completely ignored him and just sat by the door after his mistress had left, staring up at the knob. Dissed by a dog—the story of his life.
When he saw Grace MacBride’s Rover pull into the driveway and heard the door open and close downstairs, he felt an odd sense of relief and moved toward the elevator.
He found her at the massive kitchen island, unpacking grocery bags that were yielding a farmer’s market worth of fresh produce, meat, and shellfish. She acknowledged him with a brief glance and nod of her head. “There’s coffee and fresh pastry in the breakfast room.”
“Thank you. You’re cooking?”
“I will be.”
“Can I help?”
“No. Thank you,” she tacked on at the last minute as a civilized formality, but there was no question in his mind that he had just been dismissed. “This is how I unplug,” she added.
Smith nodded. “I understand. Good-looking artichokes.”
He left the room, he left her alone, and this was unexpected. Also unexpected that he would notice the extraordinary perfection of a vegetable as underappreciated as the artichoke.
She laid out the ingredients she would need to prep first, honed the knives she would use and laid them in perfect order on the cutting board, and heard the clink of John Smith’s coffee cup on a saucer in the adjacent breakfast room.
God, she hated people. They cluttered up the planet and kept bumping into you, diverting your attention and distracting you from productive work. She softly put down the last honed knife, took an exasperated breath, and walked to the breakfast room. “Can you handle a knife without cutting your hand off?”
John Smith looked at her. “Yes. Unless you want me to prepare the artichokes. I’d rather use a scissors.”
Grace’s eyebrow went up before she could stop it. “You’re a cook.”
“Recreational.”
“I’m going to braise them, then stuff them.”
“Okay.”
They worked together in the kitchen for maybe half an hour without saying more than twenty words. When Grace heard the eight-inch chef’s knife clatter against the board, she risked a sideways glance at John Smith mincing garlic, then quickly looked away. He’d prepped the artichokes perfectly, he’d made a pretty terrific vinaigrette for the arugula that she tasted and couldn’t criticize, and the only thing he’d ever asked was where to find the lemon, and did she want Meyer or regular. It was like watching herself disconnect from everything by connecting to food. In one way it was upsetting. Was she really so like FBI Special Agent John Smith? A man with no life except his work and the Zen escape into food that demanded nothing and yielded all you thought you could ever expect? Dear God. He was two decades older than she was, and empty.
“You feel like you’re looking at your future?” He asked that after an hour, when they were nearly ready to plate, and Grace almost doubled over, as if he’d hit her in the stomach. There weren’t many choices when someone was so on point, so she spoke the truth.
“Maybe a little.”
Smith smiled as he wiped away a stray drop of olive oil from where it didn’t belong on the edge of a plate. “You’re very young. Lots of time left.”
Grace stabbed a perfectly grilled shrimp from the platter and offered it to him. Only Magozzi had ever received food from her fork before. A strawberry, she remembered, dipped in dark chocolate. “You were just as young once, with just as much time.”
“But I was stupid. You aren’t. I think I overdressed the arugula. And the shrimp breaks my heart.”
Grace shook her head and turned to the sink to wash her hands before she did something stupid, like smile at an FBI agent.
As she was retrieving the last of the serving dishes she’d need from Harley’s kitchen cabinets, Smith’s phone rang. “Smith here,” he answered, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he washed the garlic off his hands.
“FBI Agent John Smith?”
“Speaking.”
“Agent Smith, this is Chief Frost, Medford, Oregon, PD.”
“Good to hear from you, Chief Frost. How is your victim?”
“Better. She came out of the coma and did a positive ID of her attacker on a photo spread. An English teacher here by the name of Clinton Huttinger.”
“That’s excellent news. Do you have him in custody yet?”
“He’s hiding under a rock somewhere. Not at home and he called in sick to work, so we’ve got both places under surveillance. The thing is, while we were checking out his background for places he might go to hide, we found out he’s got a sick mother who lives in Wisconsin.”
Smith’s brows lifted. “Really.”
“Yeah. And so we’re looking at the Wisconsin attack that was on the news today, and it looks like ours and theirs have a lot in common.”
“Yes, we’ve been thinking the same thing. Both waitresses, both tied up and attacked with a knife. And now we know he’s got a Midwest connection.”
“Exactly. I know it’s thin and kind of a stretch since they happened so far apart on subsequent nights, but I thought it might be worth sending our photo their way. You’ve got a contact over there, right?”