The Planck Factor

by Debbi Mack

  She returned to her food, then added, “And, no, I don’t think you’re crazy. Although it does sound rather strange.”

  You have no idea, I thought.

  After we ate, we drove directly to Liz’s Capitol Hill condo. Parking was a bitch. Liz just managed to squeeze the Porsche into a spot four blocks away. She couldn’t abide the thought of paying for a space. After securing a bar lock on the steering wheel, she locked the car and set the alarm.

  “Does it worry you to park such a nice car on the street?”

  Liz shrugged. “If they want to steal it, they will. That’s what insurance is for.”

  As we trooped the four blocks past genteel brick row houses, I thought, Who’d want to live in this berg? Liz saw it differently, of course. She liked being a Washingtonian. She actually thought it was exciting to have a senator living in her neighborhood. Whoopee.

  Liz had a first-floor unit in a rowhouse of whitewashed brick—a tiny, but no doubt expensive, piece of real estate. The one small bedroom barely elevated it above the level of an efficiency. She placed her purse and keys on a small table near the door.

  “Let me take the futon,” she said. “You can have the bed.” She unfolded the futon so it could serve its function as a cot.

  “No, I’ll take the futon. I don’t want to put you out. You’ve done enough for me already.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nudged her aside. “I’ll be fine, Liz. I’m so tired, I could sleep on the floor.”

  Liz hesitated, then relented. “Well, okay, if you insist.” She smiled. “I’ll let you get some rest, then. Got an early morning myself tomorrow. There’s cereal in the cupboard, eggs in the fridge, bagels in the freezer . . . .” Her voice trailed off and it hit me how drained she looked. “Just help yourself to anything you like.”

  “Thanks, sis. Now get some sleep.”

  “You, too. We can talk more about this tomorrow, if you like.”

  “I appreciate that. G’night.”

  “Night.”

  I watched her shuffle off to bed. I was exhausted, but wired. Probably all that Starbucks coffee on top of eating late. By the time I changed into my PJs, brushed my teeth, and stretched out on the futon, I hoped I’d be sleepy. But the events of the last couple of days kept reeling through my mind like a never-ending movie montage.

  Finally, after half an hour of lying still with my eyes shut, I gave up and turned on the TV, keeping the sound low. I flipped through the channels halfheartedly, stopping abruptly on CNN when I saw the words “Murder in Boulder” emblazoned across the bottom of the screen.

  If I wasn’t wide awake before, I was now. I sat up and tapped the volume up.

  “. . . victim of the execution-style killing has been identified as Fred Berwin, a graduate student at the University of Colorado.”

  A picture of Fred flashed to the anchor’s right.

  “Not since Jon Benet Ramsey has a murder so shaken people in this otherwise quiet university town . . . .”

  The anchorman droned on about the police revealing few details concerning the murder and their theories. I wondered when the picture was taken. Fred looked different somehow. Maybe happier. Before I could decide, the picture was gone.

  Only to be replaced with mine.

  “Police are seeking another university student for questioning. Jessica Evans, who was last seen leaving Berwin’s apartment, is considered a person of interest. Police refuse to divulge Evans’ relationship to the victim, but other sources confirm they knew each other . . . .”

  I sank back onto the mattress. So much for feeling safe.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kevin

  So Jessica had taken flight. And the news was painting her as a likely suspect in Fred’s murder. This was working out even better than he’d expected.

  Kevin had plans for Jessica Evans. She might run, but she couldn’t hide.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jessica

  By the time I awoke later that morning, Liz had already gone to work. I wondered if she’d heard about the murder. Did Liz watch CNN? If it was on CNN, it was probably in The Washington Post, too.

  Even though I hadn’t done anything, I worried that Liz could be accused of harboring a fugitive.

  I got Liz’s Mr. Coffee brewing and searched the kitchen for breakfast choices, rejecting Liz’s healthy cereal, which looked more like bird food than breakfast. As I waited for my bagel to toast, I agonized over the implications of hiding out in her place. Holing up here could put Liz’s bar license at risk.

  But where would I go? I’d already left the state. Should I turn myself in to the D.C. or Boulder police? My previous dealings with the Boulder cops were less than satisfying. And I didn’t treasure the thought of being held on suspicion in a D.C. jail.

  The toaster oven dinged, snapping me to attention. As I went through the motions of buttering the bagel and eating it, I thought again about the van, the strange phone calls, and the note. I had nothing to feel guilty about. I’d done nothing wrong. But the thought of dealing with the police was not a pleasant prospect. I didn’t know why Fred was dead. I couldn’t be sure that Red and Flattop were the ones who killed him.

  Maybe I should just pretend I never saw the news.

  For the moment, I wanted—needed, really—to focus on something else. So I poured myself some coffee and did what I often do to distract myself. I set my laptop up and reviewed my draft, starting at the point where Alexis and Swede had reached Portland and were trying to access Daniel’s safe deposit box.

  Alexis

  “Dude, I nearly forgot about that box,” Lena said.

  Alexis wasn’t sure if Daniel’s elder sister was talking to her or to Swede when she said this. They were sitting in the sunny kitchen of the old house in southeast Portland that Lena shared with three other people.

  “You think we could have a look at it?” Alexis asked. Her eyes were drawn to Lena’s arms, both covered with elaborate tattoos fully exposed by the tight, black spaghetti-strap top she wore. One arm was a study in bright, happy images. The other featured flames and grotesque, demonic faces. Heaven and hell, she thought.

  Lena shrugged. “Can’t see why not.” She took one last drag on her cigarette and snubbed it out in a chipped, ash-laden green saucer. “The bank’s on my way to work. We can stop by. I’ve got time.”

  Alexis noticed Lena hadn’t even checked her watch before saying this, as if she always had time.

  At a Washington Mutual Bank on Woodstock Boulevard, Lena spoke with a bank manager and arranged to unlock the safe deposit box. While Lena and the bank manager retrieved the box, Alexis and Swede waited at a table in a private room, where they could all view the box’s contents. Lena entered holding a small box with a latched top. She joined the others at the table and opened it. Inside, there was an envelope.

  It was marked: “For Alexis (private).”

  “Obviously, this was meant for just me to read,” Alexis said, sounding apologetic, although she couldn’t think what she had to apologize for.

  Lena gave Swede’s upper arm a playful jab with her fist--hard enough for Swede to flinch. “Let’s give the girl some room.” She placed a firm hand on Swede’s back and led him out. He glanced back at Alexis, obviously curious.

  When they had left, Alexis tore open the envelope. Inside, was a letter:

  Dear Alexis,

  If you’re reading this, it means the worst has happened. I’m probably dead, possibly in the hospital in a coma. I know it upset you that I could never talk about my work. But if something’s happened to me because of foul play, you may be in danger, too. In any case, my research must get into the right hands.

  I kept my papers in this box for a long time, but recently decided it was too obvious a place. So I leave this letter instead and hope that it reaches you and only you (I think Lena will respect my wishes in this regard).

  You may recall a conversation we had shortly after I proposed . . . .

  Alex
is thought back. She did recall Daniel saying that if anything happened to him, she should contact her younger sister, Katie, in New York about his research. She’d been confused, even angered, by this.

  “Why are you sharing information about your research with my sister but not me?” she demanded.

  “Please understand,” Daniel had said. “I’m doing this to protect you.”

  Alexis had argued the point but had gotten nowhere. Eventually, she’d given up and simply said she understood, even though she didn’t. She’d been so pissed off, she’d even considered breaking their engagement. However, she couldn’t deny that she still loved Daniel, so she’d let the matter go. By the next morning, she’d cooled off and things looked much brighter. And instead of staying angry, she pushed the whole incident out of her mind.

  Alexis stared at the letter, realizing Daniel must have known she might forget to follow through on his instructions. She resumed reading.

  You may recall a conversation we had shortly after I proposed. First, I want to apologize for making you feel so marginal to my career. Second, I need you to do as I asked and reach out to your sister. It’s essential for getting my work into the right hands.

  I can only hope you understand why I’ve done this. The highly competitive world in which I work has made this necessary.

  I wish I could say or do more, but I’ll just close with this advice: be careful.

  Love,

  Daniel

  PS: Don’t tell anyone else what you’re doing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alexis

  Reading that letter may have been the hardest thing Alexis had been made to endure so far. Daniel’s words coming to her from beyond the grave. That was creepy, as if his ghost were whispering in her ear. To keep from crying, she bit her lip so hard, she almost drew blood.

  After taking a few moments to compose herself, Alexis thought about the implications of Daniel’s closing words. Don’t tell anyone else what you’re doing. By anyone, could he have meant Swede? But Swede was his partner. He couldn’t have meant Swede, too--or could he?

  Alexis replaced the note in the envelope, folded it, and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. She picked up the box and got up to leave but stopped short. “What do I tell them?”

  She could just tell them it was a private letter, which was true. But Swede would no doubt wonder why Daniel took the trouble to put it in a safe deposit box.

  No, she’d have to lie. Tell them something that would raise no questions, or at least fewer questions.

  Clutching the box, she walked to the door and pulled it open to find Swede and Lena waiting in the hall.

  “So?” Lena said. “I’m dying of curiosity here.”

  Swede just stared at Alexis.

  Alexis cleared her throat. “The letter was about life insurance he’d taken out. He never told me, and he wanted to make sure I was paid, if something happened to him.” She decided to stop there.

  “You’re kidding. Why would he go to the trouble of putting that in a safe deposit box?” Lena pursed her lips and blew out a dismissive sputtering noise. Alexis just shrugged in response.

  Swede’s gaze remained pinned to Alexis’ face. He looked disappointed, plus . . . an emotion she couldn’t quite nail down.

  “Nothing more?” he said, his voice disbelieving.

  “It didn’t have what we were looking for.”

  That part was true, anyway.

  Jessica

  I stopped work and checked the clock. Just after noon. By now, Liz had probably read the headlines or heard the news from someone else. She could be at lunch when it scrolled across the bottom of a TV set at a local take-out deli or even a casual restaurant. Of course, Liz was so Type A, she probably ate a brown-bag lunch at her desk. As a busy Justice Department attorney, would she really pick up on an item in the many news headlines about a murder in Boulder? Perhaps she would because of what I’d told her and my hasty departure to visit her.

  My cell phone rang. Probably Liz wanting an explanation. But the ID said “Private Caller.” My heart sank. Not again. I considered ignoring it but decided they’d probably keep ringing if I did.

  “Yes,” I answered, anyway.

  “Jessica.” That androgynous voice again. So familiar, but . . . not recognizable.

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “So talk.”

  “Not on the phone. I need to meet you.”

  I shook my head, as if the caller could see me. “That’s not possible.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m trying to help.”

  “Help how? Besides, I’m . . . .” I didn’t continue. I didn’t want to talk about where I’d gone.

  “I know. You’re in D.C. So am I.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. “You followed me?”

  “It’s important that we talk. But we have to meet,” the caller said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t talk on the phone. Too risky. And the men in the van have followed you here, too.”

  “What?!” Jesus. Who are those guys? “Did those men . . . do that to . . . .”

  “Your friend?”

  “Yes, my friend,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t trust them.”

  I suppressed the urge to scream. “You still haven’t explained . . . .”

  “It will all be explained, Jessica.” A long pause, then, “But not over the phone.”

  “I don’t know.” I ran through the possibilities. If we met at a park or restaurant, what’s the worst that could happen? But D.C. wasn’t Boulder. If I were abducted in broad daylight, would anyone notice or care? My imagination was working overtime again.

  “Jessica,” the voice implored. “Think of your sister.”

  My blood froze. “What about her?”

  “You don’t want her to get hurt, do you?”

  It felt as if my lungs had collapsed.

  “Think about it,” the voice said. “I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jessica

  It felt like an eon had passed before I closed the phone and put it down. The last thing I wanted was for Liz to get involved in this. She had nothing to do with it—whatever it was.

  The threat was clearly intended to intimidate me. It worked. I planned our meeting. Assuming the caller was a man, I should pick a public place with lots of people around. Navy Memorial. I’d met Liz there for lunch a couple of times. There was a Metro stop close by an amphitheater of steps arranged around a fountain where people gathered for lunch.

  The phone rang and I jumped. That hadn’t been ten minutes. The caller ID showed that it was Liz. My finger wavered over the button, until the fourth ring when I pushed it.

  “Hey, you,” Liz said, sounding carefree, almost giddy. Not like someone who’d discovered her sister was sought for questioning in a murder. “I’m just heading out to lunch. Want to join me?”

  “I’m . . . feeling a bit tired, actually. And I’m making progress on my book.” I winced after saying that. Why did I mention the book? Now she’s going to think the book’s more important than she is. “How about tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Liz seemed unfazed. “I’m forgetting you just flew in last night. The time zone adjustment and all.”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling uncertain about the difference two hours would make to a person’s internal clock.

  Liz jabbered on about where we could go for dinner and places we could see. I kept glancing at the clock. It was coming up on ten minutes.

  “Well,” Liz said, probably sensing my distraction. “Don’t work too hard. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Right.”

  I snapped the phone shut, clutching it like a talisman, waiting for the promised callback. Ten minutes arrived. No call. Twelve minutes. Nothing. What kind of threatening anonymous caller are you, anyway?

  At thirteen
minutes, I set the phone aside and tried to concentrate on reviewing my story again. Not easy, especially since I’d written that Alexis would give Swede the slip and reserve a last-minute flight to New York to see her sister. She’d book the flight online, of course—the resemblance to my life was getting eerie.

  Despite my anxiety, I realized I should probably stop for lunch. Getting stressed out takes lots of energy, making me tend to crave food. I was considering my lunch options, when the phone rang. Private caller.

  I answered by saying, “That was a long ten minutes.”

  “Jessica, have you thought about what I said?”

  “Yes. I’ll meet you at the Navy Memorial.”

  “I was thinking of . . . something more private.”

  “No way. You’ve been calling the shots so far. I get to pick the meeting place.”

  I expected more of a protest, but the caller just said, “All right. Just be careful.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Joe

  Cotter and Billy had rented a car—not quite as suitable for their needs as a van, but the budget on this job was getting tighter by the moment. They chose a bland gray midsized vehicle—not anything too cop-like, but not too showy either.

  As Cotter eased the car into a tight parking spot down the street from Liz’s place, he wondered if a compact car would have been a wiser choice.

  But he managed to back into the spot with little fuss, not even bumping the curb. With a satisfied sigh, Cotter said, “Now we wait.”

  Billy nodded amiably. Both men stared down the street toward Liz’s building.