by P. J. Tracy
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 made that impractical. Walking to the store on a lovely summer day was a pleasant notion, but if you had to carry more than one bag, you wouldn't be able to pull your gun fast enough if the need arose. And today there would be three bags, maybe four, because she was making lunch for all of them.
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 Roadrunner, 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 kept them as separated from lasting human connection as she was. Perhaps there was no hope for any of them, except for the connection they had to each other, the one constant in all of their lives.
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 intriguing offer had been Annie's, but he really had no idea what one did in a spa, and he was pretty certain there wasn't much they could do for him, anyhow.
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; honed the knives she would use and laid them in perfect order on the cutting board, and heard the clink of John Smith's coffee cup on a saucer in the adjacent breakfast room.
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 all you thought you could ever expect? Dear God. He was two decades older than she was, and empty.
"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?'
'Better. She came out of the coma and did a positive ID of her attacker on a photo spread. An English teacher here by the name of Clinton Huttinger.'
'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 a
nd 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 they let us look at manifests, and we've got a hell of a lot of airlines to go through.'
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.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-four
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.
'You look a little pale, Chief.' Theo took the seat next to him, bracing knife-sharp elbows on nowhere thighs. It was a wonder they didn't slice right through what little flesh he had.
'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 of damage it would do to Clinton Huttinger if he ever got a bead on the guy.'
Chief Frost sighed, pushed himself up out of the hard plastic chair and adjusted his belt. 'Can't say I blame him. I want to kill this guy myself.'
Goddamnit, he shouldn't have said that out loud. You didn't have that kind of luxury when you were a cop about to arrest a suspect who nearly killed a woman you'd loved twenty years ago. Police brutality wasn't a charge your career recovered from. It was always there on your record in black and white, and sometimes, God forbid, it gave the suspect a cause of action and let him walk. Now he'd really have to suck it up and treat Huttinger with an overdose of care and respect, and the prospect made him sick.
He'd spent the two-hour drive down here looking at the scenery, sucking in the intense greens of an Oregon early summer, smelling the pine coming in through the open window; but all he really saw was Marian's tortured eyes, and all he'd smelled was disinfectant and old blood and adhesive.
It was the same when he walked through security and showed the pass that let him carry fifteen pounds of metal on his belt down to the gate. The sensors beeped when he passed through the archway, and they sounded like the monitors measuring Marian's life back in the ICU.
It wasn't really a long walk to the gate. It just seemed that way. Halfway there Theo stopped for a cell call, then hurried to catch up. 'Crime Scene might have found the knife in Huttinger's dishwasher.'
'There goes that evidence.'
'Maybe not. It's serrated. They can pull a positive blade match from where he cut her.'
Frost stopped in his tracks, thinking autopsy. You didn't excise flesh and bone for a weapon match from a live person, which meant Marian was dead. He didn't have to say anything. All Theo had to do was look at his Chief to know what he was thinking.
'Oh, damn, Chief, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Marian's doing fine. Getting better.'
Frost closed his eyes and exhaled.
'But the thing is, well, the throat wound was pretty ragged, you know? So the surgeon had to do some trimming before he could close it. He'd done a turn as county coroner a few years back, so he knows evidence. He took care trimming and saved the flesh for a possible match someday.'
Frost was looking out the window at the 737 pulling up to the gate. His smile was slow in coming, and just a little scary.
Clinton Huttinger was one of the first off the plane, and never in a million years would Frost have passed him on the street and thought that this was an evil man. He looked just like the pictures Theo had pulled off the Web. Clean- cut, well-dressed but not pretentious, a little half-smile permanently placed on lips that told everyone who saw him what a fine, gentle fellow he was.
'Mr. Huttinger?'
Yes.' The smile broadened. 'Can I help you?'
He didn't even go pale when Frost started the very careful process of placing him under arrest. He just stood there with a baffled little-boy smile, cooperating in every way possible, looking to all the curious passers-by more like a Boy Scout than a crazed killer. Frost played to the gathering crowd, apologizing to Huttinger for the necessity of handcuffs, inquiring as to their comfort.
'They're fine, Officer.'
'Chief.'
> 'Excuse me?'
'It's Chief Frost, Medford Police Department.'
'Oh. Pardon me. It's just that I won't be able to carry my bags with my hands behind my back.'
Frost smiled benevolently. 'Of course not. We'll be happy to carry them for you. Just the single case and the laptop?'
'That's right.'
Theo moved to pick up the luggage but the Chief intercepted him, bending to pick up the hard-bodied Samsonite case with the metal reinforcements at the corners, then standing quickly, suitcase swinging as he turned back to face Huttinger. Centrifugal force was an amazing thing, he thought, as the case swung wide and fast with the turn, headed directly for the gentle English teacher's crotch. Huttinger took a quick, panicked step backward, and Frost managed to stop the case's momentum with an inch to spare. He looked head-on at Huttinger and smiled.
'Whew. That was a close one.'
Huttinger didn't say a thing, but he wasn't smiling anymore.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-five
Gino was leaning back in his office chair, head thrown back, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. 'Are my eyes bleeding? Because they feel like they are.'
Magozzi peered around the towers of paper that dominated the space between their desks to assess his partner's current ocular condition. 'I can't tell because you have your fists punched into your eye sockets. But if they weren't bleeding before, they probably are now.'
Gino sat up, flipped over another sheet of paper from his stack, and stared at it like a mortal enemy. 'Is there an ink shortage, or what? I swear to God, anything in print is getting smaller day by day. I always used to wonder what kind of people bought those cheap magnifier reading glasses they always have in baskets at drugstore check-out counters. Now I know.'
'Old guys like us.'
'Yeah. Exactly. So what are you squinting at?'
'North Shore and Chicago cases.'
