“Harmon, you okay?”
My mind was meshing these cases. If Jack realized it, he’d doubt my focus on the Cooper case. I didn’t want him to see my own doubts, so I kept my eyes closed. “Just… a long night.”
Up front, Eleanor warbled something from “South Pacific.” But her breathing was shallow, leaving a quavering question at the end of each note. Listening to the sound, my heart squeezed, recalling all its pain, the all-too-familiar pain and fear and loss. I wanted to reach out, grab something, hold it close. Or someone.
But that wasn’t happening.
When we reached Eleanor’s house. Jack and Marvelous walked her to the door, Eleanor’s boots dragging like weights, her thin legs fragile bones. While they helped her upstairs to her bedroom, I brought Madame outside. Although I watched her explore the darkness of the lawn, my mind whirled.
“Harmon.”
I turned.
Jack was coming down the back steps, the gentle light from the kitchen falling around his body. His face dissolved into the darkness. “What did you find in the back of the bar?”
Madame trotted over, sniffing my boots. Several burrs of sawdust still clung to the shiny black plastic.
“Sally’s got a shrine to Cooper.”
“Shrine?”
I described the back room walls, the news clippings from across the country and around the world. “Forty years of stories. Laminated, preserved.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. She runs a festival.”
“And maps. She’s got flight maps. And one that looks identical to the map used by the Bureau, made by the Bureau.” I showed him the photos on my phone. The precise metrics, the calculus with the time that plane left Sea-Tac Airport, speed of flight, and wind current. “It’s not some idle speculation. That map has his jump point marked with some kind of mathematical precision. Like it was known. And see the end point? Sally’s Bar.”
The house lights illuminated half his face. “You actually believe a bunch of gamblers could keep their mouths shut all these years?”
“I don’t know. But how does a guy jump out of a plane and leave no trace whatsoever, not even a lost shoe. Not even a piece of the parachute, snagged on a tree?”
He watched Madame as she trotted back to the lawn, sniffing the bushes at the edge of the property. “I’ll call Grant,” he said. “You plan on being at the Bureau first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Do you really have to?”
He turned. “Do I really have to…?”
“Call Grant. He’s not exactly helping.”
“It’s his case, Harmon.”
I faced him, crossing my arms and not caring if the exasperation showed on my face. Or leaked out of my voice. “Yes, it’s his case. But I’m a hired consultant. I shouldn’t have to find things out by listening to the radio.”
“It’s my fault.” Jack shoved his hands into his front pockets. “You two got off on the wrong foot.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
I shook my head. “I don’t trust him.”
“Harmon—”
“Jack, why did he release that information to the media before we even had a chance to chase down leads?”
“Look.” His face snapped toward me. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“How?”
“Tonight. That guy—Earl, was it? He told you Sally raced up to Raymond, searching for money. If Grant didn’t release anything, how would we even know about her level of interest?”
“Okay. But another thousand people also went digging up there. And for your information, I could’ve gotten Earl to confide everything without Grant’s interference.”
“So now you’re a honey pot?”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Hey, you wore the miniskirt and go-go boots.”
I turned my back on him. My pulse flicked at my neck.
“Harmon, calm down. All I’m saying is, nobody knows more about Cooper than Grant. Don’t question him on that because you’re already on …”
He stopped, the rest of his words floating away unspoken into the night.
“Because I’m already on thin ice.” I watched Madame coming back to me but my eyes burned. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe Sally’s just a fangirl for Cooper. And maybe Cooper provides hope for a certain segment of the Northwest. He’s the hero who beat the same system that took away their logging and regulated gambling and generally failed everyone who lives outside the city. Maybe I just don’t—”
Jack reached out, taking my arm. “I just don’t want to see you get burned. Again.”
My throat was closing, tight. I drew in a deep breath, holding it, tasting a faint remnant of the bar’s smoky odor still clinging to our clothing. But something else ran beneath that sordid stench, something clean as deep ground water flowing through granite bedrock. Jack’s scent. I wanted to drink it in, bathe in it until all of tonight’s fear and condemnation washed away.
“Alright?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Have Marvin get Eleanor to the doctor first thing tomorrow.”
I nodded again. It felt like I was choking. “I’ll try.” Because that’s all my life came to these days. Trying. And trying again.
“Okay,” he said, letting go of my arm. “See you tomorrow morning?”
Another nod.
For a moment, he stood still. I drew another deep breath. Once upon a time, this man felt secure, safe. One calm harbor in a sea of hurt. Now I could see my mistake. I should’ve listened to my instincts. Just like I told Lani that morning on the riverbank, Everybody needs an escape hatch. Because that was how you kept your heart safe—by not exposing it in the first place.
When he walked toward his Jeep, I leaned down and picked up Madame. Her black tail swept back and forth, back and forth, as I headed for the house, as if that tail could brush away all the misery in the world.
24
The next morning, exactly one week from Thanksgiving, I wasn’t giving thanks.
Agent Pierce Grant paced in front of me, his words hitting me like buckshot. “Can you explain to us how you ‘discovered’ this back room?”
Once again, we were penned in McLeod’s new office. I was liking this place less and less. When he was my boss in Violent Crimes, McLeod seemed like a good-hearted if somewhat bumbling manager. He mixed up words, but his aim was true. Now it seemed more like what Machiavelli said—power changed people.
“It wouldn’t be prudent to go into specifics,” I said.
“Oh, not again.” McLeod rubbed his face, scratching whiskers that never seemed to leave his cheeks even after a morning shave. “Raleigh, I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Sir, I’m a private citizen. What I choose to do on my own time—”
“Hold it right there.” Grant cut me off. “That wasn’t your own time. You’re a consultant for the FBI.”
“Not last night.”
He offered a condescending smile. “Oh, really?”
“If you’re going to insist I went there as an FBI consultant, then you’ll need to explain to your superiors why I misrepresented myself, and the Bureau. Especially when I didn’t receive undercover clearance from anybody in this room.” Silence. It was golden. “And that’s why I won’t be filing any paperwork on what transpired. Last night was something done on my own time.”
McLeod shifted his gaze to Jack, who stood once again in his usual spot, quiet and stern as a drugstore Indian.
“Did you wear a costume?” McLeod asked him.
“I wore what I always wear,” Jack said. “Regular FBI clothing.”
“Bullcrap!” Grant bellowed. “Agents are always on duty. Anybody who thinks otherwise gets fired like this girlie who—”
“I’m not a girlie.” I seethed. “And I wasn’t fired.”
Grant’s head snapped toward McLeod, looking for backup. But truth took a stand—a wobbling stand—but enough to make Grant’s red face blotchy. In some sick s
ection of my heart, his distress gave me great pleasure. It didn’t last. As I stared at him, I could see the veneer of cunning wiping away the blotches.
“Let’s table this discussion for now,” Grant said. “I’d like to talk about all the incoming calls we’ve had since releasing the info to the media.”
“Good,” McLeod nodded. “The media tip-off was a smart move.”
“Now my problem is, I need some help tracking down the tips and leads.”
“Anything we can do?”
Grant turned toward me, slowly, like a bloated rattlesnake spying more prey. “I think it’d be best if you tracked down the leads.”
“Me?”
He smiled. “You found the money. You have certain insights.”
“I can’t—” I swallowed, bitterness like vinegar. I looked at McLeod, tried again. “Sir, I’m working another case, as I told you. It demands serious time commitments. I don’t have extra hours to devote to tracking down all these incoming calls, which may or may not offer workable information.”
“That’s true.” Grant smiled, the poisonous fangs gleaming. “Looks like we need to find another consultant. Somebody who will give us their full commitment.”
“Great idea.” Jack pushed himself off the wall, striding over to McLeod’s big shiny authority desk. “Let’s find another geologist with forensic experience who is right here in Seattle who also found the bills so we can start over from square one right before Thanksgiving. Grant, you don’t mind if we solve the Cooper case after you retire, do you?”
I only glanced to the side, but Grant’s sausage fingers were ferociously digging into his chair’s padded armrest. “I’m sure we can find somebody. Especially somebody who’s not a loose cannon.”
“Really.” Jack shook his head. “Your old geologist on this case said Harmon seems like a superior investigator.”
My heart flipped. And flopped. Then sat down and cried. Superior investigator. How romantic.
“Pierce,” McLeod said, always addressing Grant by his first name. “I’ve worked with Raleigh long enough to know she’s tenacious. She’ll stay on the trail until she gets solid answers. If we start over without her, this case will be deader than a hangnail.”
Doornail. My tongue pressed the back of my teeth.
“But,” McLeod continued, “let’s reestablish some ground rules. Again. Grant’s in charge. Jack’s the point person. And Raleigh, you take their orders. Can you do that? Because if you can’t, just say the verb.”
“Pardon?”
“Say the verb and we’ll find another consultant.”
Word. I glanced back at Jack, and the cold hard facts came back to me. I was a hired hand. And I was not here to get approval, even from the gorgeous guy wearing a blank expression that only reminded me of treacherous water. Calm on the surface, turbulence below.
I turned back to the boss of all bosses. “Sir, I would be more than happy to help track down incoming leads, but I’m sure some young agent could learn a lot about—”
“Young agents need hand-holding.” McLeod gave another face-scratch. “They can sully the waters—”
Muddy—do you hear me? Muddy!
“—especially with the Cooper case. We can’t wait around for somebody to learn how to do things. Raleigh, you need to understand something. This case is not the average investigation. Cooper is the only unsolved airline hijacking, ever. And it was in our territory.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Back when I worked here, I used to wonder why certain people went into law enforcement. For me, the reason was simple—geology and justice. When my dad was killed, it became more about the dead, the forgotten. But Agent Pierce Grant?
I glanced over. Grant was that odious kid from elementary school who came in early from recess to tattle on anybody who cut in line, shaved a base run, or spiked the water fountain. Even worse, some authority figure way back in his sniveling childhood days rewarded that snitchy behavior and now we were stuck with him. The Bureau forced agents to retire at age fifty-seven and at fifty-six and three-quarters, Grant was chasing down the ghost that haunted him—taunted him—the case that The Finder couldn’t find.
Cooper nightmares probably woke him in the middle of the night, like some smoldering campfire in the back of his mind.
“I understand, sir,” I told McLeod. “But dropping my other work would be unfair to my new boss. I’m sure you would agree.”
The authority angle struck a target. This time, as McLeod glanced at Grant, I didn’t dare even look to see his death-grip fingers. I only heard his sigh, the reluctant defeat from an arrogant jerk, a sound like air brakes on an old bus.
I’d won the battle.
But the war? No way.
Grant leaned forward, stabbing his index finger into McLeod’s shiny desk. “I want it clear, right here.” Stab. “If I find anything that requires her attention, she follows my orders. Mine.” Stab. “And if she ever—” stab “goes behind my back again, she’s fired.”
McLeod, like some tennis referee, turned his gaze to me. “I need an affirmative answer, Raleigh. Yes or no?”
You moron. I wanted to say. ‘Affirmative’ always means Yes.
“Yes, sir. I understand the urgency, and I’m moving as quickly as possible. But I’m still waiting on something that’s beyond my control.”
“What’s that?”
“The bills I dug up.” I turned to Grant. “I still haven’t been able to examine them.”
Grant’s eyes were the color of cold winter skies. “And you have the equipment, same as the Bureau lab?”
“No…”
“Then why should we let you look at those bills?”
Jack walked to the door. “Are we done here?”
Grant stood up, grasping his belt and adjusting his trousers. “I know I am.”
McLeod said, “You two go ahead.”
The temptation to glance back at Jack was so powerful that I pinned my gaze to the single milky smudge on McLeod’s polished desk, left by Grant’s fat finger. The door opened and closed. And I waited, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand… then looked up.
Supervisory Special Agent Allen McLeod might be master of the misspoken word, but he didn’t survive these shark-infested waters by accident. The intense expression on his large face even made me wonder whether the malaprops were a cover, a clever trick that gave him the element of surprise.
“You and Jack,” he said. “Everything still plutonic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about you and Grant?”
“What—I mean, pardon—sir?”
“Think you two can get along?”
I nodded.
“And that’s how you can do it, Raleigh. The closed mouth gathers no foot.”
25
Taking McLeod’s advice, I kept my mouth shut and rode the elevator to the lobby. As I stepped out, my cell phone started buzzing. Probably Jack, wondering about my latest private chat with McLeod. I left the phone in my pocket.
Down Spring Street’s steep hill, the gray clouds shrouded the skyscrapers, promising more rain. When my phone buzzed again, I suddenly worried it was Eleanor. I pulled it out—nope, Jack—and dropped it back in my pocket. Turning onto Third, I felt the gusting wind. It tasted sharp, as if laced with brine from Puget Sound, a salt scent as invisible yet certain as the fracture between me and Jack.
If I screwed up this case, what would be left? Not even friendship.
And if I closed this case then what? Forever wonder if our connection was crime, not love.
I swerved into the greasy spoon.
“What’ll you have?” asked the paper-hatted guy behind the counter.
Double cheeseburger, large fries, chocolate shake, two sides of mayo.
But in honor of Eleanor’s heart, I jogged the food up all twelve flights of stairs. As I was coming down the hallway, feeling virtuous if a little sweaty, the psychologist’s door swung open. Lezlee Nyler gaped at me.
“Why are you panting?” she asked. “Is someone chasing you?”
Her shiny black hair always reminded me of raven wings. And somewhere in the back of my mind, my subconscious told my hand to shift the food bag away from the bird of prey.
“Stairs,” I panted, stuffing the bag under my arm.
“Isn’t the elevator working? I told Patterson it’s making a noise. A really bad noise. Scary! Like squee-squee. I swear, someday the cables are going to snap. We’ll die!”
Caw-caw, I wanted to reply.
Instead, I only nodded.
She moved for the elevator, slapping the Down button—denial, it was a powerful force—but kept talking. “Can you do me a favor? I need some coffee. This weather. I woke up this morning, looked out the window, and I knew—I knew!—just who would call me for an appointment. If he gets here before I’m back, let him know. I’m on my way. Really.”
The elevator opened, she stepped inside, the doors closed, and I prayed for forgiveness. Plenty of coffee in my office. But the idea of making it for her and having a conversation blew away all my hospitality. To soothe my guilt, I left my office door open—listening for her client—while sitting at my desk, polishing off the food in no time. Hands washed, I started pulling maps out when I heard someone coming down the hallway. Poking my head out, I saw Lezlee. She raised her cell phone. “Cancelled!” she cawed. “What is wrong with people?”
My desk phone rang. I went back inside, closed the door. For several moments, I stared at the old phone. No caller ID. But what if it was Eleanor? I picked up the receiver. “Raleigh Harmon.”
“Are you still working for us?” Jack asked.
“Depends.”
“Then you are still working for us.”
The Moon Stands Still Page 13