After they had put in their orders, Jo said, “So, I’ve got some big news to share.”
Frisco raised his eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“John asked me to marry him last night, and I said yes.”
Frisco let out a whoop, which caused the woman next to them to give him a sidelong glance. “It’s about damned time. So, when’s the big date?”
Jo smiled, “We haven’t had any time to discuss it. He asked me right before the call came in about Rick Wilson. I swear, between our two careers, it may take a couple of years to be able to plan anything.”
Jo was surprised to find herself getting excited, the more she talked to Frisco. He was right; it was time to make her life with John more permanent. She resolved to not let their crazy schedules get in the way of planning a wedding.
She brainstormed out loud, as if she were working a case with Frisco. “It’ll be something small. I have no close relatives and John lost his parents in a car accident several years ago. His grandmother is still around, so of course, we’ll fly her here. Or, maybe a destination wedding.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringtone of her cell phone. She smiled when she saw John’s name on the caller ID. “Hey, I was just telling Frisco about our engagement. What do you think about.…?”
John interjected. “That’s great, love. But, listen. I have a young man here at the hospital by the name of Billy MacGregor. He wants to meet with you and says he’s a friend….”
Jo sat up straight in her chair. “Wait, I’m confused. You’re talking to MacGregor? We were just at his house, but there was no sign of him.”
Frisco gasped across the table from her. She ignored the question in his eyes and gripped the phone tighter.
She listened as John said, “Yes, Billy came in to see Rick Wilson. Since he’s not family, we couldn’t allow him in the room, but I managed to talk him into speaking with you. I think he’s got a lot to say, but he’s scared. Sounds like he met with a whistleblower and I think he’s got a copy of whatever they were working on.”
Her heart sped up. “Really?”
“I think so, but hear him out and see what you think. Look, Jo, he’ll only meet with you. Otherwise, the deal is off.”
“Of course. Where and when does he want to meet?”
Jo dug through her purse and pulled out a small pad of paper, jotting down: Nina’s at 10:00 a.m. When he had finished, she said, “Can you get him to meet sooner, like tonight? I can meet him in an hour.”
“Hang on. Let me ask.”
When she waited for John to come back on the line, she couldn’t hear his conversation with Billy, as if John had covered the phone with his hand. Finally, he returned. “Sorry, Jo. He said he’s got some important things to take care of tonight.” His voice was firm when he continued, “Tomorrow morning at ten or the deal is off.”
Jo was disappointed at the delay, but she didn’t feel like she could push Billy harder for an earlier meeting. She didn’t want to spook him. “I’ll be there. Great work, Doctor. May have to put you on the FBI payroll.”
Jo could hear the humor in his voice when he responded, “Oh, I think I have enough on my plate as is.” He paused for a moment, and then continued, “Look, Jo, I gotta run. Let’s talk later.”
“Oh, John. One more thing. Tell Billy to be careful tonight. If we are on the right track, he may be in danger.”
“Trust me; the thought has already crossed his mind.”
She clicked off the call and turned to Frisco. “Well, that was an interesting turn of events.”
“Yeah, you could say that. How did John end up talking to the guy we were looking for?”
Jo shrugged. “The kid was trying to see Rick Wilson. John couldn’t let him in the hospital room, but got him talking. Sounds like MacGregor has some news for us. I’ll meet with him tomorrow morning. One thing, though. John said the kid will only talk to me.”
“No problemo. I’ve got enough other stuff to follow up on and I need to check to see how much progress my co-worker Riley has made on the other two vics. Gotta tell you, it feels more and more like this case is about Wilson, not the others.”
“I’m with you on that.”
The waitress arrived with their order and neither spoke for some time as they both tucked in to the steaming plates in front of them.
***
John Goodman ended his phone call with Jo and looked at the young man sitting across from him. “She’ll meet you tomorrow at Nina’s. You won’t regret this.”
Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Shit, I already do. But I owe it to Rick.”
He stood up. “Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the coffee and, well, you know. Thanks for helping Rick.”
John stood up and grasped the young man’s hand. “Good luck, Billy and take care of yourself.”
Billy MacGregor’s eyes were watery when he quietly responded, “I ‘preciate that, Doc.”
As he watched Billy walk away, John couldn’t help worry about the kid. He put their mugs of now cold coffee in the dish bins and headed to his locker in the doctor’s lounge.
He slipped on his running clothes and headed out the door. Might as well get in a lap or two around Lake Calhoun before I head home.
***
In spite of the cooler temperatures, the path around the lake was as busy as ever, crowded with people trying to get into - or stay in - shape. All looked to be enjoying the beautiful late fall day.
John began running on the three-mile asphalt trail, and passed by an elderly couple walking their yellow Labrador. His body fell into the rhythm of his stride and his mind soon tuned out the people around him. He thought more about Jo and their life together.
About half way around the lake, he glanced across the street at the house he and Jo had always admired. It was a classic Tudor, set atop a small, well-manicured hill, with a paver stairway that wound gracefully down towards the lake. They had often wondered who might live in the house. Today, he noticed a for-sale sign in the yard.
As he continued on his run, he pictured himself living there with Jo. Quickly, his thoughts morphed into raising kids there with her.
He almost came to a dead stop when he realized he wanted kids for the first time in his life. Admittedly, he didn’t have a clue about how Jo felt about having children. The topic had never come up, which, he reflected, might be an indicator of how she felt about motherhood.
John rounded the corner by Thomas beach, and made up his mind to bring up the subject soon. But how do I approach it?
As he began a second lap around the lake, he concluded he’d rather have a happy Jo with no kids, than an unhappy Jo with kids and no career.
John’s thoughts bounced back to the house he had noticed earlier. Jo loves her house and she just painted the office. It would be too much change to expect her to think about getting married and moving to a new home, all at once.
Frustrated, he lengthened his stride. Passing the house once again, he thought, It is a beautiful house. He made a mental note to look up the listing, just out of curiosity. We could paint the office in a new house the same shade of green….
The funny part was that John could picture them as parents, there in that house. A part of him noted there was room for a playground in the back yard.
Jo may not want kids, most likely not. He realized he shouldn’t get his hopes up and pushed himself hard for the final
yards of his run.
Chapter Thirteen
Turners Bend
October
CHIP WAS FEELING BETTER. Jane had returned from Ames, leaving Runt behind for physical therapy and the eventual removal of the exterior fixator on his broken leg.
“Really, Chip, he’s making amazing progress. He’s eager to please his therapist and working hard on his balance. By the time we bring him home, he’ll be walking, maybe even running. There’s an online support group for owners of tripawds. You should check it out,” suggested Jane.
Chip goggled tripawds
and was encouraged to see how many dogs survive with three legs. He did groan, however, when the site referred to owners as “pawents.” Nevertheless, the advice on exercise and massage made him feel less apprehensive about caring for Runt.
“Let’s go for breakfast at the Bun,” said Chip. “I’m beginning to feel disconnected from our friends and want to catch up on what’s happening.”
Jane laughed and shook her head. “Well, there is never a lack of gossip at the Bun, that’s for sure. Plus, I want to see what Bernice has baked today.”
***
The Bun was full of regulars, folks who frequented the café almost every weekday. Jane and Chip stopped at each table and were greeted with questions about the accident and Runt’s welfare. Chip marveled at the friendliness of a small community. Two years ago he had arrived not knowing a soul, a stranger in a strange place, and now he was one of them, married to a hometown woman.
They finally settled at a table with Chief Fredrickson and his wife Flora, the City Clerk. Chip took a quick visual scan of the café…no strangers with mustaches in sight.
“Lordy, lordy, Chip, aren’t you a sight?” said Flora. “Have one of Bernice’s new creations. First it was those Maple Bacon things and now it’s Apple Cranberry Fritters. I don’t know how I am going to keep my girlish waistline.” Chip guessed Flora hadn’t had a waistline in many years, but he knew it was best to keep that supposition to himself. He ordered fritters and coffee for himself and Jane.
“Chief, what’s the story on that Mueller guy? Is he a nutcase or what?” asked Chip.
Ignoring that the question was posed to her husband, Flora answered. “He is the only son of Hans and Greta Mueller; they once owned the butcher shop in town. He joined the army during Desert Storm and came back a mess, probably had PTSD. After his parents died, he bought that place out on County Road 17 and got real weird. He joined one of those anti-government patriot groups and calls his place the Republic of Iowa.”
“He’s relatively harmless,” added the chief. “The two of us have an agreement; he stays out of Turners Bend and I leave him alone.”
“But he took a shot at us,” said Chip. “I wouldn’t call that harmless.”
“That was just a warning shot. Believe me, if he had wanted to shoot you, you’d be dead. The guy was a sharp-shooter in the war.”
“Oh dear, look at the time, Walter,” said Flora. “We have a city and a police department to run. We’re glad to see you up and around, Chip. Take care.”
As the two exited the café, they passed Lance Williams, the husband of Chip’s literary agent, as he was entering. As always, Lance looked like he walked off the pages of GQ. Tall, slim, always impeccably dressed. He was an architect turned organic vegetable farmer and a transplant from Chicago. Lance was wearing designer jeans and a pink Polo shirt. Not too many men could pull off wearing a pink shirt, especially in Turners Bend, but Lance could, thought Chip.
Lance joined Jane and Chip at their table. “Just the two people I wanted to talk with,” said Lance. “Lucinda’s got me worried and I need your advice.”
“Baby fever getting out of hand?” asked Jane.
“It’s entirely my fault, you know, low sperm count and slow swimmers,” Lance said, his face flushing as he averted his eyes from Jane. “Lucinda’s now hunting for a baby online and madly putting together a nursery and researching baby names and signing us up for parenting classes, you name it. But…” Lance hesitated.
“But what, Lance? You don’t want a baby, is that it?” guessed Chip.
“Oh no, I want a baby as much as Lucinda does. It’s just that I’m uneasy about searching for a baby online. When I brought it up with Lucinda, we had a row and it ended badly.”
Bernice came by with refills and Lance ordered bacon and eggs and black coffee.
Jane ventured forth with advice. “There are lots of adoption scams out there, Lance. It’s best to adopt through a legitimate agency. There are several safer options. The internet is just too risky.”
“Maybe if you would talk to her, Jane, she would listen. She won’t accept anything I say right now.”
“Sure, I’ll give it a try. She’ll see reason soon.”
***
Jane dropped Chip off back at home and went on to make several farm visits. Getting back to work, Chip placed a call to Special Agent Angela Masterson at her office in Omaha. Agent Masterson had been involved in several local cases, and Chip and she had become friends. Or at least as close as he suspected anyone got to the formidable FBI agent. She was not available, and he was transferred to another agent, Josh Klein, whom Chip had also met.
“Agent Klein, this is Chip Collingsworth from Turners Bend, Iowa. I don’t know if you remember me or not.”
“Actually, Mr. Collingsworth, you are quite unforgettable. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk with Agent Masterson about a plot point I need to clarify for a book I’m writing. I understand she’s not in the office. Could you have her call me?”
“Agent Masterson has been transferred to our Chicago office, but I can get a message to her. Your saucy FBI agent having troubles?”
“Nothing I can’t write her out of, Klein. I’ve got Agent Masterson’s cell number. I’ll contact her myself. Thanks.” He placed a call to her cell and left a message.
Chip was trying to distract himself with work, but his thoughts kept returning to the events in Minneapolis and his car accident. They were always there nagging at the back of his mind like a toothache. Instead of working on his book, he placed a call to Chief Fredrickson about something he had forgotten to ask him at the Bun.
“Walter, Chip here. Just wondering if you have heard anything more from Franco lately.”
“Funny you should ask. I just got an update from him. Nothing definite on Finnegan’s murder. The bullet they removed from your car did not match the bullet that killed Finnegan. Not a big surprise, though. Most criminals these days have a whole arsenal of weapons.”
“Did he have any information about the parking ramp shooter?”
“Said he has both the FBI and immigration people looking into Gomez. Seems he might be an illegal from South America. I told Franco about your road incident down here. Although there’s no obvious connection with Finnegan’s murder, Franco and I agreed not to dismiss it and to keep each other posted.”
“I’m worried, Chief. Not only for myself but for Jane and Ingrid, too.”
“Can’t say as I blame you. I’m going to assign Deputy Anderson to keep a watch on you, so if you see him nosing around you’ll know why. I’ll give the county sheriff a call and see if he can provide some back-up for us.
The news from Franco further disturbed Chip. He had experienced a wide range of emotions in his life ranging from euphoria to deep depression, but his recent experiences with fear were new to him. He outwardly tried to downplay his brushes with death, but in the pit of his stomach was an ever-growing ball of terror.
Someone is trying to kill me, hunting me down. Right now I could be in the cross-hairs of some deranged killer.
Chip had written about psychopathic killers. Jo Schwann had been stalked by one, but Jo was an FBI agent trained to control fear. Plus, she carried a gun. He thought about getting a gun, recalling Franco’s question about packing a firearm. He wondered if Jane had a gun. It
was something he had never thought to ask his wife
.
Chapter Fourteen
Head Shot
Minneapolis, MN
Late October
JOHN GOODMAN UNLOADED groceries, while Cleo wound her way in and out of his legs. Caddy barked twice and John chuckled. “Okay, okay. I get it. You guys are hungry. Jeez, a little patience here.”
He served their dinner, and then started on his own. After the chicken went into the oven, he turned on the stereo and poured himself a glass of red wine.
John decided he had enough time to begin organizing his new home office. He uncovered his desk and pushed
it into place. Once he was satisfied with its placement, he climbed the stairs to the attic, and pulled out the boxes stored there since his move to Minneapolis. Dust motes flew around the unused space and John sneezed several times.
He dug through a box of medical textbooks and smiled when he found a faded snapshot that fell from between the pages of one of them. It was of Mark Tinsdale, his college roommate. Mark was now an FBI agent and was the reason John occasionally helped the bureau on cases related to brain injuries. If it for weren’t for his old buddy, John would never would have met Jo. He made a mental note to give Mark a call tomorrow and thank him for sending him to Minnesota in the first place.
John carried down a few of the boxes and put some of the books on the shelves. When he realized he was missing his desk lamp, he climbed the stairs once more, Caddy in tow. “Finished with dinner and decided to explore with me, huh? Nice to have the company.”
He knelt down to dig through a few more boxes, but still didn’t find the lamp. He stood up, brushing the dust off his knees and looked around the room. In a far corner, he could see an object covered in a sheet. Curious, he stepped over a beat-up trunk and stood in front of the object. It was flat and rectangular in shape, about three feet tall by two feet wide. Caddy gingerly sniffed at the sheet and looked at him as if to say, “Well, don’t you want to know what it is?”
“Guess we’ll have to investigate.” When he carefully pulled the sheet away, he saw it was a portrait of a gray-haired man dressed in a dark suit. The man had struck a solemn pose, but John detected a twinkle in his green eyes.
While he had never met the man, John knew immediately this was Jo’s father. He had died years ago, when Jo was still in high school. There was no mistaken those green eyes; they held the same hint of mischief he saw in Jo’s face every day.
“I’ll be damned.” John knew Jo still struggled with her father’s death, all these years later. The first time he and Jo had been intimate, Jo told him the sad tale about her father. He had been well-loved by everyone in the community, until he had been falsely accused of making sexual advances toward a patient. He was eventually cleared of all charges, but his reputation had been destroyed and he took his own life, leaving Jo an orphan.
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 8