by Jan Coffey
With the agent’s face still visible through the glass, Ellie snapped the dead bolt into place and turned her back on him. She didn’t bother to turn on any lights. She also didn’t wait around to guess at Murtaugh’s next move before starting for the stairs.
The handrail was still lying on the steps. Vic’s friend Brian, who sometimes helped out in the shop, had come around this afternoon and patched the plaster. He was coming back tomorrow afternoon to paint the hallway wall before putting the railing back on. With Brian’s help, Vic and another friend had hung the mirror where she wanted it in the back room. There was some small satisfaction in seeing that having the mirror there worked.
In the hallway at the top of the stairs, Ellie poked her head into the second-floor studio. The lights were off, but she breathed in the pungent odors of paint and turpentine, canvas, wood and clay. Because of her father, an artist himself, they were some of the first smells she could recall. Ellie kicked off her shoes and dangled them from her fingers as she went up to her apartment.
She stopped at the window at the top of the stairs and looked out at the dark street. She wondered momentarily if the annoying man was still outside, planning to stake out her building all night.
It wasn’t so much Murtaugh. He wasn’t really annoying. He would actually be a very attractive man, if he weren’t an FBI agent. That was the most surprising part of it all. Why would Sister Helen assume that she’d agree to have anything to do with some FBI agent? These were the same people who’d used Louis Littlefield—despite his cooperation—and put him in jail, with no thought about the welfare of his motherless, twelve-year-old daughter. Did the FBI care that Ellie had been left to fend for herself on the street and in foster care? No, they didn’t.
Entering her apartment, she tried to shake off the old memories and rein in her temper at the same time. Well, no one was perfect. Sister Helen was a great woman, and she did a lot of good. She was just becoming a little detached from reality lately.
Ellie turned on the light next to the bookcase. Out of habit, she adjusted some of the photo frames on the shelves. She picked up an empty coffee mug from the floor next to the love seat and carried it to the kitchen sink. She took a peek inside her refrigerator, immediately grimacing at the smell and at the stack of foam take-home boxes bearing the labels of several restaurants she frequented in the past couple of weeks.
Old habits were tough to break. No matter how sophisticated she tried to look and act, she couldn’t tolerate waste. She just had to remind herself not to order fish. Jack hated fish.
The red light on Ellie’s answering machine was blinking in the darkness. She dropped her shoes by the door to her bedroom and pressed the button for the messages. The first one was from a local church group about some weekend workshop-antique show that they were putting together as a fund-raiser. They were hoping for her participation. The smell from the fridge still lingered in the air, and Ellie started opening the windows in her living room. The warm air poured into the apartment, and she took a deep breath. The second message drew her to the phone.
“Hi, Ellie. It’s John.” There was a pause. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but between the show today and the cleanup after, this is the first chance I’ve had.”
She planted her hands on either side of the answering machine, mentally urging the man to go on. “I went to the address you gave me this morning, but the kid doesn’t live there. The woman who answered didn’t know of any kid by that name. In fact, I knocked on a couple of doors in the trailer park to make sure, but everyone said the same thing. And as far as a Mrs. Green on the next street, that was bogus, too. I checked in the phone book, but there’s a whole column of Greens. So…sorry to hand the ball back to you like this, but I can’t find the kid.” There was another pause. “You know, I’m thinking it might be best if you just tell the cops what you know. It’s not like you did anything wrong. You just gave a kid in trouble a ride. And who knows, that little boy might just be in over his head. Anyway, you know best.”
Ellie’s head sank, and she closed her eyes. John Dubin, an antique clock dealer and an old friend, had arranged a private sale for her at one of the old estates in the area for three o’clock last Friday. By the time she’d dropped Chris off, she’d been running half an hour late.
Maybe it hadn’t been right to tell John everything that had happened. And maybe she shouldn’t have called him back this morning to ask him to go and check the address where Chris had said his father lived. Right or wrong, Ellie had felt a little uncertain about the whole situation with the kid. So she’d followed her instincts and called John. Now she felt positively queasy about the whole thing.
The answering machine beeped again, and Ellie realized she’d been listening to an empty message left for her at 10:05. She checked her watch. It was now 10:25.
It was only a hunch, but she searched inside her purse and took out her cell phone. She’d forgotten to turn it on. There was one message. She dialed and listened.
“Hi. This is Chris Weaver. You…you gave me a ride.” The voice crackled and started to break up. Ellie went to the window, desperate for better reception. “I…I’m in this…trouble…really scared. I’m hiding in a phone booth near the junkyard.” She rushed to get a piece of paper as he went on to say the name of the street where the junkyard and the auto body shop were located. “If you’re around…I was wondering if you…if you could come and get me.”
Six
“I’m not a goddamn secretary or a parking attendant, Agent Murtaugh.” The police officer scowled and tore up the parking ticket she’d left on his windshield earlier.
Nate pocketed his badge and smiled apologetically. “Hey, I understand. I appreciate your—”
He answered his cell phone, only to have Hawes’s gruff curses come pouring out. The woman’s look turned immediately sympathetic. Nate held the phone against his chest. “It’s my boss.”
“Nice mouth,” she whispered with a grin.
Nate spoke into the phone. “So is my dry cleaning ready to pick up?”
“No, I’m calling with your fu—”
“Thank you, Officer.” He smiled again as he slid into the car and shut the door.
“…and I want to know how the hell you did it?”
“Did what?” Nate asked.
“This Littlefield broad wants to see you at her place right away.” Nate sat silent, puzzling out what might have happened to change Ellie’s mind. “The woman called Sister Helen a couple of minutes ago, insisting that it was urgent for her to meet with you right away. Now, I want to know what the hell you’re up to, Nate. You didn’t harass her or do anything that’s going to get the Bureau in trouble now, did you?”
“I’ll call you back. I’m two minutes from her shop.” He cut the connection and pulled away from the curb, sending a salute to the police officer who was just getting into her squad car.
It took less than two minutes to reach her building, and he pulled into a space in front of a hydrant. He could see Ellie through the window of her shop. She had changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and she looked strikingly young again. She was watching him as he crossed the street, and opened the door before he reached it.
“Come in.” She stood back. “You must think I’m fighting PMS.”
“No. I figure this must just be your charming personality.”
“Well, I hope you don’t expect an apology because you’re not going to get one.” Ellie closed the door and leaned her back against it.
“Okay. What’s going on?”
“You showed me a picture of a boy this morning. Chris Weaver.”
“I never told you his name.”
“Don’t play super-sleuth with me, Agent Murtaugh. I didn’t ask you to come back here to deny knowing him.” She went to the counter and picked up her cell phone, dialing a number. She was a bundle of nerves. “I want you to listen to this message that was left for me tonight.” She handed him the phone.
Nate l
istened to the eight-year-old’s nervous stammering. He reached into his pocket for his pad as the boy said where the phone booth was, but Ellie handed him a piece of paper with the information already on it. After listening to it a second time, he disconnected.
“What exactly was your interaction with him?”
“I saw him first in the hall at the Fort Ticonderoga Museum. He was in a rush and looked lost, but he wouldn’t talk to me. Then I saw him again when he ran out the back door of the museum. He’d wet his pants and had been crying. The short version is that he asked for a ride to his father’s place, which was supposedly a street away from the foster house where he’d been placed. He needed help. I felt bad for him, and I did it.” Seeing his frown, she crossed her arms defensively before her. “I already know it was a stupid thing to do, and I’ve kicked myself a hundred times since you showed up this morning and told me he’s missing.”
“You must be pretty bruised, then. But why didn’t you tell me the truth this morning?”
“You weren’t exactly up front yourself. Plus I didn’t think there was anything wrong with Chris.” She ran a hand impatiently through her short dark hair. “But tonight, after hearing his message, I’m worried. It sounds like he’s really scared, and it’ll take me six hours to get up there. I dialed the number he called me from, but it keeps ringing. If he’s still there, he’s not picking up.” She’d started pacing. Now she stopped. “Are you going to help him?”
“Of course. Just give me a minute to change into my blue-and-red spandex suit and I’ll fly right up there and rescue him for you.” He pulled out his notebook and found the number of the Ticonderoga Police Department.
“You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”
“To keep up with you, yes, I do.”
Nate dialed the number and introduced himself to the dispatcher. After being told that Tom McGill was off duty, he asked for his home phone number.
“I could have done that myself,” Ellie said as he started dialing McGill’s number. “Chris is scared and sounds like he might be in some kind of trouble. He’s not going to trust some uniformed cop showing up in a police car to pick him up.”
Nate suppressed the urge to tell her exactly how much trouble she could be in herself, but he needed her cooperation in finding the Robert Morris flag, and he was going to be pleasant to her if it killed him.
“Why don’t you sit back, Ms. Littlefield, and let me do my job.”
She pulled a stool next to him and climbed up, watching his every move. Luckily, McGill was home. Nate briefly explained to the police officer what had happened.
“I’ll go pick him up myself,” the young officer offered from the other end.
“This little guy’s been on the run for two days now, and he sounds pretty scared. Once you get hold of him, is there any way you could take him to his foster mother’s place and leave the questioning and paperwork and everything else until tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. I’ll call you after I locate him.”
Nate went over how he should approach Chris and exactly what to say to the boy. Lastly, he gave McGill his cell phone number again. When he finally hung up, he was surprised to find Ellie sitting quietly, watching him with a peculiar look on her face.
“What’s wrong now?”
She shook her head and her silky locks shone beneath Victorian-era chandeliers. “Do you have children of your own, Agent Murtaugh?”
His throat tightened. “Nope. No children.”
She climbed off the stool and went around the sales counter. All her energy had been punched out of her. Ellie’s hands absently straightened a stack of business cards. “How long do you think it’ll be before he calls you back?”
“Not long. He was going right away.”
“You don’t mind staying until he calls?”
“No, I don’t mind.”
Actually, he liked it better when she was nipping at his heels. This vulnerable look she was wearing brought out a side of Nate that he liked to keep under lock and key in situations like this. He never mixed the professional with the personal…and he was feeling the personal right now. He turned and studied a Remington bronze of a cowboy on a buffalo hunt. The horse’s throat was a whisker away from the buffalo’s horn, and the rider was about to fire his rifle. Buffalo, horse and man, connected at a moment of destiny. Nothing impersonal about that business. He turned back to Ellie.
“I’ve met McGill. He’s a good man, and he’s in Chris’s corner.”
“Other than running away, what kind of trouble is he in, anyway?”
Nate didn’t know how much she knew. Despite the fact that the loss of the flag was being kept under wraps, Sister Helen had been told most of the details. “Were you briefed about the Schuyler flag?”
“I was told it was destroyed in a fire at the Fort Ticonderoga Museum on Friday. But I told Sister Helen that I didn’t believe it.” Once again she took a combative stance, one hand on her hip. “I was there that afternoon. I was the last visitor in that room. I told her there’s something funny going on and that this is some lame story you people are using as cover for something else you’re trying to pull. I don’t care what you’ve got in mind, Murtaugh, but I don’t believe that flag was destroyed.”
“Well, it has been. And I can produce the ash and burned scraps to prove it.” Nate sat down on the stool she’d vacated. His knee had started aching again. “And your little friend Christopher might have witnessed the crime.”
“He disappeared into the bathroom and then came out of the building and jumped in front of my car.”
“Not before he made a stop in the room with the flag. His wet footprints were everywhere.”
“Even if he did go in there, I was in the same room only minutes before. There was no one else in there, or in the halls. And they were closing the museum.” She shook her head and then hesitated, looking at him suspiciously. “Unless you think I started the fire.”
“We have a clear picture of you leaving the building.”
“Then why do you need Christopher to tell you who else was in there? What about the security cameras? The guards? All the bells and whistles you have protecting America’s treasures from the big, bad wolves out there?”
“For someone who has no interest in helping us with the case, you’ve got an awful lot of questions.”
“You cops are all the same. You grill people right and left, and then you’re shocked when someone gives your own treatment back to you.” She spun on her heel, picked up a stack of books and moved them a couple of feet to another table.
Nate watched the emotions play across her face. He remembered what he’d read in her file. No record of what happened to her mother. Her father jailed when she was twelve for interstate transportation of stolen property, theft of major artwork, five felony counts of grand theft and an assortment of lesser charges. It’d taken social services more than six months to find Ellie and put her in a home. She ran away—was found—ran away again—then was arrested trying to sell stolen goods. Things had gone from bad to worse after that, but then something happened and she apparently turned herself around. Ellie’s slate was clean from the time she turned eighteen. She’d smartened up…or had learned how to avoid getting caught. Looking at the attractive and graceful woman before him now, he found it impossible to think that history belonged to her.
“He’s only eight, Ellie. He’s not old enough to fend for himself. He might have seen something that could put his life in jeopardy.”
“If there was anything to see,” she said stubbornly. “I was in that back parking lot when he came out of the building. No alarms went off while we were on the grounds. And he was only concerned about one thing…and that was his wet pants.”
She was still riled up, and Nate was not about to lose her now.
“If the flag is what we’re arguing about here, then as I said before, I can arrange to show you the little that is left of it,” he said calmly. “Regarding Christopher, though, we’re both st
anding on the same side of the fence. Everyone wants to help the boy, and the question of what he saw—if anything—will be answered as soon as McGill picks him up.”
Ellie looked as if she was going to disagree with him again, but then abruptly started toward the back of the shop. “I need some coffee.”
Nate watched her go and decided to follow. If he wanted the chance to change her mind about helping him, he had to take his shot now. She turned on the lights as she went along.
The smell of old furniture assaulted his nostrils as he followed Ellie into a dark room to the left. A light switched on, and he found himself looking at the oversize mirror, hanging on the back wall.
“I thought you were going to keep that thing on the stairs.”
“I wanted to, but Vic thought it wasn’t appropriate, aesthetically.”
“Or functionally, blocking the stairs as it was.”
“Yeah, well, Vic is more into form than function.” She pointed to the coffeemaker and the TV on the counter. A small fridge sat underneath. “These are the exceptions. He thinks there are some twenty-first-century amenities that serve an essential function.”
“Aesthetics be damned,” Nate finished amiably. “He’s an interesting guy.”
She picked up the glass pot off the coffeemaker, swished around something in the bottom that looked like 10W40 oil sludge, and brought it to her nose.
“He likes you, too. In fact, he’ll be really disappointed to hear that you were here tonight and he didn’t know about it.”
Nate caught the reflection of her shapely bottom in the mirror when she bent down to get a tray of ice out of the fridge. “Well, he’s not my type.”
“Want some iced coffee?”
He considered for a moment that women usually jumped on that line. The question whether or not they were his type was routine. Not for this one, obviously, and he realized he was mildly put off that she showed no interest in him whatsoever. Better to keep it strictly business, he decided. “How old is that coffee, anyway?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” She filled two ice-packed plastic cups and handed one to him. “Sorry, looks like we’re out of milk and sugar.”
