by Steven James
She disappeared into the other room.
What just happened here?
“Tessa, I’ll cancel!” I called.
“Naw, it’s all right. I don’t mind eating out,” she yelled back. “We can have the spaghetti tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about-”
“So, Detective Warren, huh?” She was shouting to me from behind her bedroom door. “Is she that cute redhead who was at the newspaper office?”
I rubbed my forehead. This can’t be happening. “I’m serious, I’ll just call her and-”
“That’s rude. Keep your word. Go on your date.”
It’s not a date!
OK, so options: (1) cancel eating in the vicinity of Cheyenne; (2) lay down the law with Tessa, tell her you’re going out and that she needs to stay here-but that would mean leaving her alone with her thoughts of that pot of basil. Besides we’d argued earlier in the day about the diary, and it might be nice to spend time with her tonight letting her know that I wasn’t mad at her.
I headed to my bedroom. “All right, you can come,” I said to her door. “We leave in twenty minutes.”
“Sweetness.”
“I’m going to take a quick shower and get cleaned up-I was almost burned alive this afternoon.”
“Cool.”
I stopped and stared at the door. “It’s cool that I was almost burned alive?”
“That you were almost burned alive.” The door opened a crack, and her head appeared. “If you had been, it would have totally sucked.”
Oh. Well in that case.
She ducked back inside.
I showered, changed clothes, and when I returned to the kitchen I found that Tessa had put the food away. Then we left to pick up Cheyenne.
Steven James
The Knight
59
I knocked on the door to Cheyenne’s condo.
On the drive over, I’d borrowed Tessa’s cell and called Cheyenne to tell her about the slight change of plans, but she hadn’t answered. I’d left two voicemails, but she hadn’t returned either of them.
She opened the door. “Hey.”
I hardly recognized her. She wore a stunning black dress that accentuated all the right parts of her figure in all the right ways. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her wear makeup before, but maybe she thought this was a special occasion. She looked gorgeous.
“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know cowgirls dressed like that.”
“I told you before, I’m hard to pigeonhole. How are those arms of yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“The burns.”
“Oh. Yes. Good,” I said. “Hey, um, did you get my message?” “Message?”
“Voicemail. I called you about-well, it doesn’t matter. I was just trying to tell you that my plans had changed a little.” I stepped aside and gestured toward the car. Tessa rolled down the backseat window and waved two fingers at us. “We have company.”
“It’s Tessa.”
I tried to read her tone of voice, but I couldn’t tell what she might have been thinking.
“Listen,” I said. “It’s kind of a long story. If this isn’t going to work, it’s OK. We can just postpone-”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Cheyenne stepped onto the porch and swung the door shut behind her. Started for the car. “Like you told Reggie, it’s not a date.”
And the night was off to a brilliant start.
On the way to the restaurant, Tessa just happened to mention that she was a vegetarian and just happened to ask if the place we were eating at would be serving any recently slaughtered calves or other inhumanely treated, brutally murdered animals because if they were, it might-she was sorry-but it might totally make her sick.
“We’re letting Detective Warren choose the restaurant,” I told Tessa, remembering that Cheyenne had told me she wanted to go to a steak place near Union Station. “So wherever she wants to go, we go. And I don’t think vegetarian is on the menu.”
60
I parked in front of Sahib’s Vegan Cuisine and sighed, but I managed not to say anything as we climbed out of the car.
After we were seated and had given our drink and appetizer orders to the server, Tessa gazed around admiringly. “This place rocks. I’ve never been here before.”
“Best Indian restaurant in Denver,” Cheyenne said.
“Thanks for, you know, choosing…”
“You’re welcome.”
Tessa leaned toward Cheyenne. “Patrick’s been to India four times.”
Cheyenne gave me an approving nod. “Really?”
“Just to do a little teaching and consulting in Mumbai. It wasn’t really a big deal-”
“Sure it was,” Tessa interrupted. “He helped catch five people who were kidnapping girls and selling them into the sex trade.”
Cheyenne looked at me solemnly. “That is something to be proud of.” I sensed a depth of emotion in her words I’d never heard her express before. “I mean that.”
“Thank you.”
Then the drinks and naan arrived and we ordered our food. I don’t remember the Indian names for everything, but the names didn’t really matter. Everything was pretty much just vegetables and rice. Not steak. Not even close.
After the server left, I spent a few minutes helping Tessa and Cheyenne get to know each other, then Tessa said, “Detective Warren, did you know geographic profiling was first developed in India?”
I stared at my stepdaughter quizzically.
What is she doing?
“No, I didn’t,” Cheyenne said.
I didn’t want to talk business tonight, especially knowing how derisive Tessa could be about my work. “I’m sure Detective Warren isn’t interested in the history-”
“Actually, I am. Go on, Tessa.”
How did I know she was going to say that.
“Well,” Tessa said. “For nearly two thousand years the rural villages of northern India have been plagued by gangs of bandits who sneak into the towns at night and attack, rob, kidnap, and murder people, and then escape under the cover of darkness back to their own villages or to their hideouts in the jungle. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”
“Yes. They’re called-”
“Dacoits,” said Tessa. “So, to solve the crimes-and I’m not exactly sure what year they did this, you’d have to ask Patrick-the Indian authorities finally decided to stop looking for the three things detectives in North America usually base their entire investigations on-motive, means, and opportunity. First of all, the Indians didn’t care what motivated the crimes-whether it was anger or greed or tradition, or whatever, because it was probably all of the above. And second, they knew that most people in the region had the ability to attack and rob others, so focusing on the means wouldn’t have done any good. And finally, as far as opportunity, well, the crimes were always committed during the new moon when it was darkest, so that didn’t tell them a whole lot either.”
The food arrived and I was glad, if nothing more than to interrupt Tessa’s lecture.
“One thing before we dig in,” Cheyenne said. “If we want to be culturally sensitive, we need to eat with our fingers.” She demonstrated by swiping her thumb and the first three fingers of her right hand along the edge of her plate, scooping up some rice and vegetables, then lifting the food to her mouth.
I knew all of this from my trips to India, but I’d never taken the time to teach my stepdaughter Indian table etiquette.
“Cool,” Tessa said. She began to eat with her fingers. Out of instinct, she used her left hand.
Cheyenne smiled. “But always use your right hand.”
A slightly offended look. “What about left-handed people?”
“Well,” I said. “Indians use their left hands for other… chores.” I kept my description purposely vague, hoping Tessa would be able to fill in what I left unsaid.
“Chores?”
Cheyenne leaned forward and said softly, “Most rural villages don’t
have adequate sewer systems, so the people don’t use toilet paper.”
Stunning dinner conversation, this was.
“What do they…?”
“Water. They wash.”
Tessa stared at her plate. “Well, that’s informative.” I sensed that she was about to ask a follow-up question, but she held back and instead wiped her fingers on a napkin.
All three of us ate for a few minutes, then Cheyenne swallowed some of her vegetable curry and asked Tessa, who was now eating with her right hand, “So what did they look for?”
“Who?”
“The Indian authorities.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Tessa punctuated by stabbing a finger into the air. “Timing and location.”
“Just like Patrick,” said Cheyenne admiringly.
“Not exactly-” I began.
“Yes,” Tessa said. “Just like Patrick.”
What has gotten into her?
“They studied how far a person could travel on foot at night, and then reduced the search area to include only those villages within that radius.”
She alternated between taking bites of her dinner and expounding on her answer. “Then they evaluated the most likely travel routes, studied land use patterns, and compared those to the proximity of the crimes and reduced the suspect pool even more. Finally, they considered the culture and traditions of the region.”
“Culture and traditions?” Cheyenne asked.
“Yes. They knew that the men in the gangs wouldn’t attack members of their own caste, so that eliminated even more suspects. At that point they started to look for physical evidence, eyewitness identification, confessions, etc… But they started by looking at timing and location.”
“Wow, I’m really impressed. Where did you learn all that?”
Tessa pointed her gooey, rice-covered fingers at me. “Patrick’s books. They’re very engaging and informative. Well-researched too.”
OK, this was just ridiculous.
I was about to explain that any investigator could have figured out the same approach by just using logic and rational deduction, but Tessa shoved her chair back from the table. “Well. I think I need to use the little girls’ room.” She paused, then said, “Um, they do have-”
“Yes,” Cheyenne said. “They do here.”
“Perf.”
Tessa wove between the tables on her way to the restroom, and I just shook my head. “I have no idea what’s going on with her tonight. I’m really sorry.”
“For what?”
“She’s not usually like this. Most of the time she’s a lot less. .. um, forthcoming.”
“She’s proud of you, that’s all.” Cheyenne took a drink, then set down her lassi. “I like her. She’s got spunk.”
“Yes,” I said. “Spunk.”
We ate for a few minutes, then I set down my fork. “Cheyenne, let me ask you something.”
“Yes?” She took a small bite of her vegetables.
“Back at the barn when you shot the chain…” I took a moment to collect my thoughts so it wouldn’t sound like I was questioning her judgment. She chewed her food. Swallowed. Waited for me to go on.
“Why didn’t you shoot it when you were beside me? You know, before the horse started running. It seems like that would have been a much easier shot than hitting a three-centimeter-wide chain from a galloping horse.”
“You’re right. It would have been easier.”
“So then, why?”
She took one last bite of her meal, then slid her plate toward the middle of the table and dipped her fingers into the small metal bowl of water that the server had provided for patrons to clean their fingers. “I would have needed a few extra seconds to aim, but the fire was spreading so fast I didn’t want to chance it. I wasn’t confident the horse would make it if I waited.”
That seemed to make sense, but I got the impression there was still something more she wanted to say.
“On the horse it was all instinct,” she explained. “That’s the way I work best-gut instinct. A person can overthink things, you know.” In the amber light of the restaurant she looked more attractive than ever. “You trust your head, Pat, and I admire that. I trust my gut.”
The ambient sounds in the restaurant seemed to fade away. “And what’s your gut telling you right now?”
A gleam in her eye. “That it’s hungry for dessert.”
Then she let her gaze drift past my shoulder as Tessa reappeared from behind me and plopped into her chair. “Did you say dessert?”
“That’s right. As soon as you two are finished.”
While Tessa and I worked at our meals, Cheyenne told her about some of the horses she’d owned over the years, and considering Tessa’s love for animals, I could see that Cheyenne was making a new friend.
At last Tessa took one final bite, swished her fingers clean, and looked brightly at me. “I’m hungry for tiramisu. They don’t make Indian tiramisu, do they?”
“Not usually,” I said.
Cheyenne eased back from the table and stood. “Tiramisu sounds perfect. Let’s go.”
61
Even though she should have been expecting him, when Reggie showed up at the safe house after working a crime scene “in the mountains,” it annoyed Amy Lynn. She’d been hoping he would stay at their home, leave her some space to work. Typical for their marriage-she was always looking for more space, he was always looking for more of “an intimate connection.”
“You doing all right?” he asked after the two federal agents stationed in the house had stepped into the other room.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He picked up Jayson, lifted him playfully above his head. “You sure you want to be here?”
“It’s been good.”
And it had been. She’d been able to throw something together for her weekly column and fudge her way through the steroids piece in time for her four o’clock deadline. Then she’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening researching the killer. And even though she hadn’t found any leads on John’s identity after looking through the entire Denver News staff and freelance contributors directory as well as the other local newspaper, TV, and radio station staff listings, she was confident she would, given a little more time.
Jayson giggled as Reggie lifted and lowered him. “Maybe after I put this little rascal to bed we can, you know, spend some time together.”
“I’m not a wascal!” Jayson said with a playful smile.
“Mmm, that’d be nice,” Amy Lynn said, but her thoughts were somewhere else.
A few minutes later while Reggie was in the bedroom tucking Jayson in, she went online and researched websites of true crime publishers. Ideally, she would have been writing a series of articles for the Denver News about the killer, but since Rhodes wouldn’t give her permission to work on the story and the execs were trying to play it safe, she decided on a slightly different approach.
There were other ways to scoop a story than just through print media.
In fact, posting it online would give her a bigger audience, more exposure, and she could update the information more quickly. Plus it would help her stay ahead of the other news outlets. Keep her out front.
Of course, she would need to write it anonymously or under a pseudonym, but eventually, when the time was right she would reveal her true name.
She was at her computer when she heard Reggie’s footsteps. The article was not something she wanted him to see, so she quickly minimized her Internet browser.
“So,” he said. She felt his hands massaging the back of her neck. “When will you be ready for bed?”
The massage felt nice. He had strong hands, and he kneaded her tense muscles deeply. “Why?” she said. “Are you sleepy?” She closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch.
“Not so much.” His voice had become a whisper. He kept his hands on her neck, kept massaging.
“I’ll be there in a little bit. Just a couple things I’d like to check on first.”
> Strong hands relieving the tension. “Don’t be long,” he said.
“I won’t.” The massage stopped. She opened her eyes slowly and heard the door to the master bedroom close.
Then she resumed her typing, and after a few minutes she’d completely forgotten about her husband waiting for her in the room at the end of the hall.
62
We stopped for dessert at Rachel’s Cafe, one of my favorite indie coffeehouses in downtown Denver.
Built on the first floor of a remodeled warehouse, Rachel’s had hundred-year-old wooden plank floors, brick walls, and air ducts and pipes snaking across the ceiling. Copies of the Denver News lay strewn on the tables. A coffee roaster sat in the corner near the cramped stage.
Just like most independent coffeehouses, Rachel’s Cafe didn’t have color-coordinated, matching furniture and didn’t sell “green” plush baby seal toys made by child-laborers in China, overpriced espresso makers, or trademarked mints. Instead, Rachel’s simply offered an eclectic bohemian atmosphere and exceptional coffee from around the world. My kind of place.
I would have liked to hang out for a while, but since I didn’t know why Tessa had been so aggressively nice all night, I wanted to get her home as quickly as possible before she said something to Cheyenne that I would regret. So, I made sure our dessert stop was brief, then we headed for Cheyenne’s condo.
Ten minutes after leaving Rachel’s, I parked at the curb, but before I could invite Cheyenne to join me outside so that I could say good night, Tessa spoke up: “Be a gentleman, Patrick. Walk her to the door.”
“Tessa-”
“Go on.”
“That’s enough,” I said.
“That sounds nice,” Cheyenne said. Then she stepped out of the car and waited for me to join her.
I lowered my voice and said to Tessa, “We’re going to talk about this when we get home.”
“OK.”
I opened my door. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time.”
As we headed along the path toward her porch, Cheyenne took my arm and managed to slow our walk to a stroll. “Well, Dr. Bowers,” she said. “Thank you for eating food in my general vicinity tonight.”
