by I.B. Holder
*****
The cleaning crew swept through the food court at 9:45 every morning. Only one “customer” sat amid the sea of plastic chairs and white acrylic topped tables. Wagner had been there for over an hour, waiting for nine o’clock on the east coast, when it was safe to call Legacy. The hour time difference gave her more time to contemplate the words she would use when he picked up the phone. She’d been over and over the events of the night – agents had responded and made The Potter’s Wheel into the hub of the largest manhunt in the history of the bureau. Wilkes had shown up, with a more forgiving line on Legacy’s methods, seeing as how they had almost netted the drop-off man. He’d put his hand on Wagner’s shoulder, and pronounced in a deep baritone “close.” Close was not in her vocabulary, close is not what penetrated into her blood. The journals of crime are not etched in the text of “close.” The trail didn’t get any fresher than last night and it couldn’t have chilled any faster in this frigid place.
She looked at the pathetic Dixie cup she’d filled with water in the drinking fountain. Her first drink of the day and it wasn’t coffee. Of course there was a coffee shop in the food court, but it didn’t open until ten. Anyone who could wait for a cup of coffee until ten danced on the edge of the seventh circle of hell – no, worse, they river danced right over the edge into a tepid Dixie cup of water. Ten o’clock mall coffee drinkers were the problem with the Dakotas. She was about to expand her theory worldwide when the nagging thought popped back into her head. What was she going to say to Legacy?
Her phone rang, right on time, five minutes to ten. She flipped it open. “Wagner.”
Legacy didn’t mince words “Big news.”
Wagner responded, “I know Legacy, I blew it, I had the drop-off guy, and he slipped right through my fingers.”
Legacy said, “What?”
Wagner “I ruined the assignment, our guy was staying in a fleabag motel five miles from the drop, and he got away. Isn’t that why you called?”
Legacy plunged forward, “This changes our conversation. Was he driving a van? Don’t answer, he was driving a van, and I’m willing to bet he had instructions not to check in to any fleabag motel. That’s good; it gives us a timeline to work with. How long had they been there?”
“Didn’t you hear me, I lost him. I could have closed this whole thing, but I let him slip out the window.”
“Now let’s find out where he came from and where he went.”
“Why aren’t you an ass when I do things wrong, and – when I am - “ She searched for the proper term.
“A little ray of sunshine?”
“Yes, like that, you save your harshest criticism for when I deserve – I deserve something -” She stammered.
“Praise? I’ll work on that. You haven’t had your coffee yet have you?”
“No.”
“Get it, and sit down because I’m about to change your mind.”
“It’s going to be four minutes until the coffee shop opens.”
“I can wait.”
“You want to – engage in small talk – maybe something personal - for three minutes?” She could feel Legacy cringe on the other end of the line. “Call me back.” The conversation restarted with a steaming latte in Wagner’s hand and finished with the cold dregs of the unfiltered espresso at the bottom of the cup. Wagner needed some steadying at the beginning, and Legacy knew exactly how to put her at ease.
