I was surprised. "You haven't seemed nervous."
Sam interrupted. "Hey; you guys? By the way, I checked these two out, the ex-agents? They're legit, apparently, he's a—"
Emily's feet scraped the wood floor like a dog in a Disney cartoon and she mouthed two crisp barks, her pads finally found purchase on the oak and she ran at warp speed to the front door. I told her. "Quiet." and she barked louder.
I repeated myself. So did she.
Lauren watched my charade with the dog and then, in a firm voice, said. "Emily; sit." Emily did.
"Down." Emily lowered herself to her haunches.
Reluctantly; I thought.
"Stay." Emily stayed.
Lauren looked at me and admonished. "You have to work with her if you want her to listen to you."
Sam found Lauren's comment particularly amusing.
Outside, two car doors slammed, a moment later the doorbell rang and Emily whimpered and stared plaintively at Lauren. But she stayed down.
The ex-agents stood at the front door looking like a couple that had been married a long time. Milt towered over A.J, but he seemed to soften his contours so as not to overwhelm her petite form, she was dressed in a yellow pantsuit, actually; it could better be described as a YELLOW pantsuit. It would have had to pale considerably to approach the brilliance of a ripe banana, the woman liked color.
The two ex-FBI agents were, appropriately, mora interested in Sam Purdy and Emily than they were in Lauren and me. I wondered if Simes and Custer accurately assessed that the one who wasn't growling at them was actually the more dangerous of the two strangers.
Lauren said. "Hello. Please come in. Please, that's Emily— she's more harmless than she looks, and this is Sam Purdy. Sam. Dr. a. J. Simes and Milt Custer. Formerly of the FBI."
Sam said. "Hello. Doctor. Mr. Custer." Everyone shook hands with exaggerated civility.
Simes looked at me and asked. "Is Mr. Purdy your attorney?"
I was about to ask if I needed one but was distracted by Milt, he was shaking his head as though he'd already discerned Sam's role.
Sam laughed out loud and said. "Hardly. It's 'Detective' Purdy- I'm a friend of these two, they asked me to listen in, if you don't mind. I'm just here to provide another point of view."
"You are a detective with ... ?" The question came from Simes, she didn't say whether or not she minded that Sam was present. I guessed that she did.
"Boulder Police Department."
She nodded to herself and responded crisply, "I'm not sure I understand. None of what we are discussing with Dr. Gregory and Ms. Crowder has taken place in
Boulder. Detective."
Sam shrugged, said. "Yet." and he let the word hang like a belch at the dinner table. "Regardless. I'm not here in a capacity that's any more official than yours. Dr. Simes."
With that little volley complete. Lauren suggested we all move into the living room.
Milt was wearing a sport coat, which he shed as we moved to the other side of the house. Beneath the jacket was a polo shirt that had a little logo on it and the word "Augusta." I guessed golf. Milt helped Simes onto a chair before filling one end of the sofa. Sam took the other end. Other than the size of their heads— Sam's was too big. Milt's too small— the two men were about the same size and shape.
Lauren offered wine and everyone declined. Beer? No, anything?
No.
Lauren asked Simes whether the temperature in the house was okay, whether she was comfortable.
Simes eyed her curiously, took a deep breath, and said. "Fine. Thank you for so much for asking, and it's so kind of you to offer to feed us after the bad news we've brought your way."
Milt said "Yes. Kind."
"If what you suspect turns out to be true." Lauren
replied, "you're the ones doing us a kindness, anyway, our brief history together in restaurants has not been particularly auspicious."
Milt laughed generously and said. "I'm glad you see it that way. It's been my experience that in these circumstances, people often prefer just to shoot the messenger and be done with it."
Sam reached forward and scooped up a handful of cashews, he began popping the nuts into his mouth one at a time. I found the activity distracting and assumed that was his intent.
I faced Simes and said. "On the phone this morning, you suggested to Lauren that you would have some new information for us tonight, maybe we should get right to it, clear the air before we eat. This. I don't know— whole situation— is leaving us a little on the anxious side."
Sam smacked his lips loudly and sucked some nut fragments from a crevice near his upper molars. Everyone looked his wav. "Hev, before we move on to new
J J *
information, let's review what we know already. I'm in a secondhand position here, and I don't like being in a secondhand position." He faced Milt. "You ever like getting briefed by the briefees and not the briefers? Me neither. I prefer to hear it from the guy who develops it, the source."
Milt seemed to be taking Sam's measure but didn't hesitate long before he launched into a synopsized rendition of the tale of the dead doctors. I didn't like hearing the parable the second time any more than I had liked hearing it the first. When Custer finally finished. I expected some questions for him from Sam. Instead, Sam leaned forward and grabbed some more cashews.
Simes raised her chin toward the western sky, smiled at Lauren, and said. "This view up here is lovely. Just lovely. I don't know how you ever manage to leave to go to work."
The sun had disappeared behind the Flatirons and the splintered high clouds above the mountains were lighting up in pastels, the dark canyons— Boulder and Sunshine— knifed back into the Front Range like jutting black holes. It was lovely. I have never grown tired of it.
Sam said. "Yeah, it's gorgeous. But that's not all you got, right?" His tone was matter-of-fact, not at all confrontational.
Simes spun on him, her eyes blinked a split second apart, she parted her lips slightly but thought better of speaking.
Sam continued. "If that's all you have, you would have spent some more time developing things before scaring the shit out of my friends. If this guy strikes the way you say he does, he strikes slowly. Time isn't the issue. Still, you follow Alan and Lauren from a funeral and spring this on them in a cafe over brunch? And you don't breathe a word to the local law enforcement authorities who might have an interest in protecting them?"
A. J. Simes seemed more irritated than defensive as she said. "WeVe discussed these deaths with each of the local jurisdictions where they have occurred. Detective, weVe—"
"Call me Sam."
"Sam, weVe met with varying degrees of, shall I say, skepticism, about our suggestion that each of the deaths may have been a homicide, weVe met with even greater skepticism about our hypothesis that a single offender may be responsible for the entire series of murders. It's my opinion that the evidence becomes compelling only when it is viewed in its entirety."
Sam popped another nut. "But, by now. I'm sure you’ve run your suspicions by your colleagues in Virginia. My guess is that theyVe had the opportunity to view this in its entirety; right? Why didn't they bite?"
"Perhaps." Simes said, "they have had the benefit of sufficient experience..." She paused and seemed to be choosing her words with increased care.".., with similar crimes to recognize the inherent difficulty in connecting evidence from disparate homicides with varying MOs over extended time periods."
Sam ignored the professional dig, sat all the way back against the cushions of the sofa, shook his head, and turned to face me. "They've decided there is something you don't need to know, alan. I'll be damned if I know why that is, hey, is anybody hungry here but me?"
I was growing more anxious rather than less. Sam's presence was supposed to make me feel better, not worse. I reminded myself that I trusted his instincts. I said. "Chicken will take about five minutes on the grill. Sam."
"Why don't you go out there and get it started?
I'm starving, sherry says I shouldn't eat too many nuts."
I waited a moment to see if either Simes or Custer was more easily provoked than I expected— they weren't— so I stood and walked to the kitchen. Lauren and I exchanged puzzled glances. I grabbed the marinated chicken from the refrigerator and carried it outside to the grill, while she began to arrange the rice and the cold food on the table. In the middle, she placed a big galvanized bucket full of beer bottles and ice. Loudly, Sam reminded her not to forget to include Budweiser. I heard him belatedly call out "Please."
Inside, the three cops started talking. From my vantage on the deck. I couldn't hear them. Simes had moved from her chair to a perch on the edge of the coffee table. Each was leaning forward into their tight huddle. I guessed they were engaging in conspiratorial whispers abut what it was safe to reveal to me and Lauren regardina the man who might be plotting to kill me.
The fact that I wasn't included pissed me off.
NINE
The chicken charred up beautifully; and as I carried the platter inside the aromas of jasmine and fish sauce and sesame mingled together in a wonderful Southeast Asian symphony.
I said. "Dinner is served."
Small plates of green papaya salad graced each place setting. Beers were passed around.
I drank. I picked at the papaya salad, one of my absolutely favorite foods in the world. I drank some more beer. Other than the sounds of mastication, the table was silent. I couldn't stand it.
"Okay, tell me." I said. "What the hell's going on?"
Sam smiled at the other guests and asked. "May I?"
Simes nodded.
Sam wolfed down the rest of his salad and placed his fork on the plate. I was glad he liked the salad. I had no plans to tell him that the main ingredient was under-ripe papaya.
"They didn't want to tell you yet, Alan, they would have preferred to wait, develop things a little more.
Problem is that without help from one of the doctors who was there in ‘982, this investigation could stall out like Sherry's mini-van trying to climb up to the Eisenhower Tunnel."
"Go on."
"The social worker you used to work with—" He stopped himself and looked across the table at Simes and Custer. "Here I am doing it. One of you should tell this story."
Milt checked with Simes, she closed her eyes regally.
"The social worker on Eight East was a woman named Lorna Pope. You remember her?"
I nodded. I remembered Lorna well, the social worker was responsible for the initial family evaluations for patients admitted to the unit, all the interns and residents worked closely with her. I said. "Loma was an interesting woman, she was dating a Denver Bronco at the time I was on the unit, a placekicker. I think, she was a sports nut; a great skier. Had a healthy disdain for the residents and interns. Refused to date them. If I remember correctly, her father was a doctor, she used to say that although they might need one in an operating room, she couldn't imagine needing one in a bedroom. Something like that, that was Lorna."
Milt said. "Once again. I'm impressed. I hope you remember as much about all the patients as you do about the staff."
"Please don't tell me that Loma is dead, too."
Simes spoke. "We don't know, her family doesn't know, she.., um, she disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"She went on holiday to New Zealand with her new husband, her third, they vanished."
Third? "Vanished?"
"Went out one day sightseeing, never came back to their hotel, their car was discovered in a church parking lot on the other side of the island a week later. Nobody remembers seeing them."
I swallowed some beer. "Passports?"
"In the safe in their hotel room."
"Are they presumed dead?"
"No. It hasn't been long enough yet, they're listed by the U.S, embassy as missing."
I was almost numb. I was actually thinking, So what? What's one more? It was easier to think of her as number six, not as Lorna. I'd liked her a lot. Lusted after her a little. To myself, as much as anyone. I said. "I'm so sorry." Like Simes and Custer. I was assuming she was dead.
Sam said. "Tell them when. Milt, they need to hear when."
Milt said. "Yeah, That's what's important. When. See, she disappeared in July. July of this year."
The meaning of those words didn't immediately register, then I heard Lauren gasp.
I asked, "July? Two months ago? This July?"
Simes replied. "Yes, this July. Please keep in mind that we haven't been able to pin this one down at all, we're discussing events in New Zealand, not New Jersey. It could all be coincidence, we don't know."
I stated the obvious. "But if it was him, things are compressing. Timewise. Things are compressing, aren't they? That's the concern?"
Simes answered. "If it was him. Yes. If it was him in New Zealand, we're looking at a rapid, rapid acceleration in his activities. If it was him, it means that he has committed three murders in a little over seven months."
Milt said. "Four. Don't forget Loraa's husband."
"That's right. Four."
"So he could be stalking me right now. Or Sawyer, he could be planning to kill one of us tomorrow?"
Simes said. "He could. I don't think so. But, yes, he could."
I disagreed with her earlier contention. "You do want to alarm me. You don't only want to warn me, you also want to scare me into helping you."
Incongruously, Simes said, "This is fabulous chicken, isn't it. Milt? But the answer to your question is yes, the danger to you may be more acute than we revealed yesterday, we wanted to develop the New Zealand situation a little better before we discussed it with vou, and the need for your assistance is, well, crucial. But I think we made that clear yesterday."
I touched my lips with my tongue. Gazed over at Lauren. I could see the fear in her eyes. It was the same wariness I saw in her violet eyes when she had the first inkling of a fresh exacerbation of multiple sclerosis, during those hours when she didn't know if she was going to be merely annoyed by the progression of her disease, or debilitated by it.
I said. "If you're looking for the names of patients, you'll need to look elsewhere, as you well know. Dr. Simes, ethically I can't start giving you the names of patients from back then. Nearly all of them are absolutely innocent, at this point in time, none of us can predict the impact on their lives of revealing their identities and their histories."
Milt said. "But we may be able to predict the impact of not revealing their identities."
Simes said. "I promise we will be discreet."
"That doesn't cut it. You know that."
She closed her eyes for twice the length of a blink. Opening them, she said. "Dr. Faire said you would say that."
With the mention of Sawyer's name. I suddenly felt a tightness in my chest and abdomen. I was afraid I was going to burp.
She said "Dr. Faire, that's right."
"I thought you said you hadn't found her." I told myself I hadn't stammered, but I had.
"That's not quite correct, we haven't seen her. But we spoke with her this morning by telephone and will meet with her soon, she's implied that she wouldn't cooperate unless you did."
The jasmine rice in my mouth seemed to congeal into a plug of gelatin the size of a golf ball.
I couldn't swallow. Lauren asked me if I was all right, her tone told me she already knew the answer to her own question.
No more than a minute later, Sam's partner, Lucy, paged him to let him know that the search warrant had arrived and that the smell coming from the old house on North Broadway was, indeed, exactly what everyone's nose suspected it was, he excused himself to investigate the suspicious death.
But before Sam could throw his napkin onto the table, Simes announced that they, too, should be going.
Within ninety seconds, the table was empty of guests, the lane was empty of cars, and Lauren and I were alone.
I told her I would clean up the kitchen.
She
told me she would take Emily out for a few minutes and then get ready for bed.
Twenty minutes later I walked downstairs, quietly peed and brushed my teeth, took off all my clothes, and climbed into bed, the west windows were cracked open and the dry, cool autumn air left the room perfect for sleeping. I curled onto my side and scrunched the pillow under my ear. I was trying hard not to think about Lorna, and was failing.
I was trying hard not to think about Sawyer. I was failing at that, too.
I was trying hard not to think about someone trying to kill me.
I was failing at that, too.
I just wanted to sleep.
Beside me. Lauren's breathing was slow and sang the soothing rhythm of slumber. I tried to match the cadence, to be captured by whatever peacefulness she'd found. But my mind quickly crossed the Pacific, and I was wondering what part of New Zealand Lorna had been visiting when Lauren's voice startled me, she said. "You awake, babe?"
"Yeah." I said, trying to sound sleepy.
"This is really scary, Alan."
"Yeah, it sure is. I don't know what to do next. My first impulse is to call the cops, but the cops and FBI are the ones who called me."
"You have to consider helping them, Custer and Simes. You know that. This guy, he could try to kill you tomorrow."
"I know. I checked all the doors twice before I came down here. I think we'd better get an alarm installed."
"This killer, this guy, he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who is stopped by alarms."
"Still. Can't hurt."'
"I have a better idea. Let's move back to my place on the Hill. I'm between tenants, there are more neighbors in town than here, that house already has an alarm installed."
"And do what here?"
"Cancel our weekend in Taos. Use the time to move out. Turn this place over to the contractor. Get the remodeling over with. This isn't the time to go away. Not with all this hanging over our heads."
"I thought going away seemed like a great idea."
"Not under the circumstances, sweets. It didn't work for your friend Lorna. It didn't work for Arnie Dresser, we have a few little problems to solve first."
I rolled toward her, her body was cool and soft, we struggled for a moment to find a position that was right.
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