Clouds In My Coffee (16 page)

Once outside in the hallway, I hand Pierre to Agent Trevani. “Will you do the honors, please?”

He has a look of confusion on his handsome face, which makes it a magic moment for me.

“Turn him over, under the collar you’ll find a zipper hidden by his fur. Just unzip.”

He does just that and it’s a digital picture moment when he pulls out Cece’s diary.

“I believe that’s called both
credible
and
tangible
evidence, Agent?”

Erik Laughlin runs a construction company in Salt Lake City. Agent Trevani phoned ahead to the FBI field unit supervisor, a guy named Matthew Dryer, to fill him in on our arrival the following day.

Sheila and Dad had offered Marco one of the rooms at the lodge next to the slopes and he had accepted. Sheila insisted he have dinner with us last evening, and for some reason, his presence left me uncomfortable. He unnerves me and I’m not sure why.

I tried phoning Ryan before I went to bed, but my call when straight to his voicemail, so I left a message telling him I missed him, loved him and what progress we’d made.

The following morning, as I walk into the kitchen, I see Marco sitting there. Apparently Sheila has invited him for breakfast as well, even though there’s a perfectly staffed restaurant at the resort.

“Good morning, Ms. Locke,” he greets me, taking a sip of coffee.

“Parrish,
please
,” I implore. I’m beginning to think this whole ‘Ms. Locke’ thing, which he pronounces as “Mizzzz Locke” is simply done to irritate me and, guess what, it works.

I’m fucking irritated.

“Good morning, Mr. Trevani,” I reply, taking my seat.

I catch Sheila’s amused glance as she sets my plate of scrambled eggs and sausage down in front of me.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“Oh, he left early. They’re taking inventory of the Pro Shop today and he wanted to get to it before they start sales for the day.”

“Hurry it up,” Marco replies, as he finishes his breakfast. “I don’t intend to make a career out of your
episodes,
” he annunciates. “I’ll pull my car around in fifteen minutes since you’ve insisted on looking over my shoulder during this preliminary investigation. Please don’t keep me waiting.”

And then he’s gone
.

I toss a glare to his back and turn back around, taking a sip of orange juice.

“Seems to me like you two are oil and water,” Sheila comments.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Parrish, I’m not trying to nose into your personal business, but Nick’s been fairly hush-hush about what’s going on. So, do you mind if I ask you just what the hell
is
going on?”

I think about how odd this must all seem to her. “It’s kinda complicated and you heard the resident Nazi, I’ve gotta scoot. But, I promise, I’ll have Dad explain it to you.”

The silence between us in the car on our way into Salt Lake City is uncomfortable. Thank God it’s a short drive.

“So, did you read her diary?” I finally ask.

“No. I have to have it processed first. That’s the reason we’re making this trip.”

“Processed?”

“As in booking
evidence?”

His tone is condescending.

That doesn’t work for me.

“You know, this is all new to me. You might show a bit more
tolerance.”

He sighs, glancing over at me briefly. “This diary can be used as supporting evidence for petitioning the county court for an Order for Exhumation, as long as we show that it was legally obtained and was, in fact, written by the deceased. Before I touch it anymore than I already have, the lab needs to process fingerprints, where hopefully they’ll find hers and, using a forensic test, known as thin layer chromatography, will substantiate the age of the ink and paper. Forensic graphology can provide insight into the likes of the writer’s frame of mind, mood, motivation, intelligence and emotional stability.”

“Do we need
all
of that in order to petition the court or whatever?”

“That will provide probable cause, and I don’t think her mother will object to the exhumation, so hopefully, there won’t be an issue. Don’t worry; it won’t take that long for the forensics to be conducted. I can start reading it tonight.”

“Won’t the FBI lab have to keep it?”

“Not once it’s booked and tested. I’ll sign it out as the Agent investigating it. A copy will be made to hold until it’s returned. It’s not a lot of red tape actually.”

“Good to know.”

By two o’clock, we’re headed back with the diary in our possession. It went exactly as Marco had said and, I have to admit, I was duly impressed watching the perfectly executed forensic processes that were in place at the Bureau.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as we pull off the interstate.

“Yeah. I didn’t finish breakfast, being rushed and all.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “We’ll stop, my treat,” he offers, “Being that I was the one that rushed your ass this morning.”

“No argument there,” I reply.

Once seated inside the restaurant, our orders taken, Marco busies himself by checking his cell for missed messages.

“Shit,” he mumbles, pressing the screen and listening to a voicemail. “Fucking great.”

Okay, so am I supposed to ask him if everything’s okay? Will that sound like I’m being nosey?

Who cares.

“Is everything alright?”

He looks over at me, a scowl still present on his otherwise gorgeous face. “Personal shit,” he replies.

“Oh. Okay. So, you’re going to get started on the diary. What next?”

He shrugs, taking a sip of his ice water. “Depends on what’s in the diary. I’m going to stop by to see Mrs. Adams tomorrow...
alone
. I’m returning the stuffed dog and asking her to sign an affidavit authorizing an exhumation to cover my tracks since she’s the next of kin.”

I’m pricked by his emphasis on the word “alone.”

Pompous ass.

“I don’t understand why it takes all of this supporting evidence or whatever to get a court order. I mean, shouldn’t the fact that her mother believes it wasn’t an accident and that she authorizes the exhumation be enough?”

“Ah, to be so young and naïve,” he says, smiling with a moderate hint of sarcasm present.

Okay. Now I’ve just kind of had it with him.

“Listen, you condescending ass,” I hiss, “I don’t give a damn if you
are
with the FBI or the CIA or fucking Scotland Yard for that matter! You need to lose that superior attitude of yours. I don’t see
you
being able to communicate with the
dead!”
I shove my chair back loudly, grab my handbag and jacket and beat a fast path to the exit.

Shit.

Now, I’m gonna stand out here and freeze my ass off while ‘God’s gift to the FBI’ has his leisurely lunch inside where it’s warm. I consider walking back inside for about ten seconds, but decide it would be a bit anticlimactic, not to mention pathetic to do so.

Several minutes later, he emerges from the restaurant carrying Styrofoam containers with our lunches inside. He holds the remote up, unlocking the doors to his SUV.

Once inside, he hands me the boxes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You’re right. I have been acting like an ass. It’s got nothing to do with you or this...case,” he continues. “Just some personal shit that I’ve got no business taking out on you. Please accept my apology.”

“Accepted,” I reply, “Now, will you answer my questions which I think were reasonable ones?”

He smiles as he starts the engine. “Okay, well the reason it takes a court-issued order for an exhumation is because the judicial system needs to consider and concur that the reasons are valid and the preponderance of evidence is enough to result in criminal charges, or sometimes even to prove the opposite and release someone incarcerated since the emergence of sophisticated DNA forensic analysis. If the law didn’t make provisions for this sort of thing, can you imagine the number of exhumations that would be done in order to get Aunt Martha’s diamond ring from her decaying finger to finance a vacation cruise; or Grandpa’s genuine gold fillings to pay a gambling debt?”

“You’re a real
people
person there, aren’t you Marco?” I ask, shaking my head. “Cynical much?”

“Maybe so, but then again I haven’t spent the better part of my adulthood strolling down some red carpet, giving a dazzling smile and having my picture taken. I’ve seen the extent human beings will go to for their own personal gain and the destruction they’ve left in their wake.”