“I’m glad,” I replied, reaching out to pet Kary. The little dog’s fur, silky and soft, was long, and he sported a bow on the top of his head. For me, it was love at first sight, especially when his warm tongue found my hand and licked it. “Who’s a happy boy?”
“I am! And the dog’s happy, too,” Lincoln winked. “Guess who’s watching us from the window. Shall we depart, before Deirdre comes out here and tries to take the dog back?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, pulling my seatbelt out and latching it in the receptacle. I heard it click and waited for Lincoln to do the same, even as I started the engine. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going down to Virginia, to my place in Reston.”
“You don’t live in New York?”
“No. I just finished a temporary assignment there and was taking some time off before heading home.”
“I confess I thought you were a big dog guy.”
“I am. I love dogs.”
“What I mean is Kary’s not exactly large in body.”
“Ah, but he is in spirit. Give him a little time and you’ll understand why he’s such a great dog. Good lord, I can’t wait to get him groomed.”
“What’s wrong with how he looks now?”
“This guy likes to be outdoors. He needs a practical haircut; with hair this long, he’ll pick up every tick within a mile.”
“That makes sense,” I agreed. He did look like a fussy little pooch with that bow in a top knot on his head.
“I’ll find a PetSmart on the way and see if I can get him clipped,” Lincoln told me, pulling out his phone and scrolling for a nearby store with a grooming salon. Kary was curled up in Lincoln’s lap, blissfully unaware of what was to come.
The Brandywine, Delaware store was the closest one on our route; according to the woman who answered the phone, there was had an opening for a clipping. The groomer promised to accommodate Kary, even if we were a little late.
When we got off the highway, I pulled onto Naamans Road and followed it to the shopping center. I took a parking spot near the door of the pet store.
We gave the little dog some time to explore on our way to the grooming department. Now harnessed and leashed, Kary was interested in his surroundings, right up to the moment he realized he was about to get a makeover. Quivering, the little dog passed from Lincoln’s embrace to the short woman with the curly blonde hair. Nonilee went over the instructions for the trim and promised to call if there were any problems.
Lincoln and I used the time to grab some lunch at the nearby Moe’s Southwest Grill, where we enjoyed quesadillas and sodas, and then hit T. J. Maxx for some clothes for me.
On impulse, I dug through a bin of outer wear and found another hat. The store clerk was kind enough to clip the tags. Wearing my new ivory cloche, I felt almost human again.
“You look good with the hat,” Lincoln told me. “It really highlights your hair.”
“And it hides my bandage,” I added, giving him a bright smile. It was true. Despite being slightly snug, the brim covered the gauze nicely, making me feel like I no longer stood out like a sore thumb.
By two o’clock, we were ready to retrieve the dog and get back on the road. While we waited for the groomer to fetch Kary, Lincoln paid the bill.
“Here you go,” said Nonilee, bringing out a small fur ball almost half the size of Kary.
“That’s more like it,” the FBI agent cheered. Kary looked like a cheerful Muppet, wagging tail and all.
“Do you mind holding him while I drive?” Lincoln asked me as we left the store, walking back to the car. “I could put him in the crate in the back seat if you’re not comfortable.”
“Are you kidding? Hand him over!” I insisted. He opened the door of the VW and waited for me to get settled before he lifted the dog up and deposited him on my lap. Kary stood on all fours, tiny paws balancing on my thighs, and gazed around at the car like he was seeing it for the first time. He sniffed the air to make sure this was a good place to be. When he was sure it passed the smell test, he twirled around twice and curled into a ball on my knees. I patted his back, watching as the brown eyes finally closed and sleep took over.
A mere twenty-five minutes after I sat in the passenger seat, strapped myself in, and got cozy with the dog, I found out why he was called Karaoke.
Chapter Eleven
“How about some music?” the man in the driver’s seat asked me as we headed down I-95. I should have known from the impish grin he gave me that something was afoot.
“Sure.”
He flicked a knob and I heard the twang of a country guitar. “I’m a big George Strait fan, Marigold. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I love any kind of music,” I replied. “Rock, classical, jazz....”
“That’s good. After Deirdre left me, I put together a play list of my favorite tunes. Prepare to be dazzled. Ready, boy?”
Kary suddenly stirred in my lap. His little head popped up, alert to his master’s voice. When his eyes landed on the driver, he sat himself up expectantly and reached out a paw to Lincoln.
“All my ex’s live in Texas!” Lincoln sang along to the tune, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel. “And Texas is the place I’d love to dearly be....”
“Woo!” Kary chimed in. “Woo-ooo!”
“Your dog sings?”
“You bet his does,” Lincoln grinned.
The pair moved on to Toby Keith’s Wish I Didn’t Know Now, following that up with She Got the Gold Mine (I Got the Shaft), sung by Jerry Reed. The longer they went on with their performance, the more I laughed. By the time they ended with Goin’ through the Big D, accompanying Mark Chestnutt, there were tears streaming down my face and I was head over heels in love with Kary.
“What a dog!” I gushed, giving the pooch a big hug. He rewarded me by licking my face.
The rest of the journey to Reston went smoothly. We spent much of it in companionable silence, letting the miles pass without speaking. I let my mind wander, thinking about everything that popped into my head. I wondered what would happen next and whether we’d hear from the Marshals Service soon. I wanted to know how Shaun and Tovar were doing. Would they be okay? I thought about the new baby. The marshal had been so thrilled when his wife gave birth to Griselda. It didn’t seem fair that she might grow up without knowing her father. Tovar was a good man.
Lincoln navigated through the bumper-to-bumper traffic for about twenty minutes, the result of a multi-car pile-up just northeast of the nation’s capitol, before coming off the Beltway and cutting through this side street and that. He clearly knew his way around the city, so Kary and I sat back and enjoyed the view. By the time we got to Reston, I was curious about the place he called home.
“You want to know about my condo? It’s a top floor unit, one bedroom with a loft. My favorite perk is the convenient underground parking space. The location’s pretty good, too. It’s almost midway between Washington and Quantico. I teach courses at the FBI Academy.”
“Impressive. I assumed you went to an office every day and wrote reports, in between arresting bad guys.”
“Actually, I’ve spent the last three years traveling to some of the world’s biggest hell holes, investigating crimes against Americans, assisting investigators from other countries on cases, and doing whatever needs doing. I go wherever the FBI sends me.”
“Is that good or bad?” I wondered.
“Well, not so good when I was married, because I was rarely home. Deirdre didn’t like that much. She said it made her feel single, without benefits. But it’s been good for me since the divorce, because I would have gone nuts otherwise. Of course, now that I’ve got my boy back,” he acknowledged, patting Kary’s furry head, “it’ll be hard to be away from home. But I’m due for reassignment to a major field office as an assistant special agent-in-charge within the next few months, so we’ll get through it.”
“What does that mean for Kary?”
“I’ve got that covered,”
he smiled. “He’s going to a good foster home.”
“Oh, poor thing,” I decided, holding the dog a little closer. “Just when you thought you were home again, fella.”
“Don’t you worry about him, Marigold. He loves visiting Tom and Jojo, and they love having him.”
Lincoln left the Dulles Toll Road and took a right onto Reston Turnpike, heading towards Market Street. He pulled into the parking garage of the Savoy at the entrance on St. Francis Street, rounded the corner, and drove down the length of the garage until he came to a pair of enormous cement columns. Pulling past these, he eased his VW into his marked space.
“Let’s run the little guy outside before we go up,” he suggested, as we exited the garage. Navigating the maze of hallways, we made our way to a set of exterior doors leading to a charming outdoor courtyard.
Meandering paths led us around the sprawling four-story condo complex. The lights on the lamp posts softly illuminated the snow-dusted landscape as twilight fell. Leafless trees, waiting for spring to return, were tucked among evergreens and shrubs. I wondered what they would look like in bloom. It was peaceful here; other than our muffled footsteps on the brick walkways and some quiet conversation, there was only the occasional, faint city sound to break the stillness. Above me, the night sky was clear and just dark enough to offer an impressive display of twinkling stars. The spires of Reston high-rises broke up the horizon, but they didn’t seem to spoil the park-like setting of this urban oasis.
The FBI agent released the retractable leash so that Kary could explore the shrubbery, which he did with great enthusiasm as Lincoln walked me past the large, winterized swimming pool and around to the meditation garden. The air was crisp. I could see my breath as we strolled. It came out in little white puffs of vapor with each word I spoke.
“What an unexpected delight,” I told Lincoln. “Everything is so serene.”
“This is the quiet time of year. It’s really quite different come summer. Over there is where the grill masters meet for some friendly competition,” he told me, as he pointed to the outdoor barbecue area. “There are a lot of parties and informal gatherings here. People are very social.”
The small Shih Tzu was ready to retreat to the warmth of the Savoy, and he made that clear when he pawed his master’s leg, begging for a lift. Lincoln scooped him up and led us back to the parking garage, where we retrieved our belongings from the trunk of the Jetta. Bags and gear in hand, we wound our way through the building to the elevator and rode it up to the fourth floor.
“Here we are,” he announced, stopping in front of the second door on the left. He slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. “Welcome to home, sweet home.”
Stepping into a long, narrow room with pristine hardwood floors, soaring ceilings, and walls the color of unbleached linen, I glanced around. To my left, a flight of beige carpeted stairs led to a white-railed loft. Beneath this was a kitchen, with builder-grade cabinets in a honey brown finish, along with the requisite granite counters and stainless steel appliances so often found in newer condos.
Much to my surprise, however, the furnishings were unique and very much reflective of the man beside me. A round antique oak dining table was positioned near the kitchen, its hefty pedestal supported by strong claw feet. I thought it was a handsome choice. Lincoln had paired it with four Victorian oak chairs, their seats and backs upholstered in what looked to be the original red leather, providing a comfortable place to sit and eat. A long metal chain hung down from the ceiling, and from it was suspended an antique brass oil lamp with a white hobnail glass shade, refitted as an electrical fixture. It reminded me of my grandparents’ farmhouse and for a moment, a wave of nostalgia hit me hard. How I would have loved to have some of the family heirlooms with me. Instead, they had been sold after we went into witness protection. It was too much of a risk to bring them along with us to our new place.
Mentally shaking myself, I continued on. Along the long wall towards the back of the room was an overstuffed, well-worn, saddle brown leather sofa with rolled arms and bun feet. Some of the nail heads were missing along the bottom, and the cushions sagged in the middle. No doubt it was a favorite spot for Lincoln to relax. It faced a sixty-inch flat screen TV that sat atop an antique chest of drawers. A pair of sturdy dark wood end tables on either side had turned spindle legs, and upon closer examination, I found they weren’t identical. The subtle differences just seemed to add to their charm.
A carved oak blanket box Lincoln used as a coffee table sat upon a faded tribal rug, with a wear pattern that suggested the woven carpet was over a hundred years old.
“These are family heirlooms,” I decided, as I took stock of the furnishings. “You grew up with these pieces.”
“That’s very astute of you, Marigold. They came from my grandparents’ place in the Catskills. Deirdre always thought they had seen better days and wanted me to sell them, but I put them in storage instead. When I finally got my own place, I brought them here.”
I crossed the floor to examine a pair of Victorian oak-framed chairs, upholstered in green-and-tan striped velvet. The wood had the wonderfully dark patina that comes with age and use. I could imagine the many human hands through the years that gripped the carved paws of the wooden arms.
“I haven’t had a lot of time to paint or decorate since I bought the place last year,” Lincoln told me. That was said with a slightly defensive tone. “I’ve been busy with work.”
“Mmm...,” I mumbled, somewhat absentmindedly. Sitting in one of the chairs, I turned and peered through the glass of the closest window. Four floors down was the outdoor courtyard where we had just walked the dog. I turned to face him, ready to give him my verdict. “Nice.”
He walked over to join me, settling in the chair to my right. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and folded his hands in his lap. I glanced up, to the other side of the room, noticing how plain, almost stark, the walls were. Those brown eyes followed my gaze across the expanse of beige, as if he was trying to see it from my perspective. “You like the place?”
“Absolutely. I think I was expecting a very contemporary place from you, all glass and metal, with sleek lines.”
“What’s the ‘but’? You’d do something different.”
“No, it’s not that. It needs...it needs something from you, something of you. You’ve got furniture here, but no books, no souvenirs from your trips around the world.”
He stared at me, for just a moment or two, and then he softly smiled. “I guess I was well-trained. I learned to let Deirdre make all the decorating decisions, in order to keep the peace.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mortified, I realized to my horror that I had hit a nerve. It was hard to ignore the reality that this man was a stranger to me. What right did I have to intrude on the secrets of his past? It hadn’t occurred to me that his ex-wife was the domo major of the household, chief decision-maker in all things relating to the home they shared, but given her obvious penchant for controlling everyone around her, I really should have figured it out for myself.
“Don’t be sorry.” Lincoln brushed my concern away with a good-natured shrug. If Deirdre had been so determined to control every aspect of their home life, the least I could do was give him the chance to recover his inner man in his own time, at his own pace, and offer my support.
“It’s hard to restart your life, isn’t it?” I commiserated. “Just when you get used to the status quo, everything changes and you’re supposed to change with it.”
“After being married for so long, the last thing I expected was to be living on my own again. That was something that required some adjusting. I guess I’m still adjusting.”
“It takes time.” I offered encouragingly, even as he seemed to slip away mentally to some place I couldn’t follow. Was he taking inventory of what his life had become or wishing for what had been? The awkward silence grew as we sat there, side by side. At last, Lincoln put his hands on his thighs, stretched out his long,
bony fingers, and reluctantly rose to his full height.
“Let me show you the bedroom where you’ll be sleeping,” he said. Waiting for me to get out of my chair, he stood there briefly, a man with one foot still caught in the past and the other poised to move on. I had seen the symptoms in other men going through divorce. It was usually diagnosed as a heart torn by sorrow, something that only time could heal. “It’s this way.”
He flipped a wall switch on as he led me into a starkly furnished room with only a white queen-sized cast iron bed, a walnut washstand, and an Eastlake chest. A small antique lamp with a red glass shade gave off a warm glow atop the washstand and the blue quilt was a cheerful touch, but these were not enough to distract the eye from the overabundance of beige walls and carpet. “I haven’t gotten around to decorating this room.”
Was that his way of telling me he hadn’t moved on yet? If ever a man was conflicted, it was he. The pain of losing the wife he had lived with for more than a decade was still too fresh, too raw. When the bedroom was finally completed, would that mean the divorce was real and he would finally accept Deirdre wasn’t going to be part of his life any more?
“I’m putting your bag of clothes in the closet,” he informed me, holding up my bag of goodies before tucking it in beside his selection of assorted footwear.
“Great. Thanks.”
“The bathroom is this way,” he said, leading me through a very plain Jack and Jill set-up with a rather ordinary tub, sink, and toilet. A second door led back out to the tiny hallway where he opened a set of double doors. “The washer and dryer are here. And now it’s time for the last room on the tour.”
We climbed the stairs to the loft, where cardboard boxes and plastic storage bins were stacked beside an old oak roll top desk. A wooden desk chair beside it was piled high with color-coded files. Lincoln gestured with his right hand at the wide open space. “This is the final frontier. I still haven’t decided what to do with it. At the moment, it’s a catch-all room.”
Reluctant Witness Page 9
