“Jeez, Jane, I haven’t had anything to eat or drink today except for a couple cups of coffee and one beer. I’m a little freaked out, I guess.”
“Why would someone kill Finnegan? You don’t think there’s a maniac running loose who kills writers, do you?”
Chip broke out in a cold sweat, and he felt dizzy. “That hadn’t even crossed my mind. You’ve been reading too many crime novels lately. Now I’ll be seeing murderers behind every bush and standing in every dark doorway.”
“Chip, I didn’t mean that. Relax.”
“I have a room at the Hyatt. It’s not too far from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. Sven and his friends were outside the store. I’m sure he’s heard about the dead body and will be eager for the details. I’ll call him, and invite him out to dinner and Kojak and Cagney and Lacey, too.” Silly or not, he realized he wanted to assure himself that Sven was okay.
“Who? Chip, you’re not making sense. Get something to eat and clear your head. You’ve obviously had a traumatic day. Call me after your dinner with Sven. I’m worried about you, honey.”
Chip wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ll be fine, Jane, I’m just a little shaken by all of this. I’ll call again later. Love you.”
He pondered his confusion between the characters in his book and the detective and medical examiner he had met at the crime scene. Franco for Frisco was obvious…the name similarity for two homicide detectives. But, it was more than that; it was the guy’s manner of speech, his gruffness. When Franco entered the store and said, “Hey Pat and Gary, hear you found a stiff in the stacks. Hell of a marketing ploy,” Chip had immediately looked up, expecting Frisco.
But what about the medical examiner? What was it that made me confuse him with Dr. Goodman? Chip thought about Dr. Cooper, recalling his appearance and how he examined Finnegan’s body. Tall, handsome, physically fit, impeccably dressed, highly professional. Yes, most definitely the dashing Dr. Goodman-type.
He felt relieved to have sorted out the real people from the fictional ones. His two worlds had intertwined ever since he started writing crime stories. At times it benefited his creativity, but on occasion, it could be disturbing. Today was one of those days.
***
Sven and his friends eagerly accepted his invitation to dinner. They suggested a place called Brit’s Pub on Nicollet Mall. From the rooftop veranda they could see the newly renovated Orchestra Hall and Peavey Plaza, even hear the tinkling of the fountain. Under different circumstances Chip would have relished an opportunity to explore the city’s attractions.
He told the kids to have whatever they wanted, and they ordered Bangers & Mash, making a series of silly jokes about the name. He opted for fish and chips and a glass of Surly Furious, a locally-brewed ale.
“Shut up,” said Sven, when Chip described the scene inside the bookstore. “A dead author inside a mystery bookstore, that’s so cool. Well, not for the dead dude, but you know what I mean.”
Chip observed Sven. Unlike his sister, who was the spitting image of Jane, Sven had brown hair, not red. He was tall and lanky, not burly like his father, Hal. Chip had been told Sven looked a lot like his grandfather, the vet whose practice Jane took over upon his death. The boy seemed happy, he had friends; he was in his element studying film-making. Jane would be pleased to hear her son was doing well. She had wanted him home for the summer, but he had opted to take a summer class. Chip thought it was a good idea, but it had led to a dispute with his wife. When it came to discipline or decision-making about her children, Jane insisted she have the final say-so.
“Well, Sven, any exciting projects coming up?” Chip asked.
“Yes, I just heard about an opportunity to spend next semester shooting a documentary on the new Wild West,” Sven said, as he grabbed the dessert menu. “Places like North Dakota, where they’re fracking for oil. And filming gold miners in Alaska and cattle ranchers in Wyoming. Drillers, prospectors, cowboys.”
“Very exciting. I think you should go for it.” As he said it, he wondered if Jane’s apron strings would reach to Alaska.
***
The walk back to the hotel refreshed Chip. It was late to call Jane. She usually went to bed early and rose early, often arriving at a client’s farm by 5:00 a.m. Yet, he called her knowing she would wake with no complaint. She answered quickly.
“Sorry to wake you, Janey. I just wanted to assure you that I’m fine.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’m painting the kitchen…tomato red.”
“Red. Are you sure you want a red kitchen?”
“No, I’m done with one wall and now I’m not sure. With the white cupboards the room is starting to look like a huge can of Campbell’s tomato soup.”
“Ah, you could be the Andy Warhol of Turners Bend.”
Chip shared his dinner conversation with Sven and his friends, and the two ended their call with phone kisses.
Chip’s thoughts strayed to his new novel. No title was coming to him, but it would. His titles always seemed to pop out at him, usually in the middle of the night.
His thoughts then switched to Finnegan. What kind of research
had he been doing? Did it get him killed?
Chapter Four
Untitled
Minneapolis, MN
Late October
DR. JOHN GOODMAN IGNORED the slight pull at the scarring on his right thigh as he climbed the steps to the back door of the south Minneapolis house he now shared with Special Agent Jo Schwann. The gunshot wound to his leg was in its final stages of healing. Morning laps in the university pool had restored it to almost complete mobility, and the limp was barely noticeable to anyone but John.
Caddy, the retriever that had become his – now theirs – when he and Jo had met on a case, greeted him as he entered the kitchen. She licked his cheek eagerly as he set down his packages to scratch her behind the ears. Cleo, their black cat, was more aloof, but purred appreciatively when he rubbed his hand along her back. She sniffed delicately at the paint can on the floor at his side. “Hello, sweet girls. Where’s your mom? Still painting?”
John picked up the paint can and the bag of paint roller refills, and took the steps, two at a time, up to the second floor. As he walked down the hallway, the slightly sour, chemical scent of fresh paint assaulted his nose and he could hear loud music coming from the spare bedroom where Jo was working.
He stopped at the doorway, taking a moment to admire the view of Jo balanced on a rung of the step ladder. Fully focused on painting the walls and singing along with the music, she was unaware of John’s scrutiny.
Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and splatters of green paint clung to the ends of a few errant curls. In spite of the chill in the air outside, inside the house it was warm and her toned legs stretched out from cut-off denim shorts. A maroon and gold University of Minnesota t-shirt clung to her in all the right places.
From her I-Phone connected to speakers, Grand Funk Railroad urged everyone to do “The LocoMotion.” Jo, a classic rock fan, obliged by swinging her hips atop the ladder as she sang along to the music with gusto, occasionally reaching out to a distant spot with her paintbrush. Her face radiated joy. He loved seeing her so relaxed; in his opinion, her job with the FBI made her too serious most of the time.
The realization of how much he loved her at that moment caused John’s chest to tighten and a thought came to him in an instant. It’s time.
He dragged his eyes away from her and turned his attention to the progress she had made since he had left for the hardware store. His grin grew wider as he scanned each wall in turn.
Forcing a straight face, he called out, “Is it just me or has this room gotten smaller in the last couple of hours?”
Jo started at his voice and John reached out to steady the ladder as she shifted her weight. A rose flush spread across Jo’s cheeks, as if she was embarrassed because he had witnessed her performance. She said, “Sorry…what did you say?
”
John turned down the volume of the music and repeated, “The room. It’s smaller.”
A confused look appeared in her green eyes. “Smaller?”
Unable to contain his amusement any longer, he grinned. “You’ve changed the color of the room so many times. I think all the layers of paint are shrinking the room.”
Jo’s eyes scanned the room, looking from one colored wall to the next, each a different shade of green. She burst out laughing. “I guess I have been a little indecisive. Geez, I can take down a bad guy without a second thought, but I can’t make up my mind on a paint color for your home office.”
She wiped her hands on one of his old t-shirts she used as a paint rag and eased down the ladder. “I just want it to be perfect for you. I want…” She paused, and then finished, “I want this to be our home.”
He set the paint can and bag on the tarp spread over the hardwood floors, and reached out, pulling her to him. Studying her face for a moment, he thumbed the fresh smear of paint on her cheek. “This is my favorite shade of green.” John gently turned her around to face the wall by the door. Pointing, he said, “That is where I’ll put my dad’s old desk tomorrow. Sitting in his creaky chair, I will look around and think of this moment, and this dab of color on your cheek. It will always remind me of how lucky I am to share a life with you.”
Her eyes grew bright and she blinked a few times. “I feel the same way. I…”
John interrupted her by holding her slightly away from him and looked around the room again. “Ok. Enough goofing off for me. What can I do to help?”
“Well, you can start by taping off the wood trim on that wall over there.”
John looked at the wall she had just completed and noticed the trim was not protected with painters’ tape. Not a drop of wall paint had strayed to the white woodwork. “But you don’t tape off the woodwork….” His eyes narrowed and, with mock indignation, he said, “Hey, wait a minute. Are you just giving me busy work so I’ll stay out of your way?”
Jo’s grin was sheepish. “Guilty as charged. You know I painted houses to put myself through college, so I can practically do this in my sleep.” She nudged him, and continued, “But I love it when we work together.”
“Well, there is that.” They worked for another hour, until John went downstairs to make a late dinner of spaghetti and salad.
As they sat at the kitchen table, John refilled Jo’s wine glass and cleared his throat. He needed to say what was on his mind before he lost his nerve. “You still have one more important decision to make, you know.”
She peered at him from across the table. “Oh, yeah. And what’s that?”
“Will you marry me?”
Jo went utterly still. For one awful moment, John felt queasy. Shit. Too soon. I scared her off….
His mind was searching for something to say, anything to fill the empty silence in the room, when she stood up from her chair and came to sit on his lap. She kissed him until she robbed him of breath. At last, Jo pulled away and said in a slightly shaky voice, “Yes! Oh, yes.” Tears filled her eyes and she swiped at them with the edge of her t-shirt. She chuckled through the tears. “God, for a moment there, I thought you wanted me to make a hard decision, like what color to paint the wood trim.”
They both laughed until they almost fell out of the chair, and then John was kissing her hard. He picked her up and carried her to their bedroom.
***
Jo woke up in the darkened bedroom a few hours later, with a sense of panic. The dream that had awakened her was rapidly dissolving into a gossamer mist, but she recalled walking down a long church aisle, one that never seemed to end. She had called out to John, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – answer her. There were no guests, no one but her.
The residual feeling of uneasiness from her dream made her wonder if she had made a mistake accepting John’s marriage proposal so quickly. Looking back over the evening, she couldn’t quite believe her own reaction, the fact that she hadn’t the slightest doubt in her mind when she said yes. She had never been more certain of anything in her life. Even the job offer from the FBI had cost her a few nights of sleep before she accepted.
But what if I screw up the marriage? Her father had not remarried after her mother had died when Jo was a toddler, and so she didn’t have a significant role model of how to be married. Before John, her previous relationships had burned out quickly. Her life with John was perfect now, just the way it was. Did they really want to mess that up?
She rolled over on her side, craving the comfort of curling up to John’s muscular back. Her hand encountered nothing but cool sheets and a slip of paper. Jo flipped back over and turned on the bedside lamp, reading the note he had left her.
So sorry to leave you tonight, of all nights. My pager went off for a severe head trauma case and I didn’t want to wake you. I hope to be home in time to serve you breakfast in bed, but I’ll call if I’m running late.
Love, J.
P.S. Thanks for saying yes.
Jo sighed, missing him already. They had so much to discuss. However, to be honest, she was relieved to have some time to herself to sort out her feelings.
She looked at the clock and saw it was 1:16 a.m.
Hearing Caddy scratch on the closed bedroom door, she slipped her shorts and t-shirt back on and padded over to the door to let her in. Caddy trotted in and, without waiting for an invitation, climbed up into their bed. Cleo followed suit and curled up next to the warmth of the retriever.
Jo laughed. “All right, you two. Just for tonight. Guess I’m too wound up to sleep anyway, so I might as well finish painting John’s office. A good way to work out my nerves, right?”
***
John arrived at the hospital and quickly slipped into a set of scrubs. When he hung up his sweatshirt, he caught a whiff of Jo’s perfume that clung to the fabric from the last time she had borrowed it. He sighed and closed the locker door.
As he prepped for surgery, the emergency physician peppered him with the case details. “We’re in Trauma 2. Patient’s name is Rick Wilson. Male, age twenty-one. Shot a little over an hour ago. Entry wound is to the left occipital lobe, with the exit wound just above the left eye. The bullet’s path appears to be limited to the left hemisphere.”
“We may have caught a break there, if the bullet avoided the large blood vessels down the middle and didn’t ricochet around the skull. What are the vitals?”
“As stable as can be expected. Blood pressure is at 150, heart rate is 100, temp is at 100.7, respiratory is at 25.” The emergency physician’s face was grave as he gave the final statistic. “The ICP is 21.”
“The intracranial pressure is at 21?” He shook his head. “Well, first order of business is to get that down.” John snapped on a pair of gloves and pushed his way through the operating room doors with his forearms.
John’s day had begun.
Chapter Five
Hyatt Hotel, Minneapolis
September
CHIP AWOKE AT THE HYATT in a tangle of sweaty sheets with disturbing images from a dream in which he was being pursued by a killer who did not like his books. He felt exhausted rather than rested, unsettled and anxious. The events of the previous day had taken their toll, and he was unsure of what this day would bring. He called Jane again.
“Morning, sweetheart. How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Crappy, I missed you. How was your night?”
“Ditto for me.”
“I got a text message from Sven. Seems you scored with your dinner last night. He said it was ‘ridiculous.’ Oh, and Ingrid asked when you were coming home. She wants you to help her with her English essay.”
“Wow, that’s huge, right?
“Yes, I think she is finally coming around. It’s been harder for her than for Sven. So, when are you coming home?”
Chip crawled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, cell phone in hand. He was longing to clear his head and revive his energy with a st
eaming hot shower.
“I have to meet with the homicide detective and then I plan to head out of town. I’ll be home for supper. Oh, and Jane, last night I wrote a chapter you’ll like. Jo was painting a room and John came home and proposed to her.”
Jane laughed. “It’s about time. For some reason I want Jo and John to be as happy as we are. Was Jo painting the walls tomato red?”
“No, she settled on green.”
“Well, the red in our kitchen is growing on me. We’ll see what you think when you come home. I’ll throw a roast in the slow cooker before I head to the clinic, so we can have a nice dinner tonight. Love you.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Love you, too.”
Chip still got that newlywed rush when he heard those words, marveling at the thought of someone waiting at home for him and with dinner planned, to boot.
***
After his hot shower, shave and a cup of weak coffee brewed in his room, Chip was ready to face the day. He checked out of the hotel and headed to the hotel’s parking ramp.
The parking ramp was dim and damp. Chip got turned around and it took some searching to locate his car. He spotted a huge black Escalade with dark-tinted windows idling not far from his car. He noticed a car rental sticker on the bumper. For some inexplicable reason it gave him an eerie feeling; he increased his pace to the Ford and used his remote key to unlock the door as he neared. It beeped and the running lights came on. He quickly opened the door, and as he slid into the front seat, he heard a roar from the Escalade as it started to move toward him, the engine’s sound echoing throughout the ramp. Chip instinctively ducked down and a split second later the driver’s side window exploded, sending shattered pieces of glass cascading down on him like a meteor shower.
He froze, unable to move out of fear. He strained to hear the vehicle’s engine fade as it exited the ramp. From his cramped position he slipped his cell phone out of his pocket. His finger fumbled and he misdialed, tried again and finally reached a 911 operator.
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