Authors: PJ Tracy
Theo pointed.
‘Jesus. He looks like an altar boy.’
‘Actually, he was. Also Teacher of the Year and voted students’ favorite past three years in a row.’
‘Is there a sheet on him?’
Theo snorted. ‘Sort of. He ran into his elderly neighbor’s burning house to save her cat. The officer on site wrote him a warning on interfering with fire fighters.’
‘Terrific. I picked a hero.’
‘Hey. A lot of people thought Ted Bundy was Mr. Wonderful.’
‘Yeah, I guess. I’ve got a nurse, a doctor, Alissa, and you for witnesses when we show the spread to Marian. It’s going to be tight in there, but I want this covered seven ways from Sunday in case we get anything. By the book, every second. Let’s go.’
It was worse than tight when they all crowded into Marian’s tiny room, because everyone had to stand at the head of the bed, where they could see the silent identification if it happened.
Marian looked at Frost, then at the photo spread, then back at Frost. He felt his heart fall to his stomach when he saw a tear fall from the corner of her eye. He’d been way out in left field with this leap, and way off base. He’d let her down, and he wondered if he’d ever get over that.
Then he watched her finger, stronger now than when she fumbled with the pen and paper earlier, but still wavering as it moved slowly, but certainly, to the photo of Clinton Huttinger.
The problem was that Grace’s brain had fallen off the genetic assembly line before they’d installed an off switch. Annie, Roadrunner, and Harley all had some sort of mindless activity where their brains literally seemed to shut down in a kind of weird living death, which gave them respite from the frenetic mental gymnastics required in programming. Grace’s brain just kept working like the Energizer Bunny, and the only way she could blank out the endlessly repeating lines of programming language was to focus that laser attention on something else she was passionate about.
Now, this was simple. Basic. Look at the artichokes. Assess the green, the darker tinge at the edge of the leaves that screamed no, not perfect, move on. And then you find the mother lode, fresh off the truck, firm leaves lightened at the tip by the good California sun, drops of liquid crystal when you pushed your thumbnail into the flesh. Perfection.
Grace was a million miles away from her computer, totally focused on smelling Italian parsley, elephant garlic, waving her arms over vine-ripened tomatoes like a Jewish mother at Shabbat, pulling the aroma to her nose.
She’d walked into Whole Foods pissed, because she’d had to drive the few blocks to the store instead of walking. It was a little cooler than yesterday, perfect weather for a sidewalk stroll, but there were other considerations that
Lately she’d been thinking about her passions, about how the only two she had – work and cooking – had nothing whatever to do with people. Magozzi had made a ripple in her smooth pool of solitude. The man simply would not give up. He continually banged on the door of her life, foolishly ignoring all the signals that would discourage a lesser man, as if persistence could break through the barriers she had carefully put in place. She was a pragmatic woman, cognizant of her simple biological needs as a human being, accepting that weakness that occasionally succumbed to the mandate of human physical contact. She knew Magozzi wanted much more, and deserved it, but there were sad limits on what Grace was capable of giving. Fear had always defined her life, and she was beginning to think it always would. It was like trying to live underwater after you had exhaled all the air in your lungs, desperate to take a breath, terrified of the consequences.
She thought of the concern of Annie, Harley, and Road-runner, who kept telling her she was isolating herself from the only thing that mattered – a lasting relationship. It seemed they didn’t ever look inward to see the obvious: they were all isolated. Annie’s flirtations and Roadrunner’s obsessive exercise and Harley’s ever-changing and short-lived liaisons
John Smith was sitting upstairs alone in the Monkeewrench office, staring out the window and wondering what the hell to do with himself. The past forty-eight hours had been a workaholic, adrenaline junkie’s fantasy; but the problem with being both of those things was that time was always your enemy – either there was never enough of it, or too much of it, like now.
Most agents at his stage in life had plenty of places to redirect their focus and energy when the action died down. They had kids, grandkids, a wife, and a social life. He had none of those things, which simplified the job. The problem was, he wouldn’t even have the job in a few months, and the thought of only himself for distraction was truly depressing.
The Monkeewrench crew, on the other hand, didn’t share his lack of imagination – they all seemed to have their own places of retreat where they recharged their batteries and shut off their minds. And with the exception of Grace MacBride, they’d all offered to include him. But he hated exercise, which precluded Roadrunner’s offer of a bike ride; and he hated opera even more, so he’d politely declined Harley’s offer of sitting with him in a room and listening to people screech out some hackneyed story line. He had no idea what Grace’s sanctuary was – he only knew she’d taken off in her Range Rover early this morning. The only remotely
Jesus, what was happening to him? He’d even tried to play fetch with the weird dog as a last resort, but the mongrel completely ignored him and just sat by the door after his mistress had left, staring up at the knob. Dissed by a dog – the story of his life.
When he saw Grace MacBride’s Rover pull into the driveway, and heard the door open and close downstairs, he felt an odd sense of relief and moved toward the elevator.
He found her at the massive kitchen island, unpacking grocery bags that were yielding a farmer’s market worth of fresh produce, meat, and shellfish. She acknowledged him with a brief glance and nod of her head. ‘There’s coffee and fresh pastry in the breakfast room.’
‘Thank you. You’re cooking?’
‘I will be.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No. Thank you,’ she tacked on at the last minute as a civilized formality, but there was no question in his mind that he had just been dismissed. ‘This is how I unplug,’ she added.
Smith nodded. ‘I understand. Good-looking artichokes.’
He left the room; he left her alone, and this was unexpected. Also unexpected that he would notice the extraordinary perfection of a vegetable as underappreciated as the artichoke.
She laid out the ingredients she would need to prep first;
God, she hated people. They cluttered up the planet and kept bumping into you; diverting your attention and distracting you from productive work. She softly put down the last honed knife, took an exasperated breath, and walked to the breakfast room. ‘Can you handle a knife without cutting your hand off?’
John Smith looked at her. ‘Yes. Unless you want me to prepare the artichokes. I’d rather use scissors.’
Grace’s eyebrow went up before she could stop it. ‘You’re a cook.’
‘Recreational.’
‘I’m going to braise them, then stuff them.’
‘Okay.’
They worked together in the kitchen for maybe half an hour without saying more than twenty words. When Grace heard the eight-inch chef’s knife clatter against the board, she risked a sideways glance at John Smith mincing garlic, then quickly looked away. He’d prepped the artichokes perfectly; he’d made a pretty terrific vinaigrette for the arugula that she tasted and couldn’t criticize, and the only thing he’d ever asked was where to find the lemon, and did she want Meyer or regular. It was like watching herself disconnect from everything by connecting to food. In one way it was upsetting. Was she really so like FBI Special Agent John Smith? A man with no life except his work and the Zen escape into food that demanded nothing and yielded
‘You feel like you’re looking at your future?’ He asked that after an hour, when they were nearly ready to plate, and Grace almost doubled over, as if he’d hit her in the stomach. There weren’t many choices when someone was so on point, so she spoke the truth.
‘Maybe a little.’
Smith smiled as he wiped away a stray drop of olive oil from where it didn’t belong on the edge of a plate. ‘You’re very young. Lots of time left.’
Grace stabbed a perfectly grilled shrimp from the platter and offered it to him. Only Magozzi had ever received food from her fork before. A strawberry, she remembered, dipped in dark chocolate. ‘You were just as young once, with just as much time.’
‘But I was stupid. You aren’t. I think I overdressed the arugula. And the shrimp breaks my heart.’
Grace shook her head and turned to the sink to wash her hands before she did something stupid, like smile at an FBI agent.
As she was retrieving the last of the serving dishes she’d need from Harley’s kitchen cabinets, Smith’s phone rang. ‘Smith here,’ he answered, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he washed the garlic off his hands.
‘FBI Agent John Smith?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Agent Smith, this is Chief Frost, Medford, Oregon, PD.’
‘Good to hear from you, Chief Frost. How is your victim?’
‘That’s excellent news. Do you have him in custody yet?’
‘He’s hiding under a rock somewhere. Not at home and he called in sick to work, so we’ve got both places under surveillance. The thing is, while we were checking out his background for places he might go to hide, we found out he’s got a sick mother who lives in Wisconsin.’
Smith’s brows lifted. ‘Really.’
‘Yeah. And so we’re looking at the Wisconsin attack that was on the news today, and it looks like ours and theirs have a lot in common.’
‘Yes, we’ve been thinking the same thing. Both waitresses, both tied up and attacked with a knife. And now we know he’s got a Midwest connection.’
‘Exactly. I know it’s thin and kind of a stretch since they happened so far apart on subsequent nights, but I thought it might be worth sending our photo their way. You’ve got a contact over there, right?’
‘I do indeed.’
Frost was silent for a few moments. ‘Uh … those computer wizards you’re working with – how good are they?’
‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. What do you need?’
Frost sighed. ‘Well, we’ve got enough with the positive ID to get a warrant for airline records to see if our boy may have traveled on the night in question, but it’s going to take some time. The airlines all get a grace time to have their legal beagles check our warrant to cover their butts before
Frost cleared his throat and looked up at Grace. ‘Hmm. Let me see what I can do to speed up the process.’
‘That would be appreciated. I’m not suggesting anything under the table, of course.’
‘No, of course not.’
That’s why you asked how good our computer wizards were.
‘I just figured the FBI might have some special kind of clearance. You have a fax number for me? I don’t want this photo anywhere near the Web after what you told me about how these guys are operating. We don’t want to spook him.’
‘What do you need?’ Grace asked once he’d hung up.
‘The victim came out of the coma and gave Medford a positive ID from a photo spread, but they can’t find him. They noted the similarities between the Wisconsin attack and theirs, and think he may have flown out there, but the airlines are dragging their feet releasing manifests.’
Grace sighed, popped a single shrimp into her mouth. ‘What’s his name?’
He hesitated only a moment. ‘Clinton Huttinger.’
‘Give me five minutes.’
Smith stared after her as she left for the upstairs office, feeling like he’d just taken the first step onto a slippery slope he’d been avoiding for his entire life.
Chief Frost hadn’t been in an airport in years. After a lifetime of watching white tinsel contrails decorate the blue sky over his head, he still couldn’t convince himself that any plane he boarded wouldn’t plummet back to earth. Worse yet, it wouldn’t plummet fast; it would take a long, long time so he could be good and scared before he got good and dead.
The fear mystified him. He wasn’t afraid of high-speed car chases, confronting armed robbers or even walking into a domestic, but just sitting there listening to the roar and thrust of those fragile metal tubes shooting up into the air over the terminal made him sweat.
Last time he’d been on a plane he was a teenager, looking around at all the other passengers reading magazines, chatting and laughing, comfortable as could be to be mounted on a rocket filled with thousands of gallons of explosive fuel. If they thought it was okay, it had to be, right? A fatherly type sitting next to him saw through his thin ho-hum veneer and patted his hand. ‘Flying scares me shitless, too, son,’ he said, and that’s when he realized everyone else was faking, pretending they actually thought airplanes were airworthy when they knew damn well they were going to crash. He never trusted people or planes again.
‘I don’t like airports.’
‘Me neither. I hate flying. Everybody thinks skydiving is such a big macho thrill game. I always thought jumping out of a plane made a hell of a lot more sense than staying in one.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Huttinger’s flight is still on time. Should be touching down in the next fifteen minutes. And we’re cleared through security if you want to go to the gate.’
‘Not yet.’
Theo pulled out his notebook. ‘I checked in with Ginny. They’re still tossing the house with the on-site Feds. They pulled his PC first and sent it off to Cyber Crimes, but so far they haven’t found the laptop.’
‘He’s got it with him.’
Theo smiled. ‘And we’ve got a warrant. Judge said we had the go-ahead to search his nostrils with a power drill if we wanted.’
Frost looked at him. ‘Judge Krinnen said that?’
‘Actually, I left out a couple of really colorful words. I’m telling you, the man surprised me. He’s like a million years old and as soft-spoken as a little girl and he scared me to death. You ever see his gun collection?’
‘Didn’t know he had one.’
‘Hemingway would eat his heart out, and the judge was real set on showing me every one and describing what kind