Agnes Hahn (13 page)

Agnes backed up a step. “No.”

“Do you know who would want to keep you two apart?”

She brought her hands up to her mouth and shook her head. “No.”

“Bransome’s going to ask these same questions, but he won’t be so nice about it. Do you want me to stay?”

She tugged on her lapels. “Yes. Please.”

The doorbell rang in unison with the first of three loud knocks. Jason answered and Bransome pushed by him, followed by Officer Wilson.

“Where is it?”

“On the kitchen table.” Jason pointed. He was left holding the door.

Bransome pulled back a chair and sat in front of the letter. He leaned in close as he examined the note from topto bottom, then he did the same with the envelope.

He turned and his eyes darted to Jason’s hand, then to his face.

“Did you touch it?”

“No.”

“Then your prints shouldn’t be on it?”

“No.”

He unbuttoned a shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. They snapped a tight fit around his thick wrists. He touched the letter by the corners, tilting it against the light, and turned it over and examined the blank side.

Wilson pushed two Ziploc baggies onto the table.

“I’ll need a paper bag for the letter. Anything that has blood on it has to go in paper.”

Wilson stared at Bransome. “I don’t have one with me.”

Bransome mumbled, his eyes still on the letter.

“I have one.” Agnes disappeared into the adjacent pantry and reappeared with a brown lunch bag.

Bransome lifted the letter and slid it into the bag. He mumbled something that sounded like a thank-you, reached for the envelope, and turned it over. The top was slit.

“How did you open it?” He didn’t look at Agnes, who was cowering against the counter.

“Letter opener.” She pointed across the room.

Bransome examined the sealing flap. It was tightly tacked.

Jason took a step forward. “You may be able to get DNA from the glue, if she licked it. And from the blood on the letter.”

“No shit, Sherlock. You worry about your involvement here. I’ll worry about the forensics.” He slipped the envelope into the plastic baggie. “It arrived today?”

Agnes nodded. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t do anything except read it and put it down?”

“No.”

“Miss Hahn, will you please call us if anything else happens with this case? Mr. Powers doesn’t represent the police. I want to get this to the lab right away, so I won’t bother you with any more questions right now. I’ll come back and talk about it after we do some tests.”

Bransome snapped off the gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. He stood and faced Jason.

“If she calls you, you call us. If you come here, we’ll know.” He nodded at Officer Wilson.

“Are you saying I can’t visit Agnes? She needs a friend right now.”

Bransome turned to Agnes. “You really think he wants to be your friend? He wants to write a book aboutthis case. He wants to make money off of you. That sound like a friend?”

Agnes took a step away from Jason and stared at the floor. Her hand went to her collar.

Bransome chuckled as he hurried out of the house, Wilson on his heels.

Jason looked at Agnes. She wouldn’t look up. That prick, Bransome, got in a good shot. It was like Agnes pulled into a shell. Before, she had been coming around a little. He could feel it. She seemed more relaxed. She stood closer. And the brief glimpses into her eyes were getting longer, their draw irresistible. Now she might as well be curled into a fetal position.

He took a step toward her and resisted an urge to pull her into his arms. Honesty was probably the best way to go.

“I’m sorry about what he said.”

“Is it true?”

“Agnes, I’m a reporter. I’m here to do a job. This case is very important, and the public has a right to know about it. But I can be a friend, too. I like you. And I want to help you.”

Agnes stared at the floor.

“I am one of the good ones. Do you believe me?”

Agnes’s face contorted into a frown and she swiveled her head left, then right.

“Agnes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you still want me to help you?”

She walked over to the table and looked up. A twinge of a smile tightened her lips. “Yes. Please.”

A
GNES HURRIED DOWN THE HALL FROM THE KITCHEN
and picked up the telephone receiver. The phone seldom rang. It had been two days since Detective Bransome had called requesting a meeting, and he had used her cell phone.

She twisted her finger through the coiled phone cord.

“Hello, Agnes.”

Agnes fumbled the receiver, but caught it before it dropped. “Is it really you?” Breathing on the other end was rapid, almost panting.

“Yes.”

“I want to meet you. See you.”

Breathing.

“Where are you? Can we meet somewhere?”

More breathing. “No.”

“The police are looking for you. I want to see you before they find you.”

“They won’t.”

“But I want to find you. A man is helping me. His name is Jason. He’s a reporter. I think he’s one of the good ones.”

The breathing increased in frequency and volume. “No.”

“Please. I want to see you. You can trust me.”

The breathing slowed then stopped, cut off by a click and dial tone.

“Lilin … Lilin!”

Agnes eased the receiver back onto the cradle and stared at the phone. The voice sounded so close. But why didn’t Lilin trust her? It must be Jason. She didn’t trust Jason. He was getting in the way.

But how could she get together with Lilin without Jason’s help? Lilin was still in hiding. She was close; the feeling came through clearly. But she was hiding—wanting to touch, but not wanting to be touched.

Agnes felt the chill of the empty house. Should she tell Jason about the call? What about the police?

She turned away from the phone and rounded the banister to the stairs. Maybe the police already knew about the call? Did they have the phone tapped? Even if they did, Lilin was too smart to get caught. That must be why thecall was so short. She probably used a pay phone, or a cell phone. She wouldn’t get caught. She

couldn’t get caught. Not yet. They had to meet.

Agnes circled the railing at the top of the stairs and slipped into her room. Her cell phone was on the nightstand, folded, but on. Should she call Jason? How else could she find Lilin before the police did? Lilin didn’t want to be found, so it would be difficult. Hide-and-seek came to mind, twenty-some years too late.

Agnes paced the room, staring at the phone on each pass, hoping it would ring, willing it to ring. If Lilin’s words could get through to her sometimes without a phone, maybe she could get through to Jason the same way.

She glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten. Jason wasn’t going to call. He was probably in bed, asleep. No, he was a reporter. He’d stay up for the eleven o’clock news. He was awake. He must be awake.

She walked to the end table and picked up the cell phone. It was one of the few modern devices that appealed to her. It represented freedom, and freedom meant independence. And risk.

The hinged lid of the phone snapped open, illuminating the small screen. She knew the number; her mind was quick with numbers. Twice repeated, long remembered. That had been her trick in school, and it still served her well. But it was one thing to remember thenumbers, another to punch them into the phone. Was he one of the good ones?

Don’t do it.

She looked at the clock again. Nearly five past ten. He wouldn’t like it if she called during the news. Maybe he wouldn’t like it if she called at any time. But he said to call if she needed anything. He said anything.

She pushed the first three numbers and paused.

Don’t do it.

He offered his help, and now she needed it. Was he serious or just being nice? Were his smiles sincere or was he using her for his own gain? Did it matter? She needed to find Lilin.

Agnes punched in the last four numbers and rested her finger on the talk button. If she called, she would be joining him in a pact. A pact that angled around the police. She wasn’t out of trouble with them, and this would work against her in the long run. And Jason might not be one of the good ones. But his smile seemed sincere.

No!

She pushed the button.

Jason turned the dial on the hot plate. Instant coffee was nasty, but the goal was caffeine, not taste. The ring of the phone startled him. He froze.

One call had come in on that phone, from Agnes, but now it was late. She’d be in bed, asleep. Who else could it be? It wouldn’t be his editor. Mulvaney disappeared around nine o’clock every night, without a trace. He couldn’t be reached at work. He couldn’t be reached at home. The word in the newsroom had him indulging in some undetermined excess that kept him busy until the wee hours.

Jason mopped his brow. He hadn’t given the motel number to anyone else. He hadn’t told anyone else where he was staying.

Another ring. Bransome would have the number, and more. He seemed to work day and night. No family? Maybe his kids were out of the house and his wife didn’t mind. Divorced? It seemed to be a fate of too many law enforcement families.

Another ring. Maybe it really was Agnes. If she was still up, it must be important. He walked to the bed, sat down, and interrupted the next ring.

“Agnes. Why are you still up?”

“Lilin called.”

“Holy shit.” He looked the time. “If your lights are on, turn them off. And the TV, too. The police are watching, and they’ll think something is wrong.”

He heard shuffling and a click. More shuffling.

“Now, what did Lilin say?”

“That she doesn’t want to meet me.” Her voice sounded distant, sad.

“She probably knows the police are watching.”

“Can they tap cell phones?”

Jason tugged on the phone cord. She didn’t call on his cell. “Yes, but you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Why not? I don’t want them to find her.”

“Let’s meet tomorrow. I’ll explain it then. There’s a Denny’s about two miles up the coastal highway. On the right. Do you know the one?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me there at noon, and don’t worry. I’ll already be there. I’ll go about a half hour early and park a couple of blocks away. The police will probably stay outside in the car. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

J
ASON BYPASSED THE WAIT-TO-BE-SEATED SIGN AND
scooted into a booth centered on the back wall of the restaurant, prompting a dirty look from the midthirties hostess in the frilly dress. The place was about two-thirds full, populated by two sets of mortal enemies in a temporary state of détente. Apparently, locals didn’t patronize this Denny’s, so instead of a wide variety of human types, the patronage was dominated by the two very different groups. And they seemed to coexist in a fragile equilibrium.

At the tables, the working-class-retired hovered over breakfast plates, all bearing a common denominator—bacon. It was probably too messy to cook on the propane mini-stoves of their campers and third hand recreational vehicles.

Younger tourists occupied the window booths, club sandwiches and ham-and-swiss on rye waiting theirturn behind the soup du jour. The boothed diners’ eyes moved back and forth between the tables and the BMWs and Lexuses in the parking lot. Jason assumed they wistfully fantasized about working their autos’ suspensions into a lather 01 unimpeded by their enemies’ rolling roadblocks.

He imagined the meal ending in a
Le Mans
start, a sprint, or fast walk in some cases, beginning the race to the highway, and the jockeying for position for the long stretches between passing opportunities.

He silently rooted for the old folks. The BMW and Lexus drivers exuded a common air of entitlement; an option on most cars, but part of the standard feature package for these two. On a freeway, there was no governor on the young. But on Highway 1, the missiles and the behemoths were on a level field, and it satisfied his sense of righteous indignation.

He appreciated the drama. It passed the time. Meeting in a public place was important to him, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the description of the carnage at the crime scenes, and the distant, hazy possibility that Agnes was involved. He wondered if the victims’ throats were slit before the other carving. More hope than wonder. Could someone hate men that much to do it the other way around? Could Agnes?