I called Niki as I put Orton’s clothing back into the paper bag.
“Did you know that Toby Keith was playing at Mystic Lake Casino last night?” I ask.
“I didn’t know you were a fan,” Niki said.
“Huge fan. Fireball had two tickets and didn’t go.”
“Got sidetracked I guess.”
“I also found a receipt in his wallet. Looks like he bought some gas this morning—at 6:28. It’s from the Holiday on Sixth Avenue North.”
“Not far from the funeral pyre,” she said.
“Close in both time and place. Can you call Holiday and have them preserve the security footage for me?”
“Seems like Orton did just about everything he could to get caught.”
“All our cases should be this easy.”
“While you were over getting the warrant, I did some cyber stalking. Orton and Pippa Stafford were an item, at least according to Orton’s Facebook.”
“Didn’t have time to change his status after he killed her?”
“Apparently it slipped his mind. She’s a loan officer at US Bank. No criminal record. Not even a ticket. As white-bread as they come.”
“Lover’s spat?”
“It’s as good a theory as anything else right now. Is Fireball able to talk yet?”
“Still sedated. I have his phone. I’ll have forensics dig through it, maybe get some text messages to give us a motive. Who knows.”
“I’ll order up the surveillance footage from Holiday. Want to meet for lunch and compare notes?”
“I . . . uh . . . I have an errand to run. I’ll have to catch up with you later.”
“Is that errand named Farrah?”
“What?”
“She called back on your office phone. Wanted to tell you that she was running a few minutes late. So, you got something you want to tell me?”
“Fine . . . I admit it . . . I’m really not a Toby Keith fan.”
“I’m not kidding, Max. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I just have some things I need to take care of.”
“Things that have nothing to do with Fireball?”
“Believe it or not, I have interests outside of my job.”
“And as I recall, the last time you got caught up in those interests . . .” Niki paused as if weighing her words carefully. “Things didn’t turn out so great. You almost lost your job, and I almost lost a partner. I just want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“I don’t need a mother.” I responded a little angrier than I had intended. “I have everything under control.”
“You may not need a mother, but you do need a friend.”
I could think of nothing to say that would not hurt Niki, so the phone connection filled with silence. Then I said, “I got to go. The doctor’s here. I’ll catch you after lunch.” I hung up before she could respond. I needed time to come up with a lie, something plausible enough that Niki would pretend to believe it. I needed to keep her clear of this avalanche.
I put my phone in my pocket and turned to Fuller. “You don’t have to stay here any longer,” I said.
“What if he wakes up and tries to leave?”
“If he leaves, he’ll probably die of an infection. I don’t think even he’s that stupid.”
I looked at my watch and saw that noon was approaching, and I wanted to be at the Hen House early. I wanted time to think about things before Ms. McKinney arrived. McKinney was an interpreter. How did that fit into my wife’s death? Maybe it didn’t. But, then again, this was all about looking at things with fresh eyes. Jenni didn’t die because of someone I had arrested. She died because of something she knew. Somewhere out in the farthest outskirts of my mind, the notion of an interpreter being involved made sense, but I still felt as though I was looking though a lens smeared with Vaseline.
CHAPTER 9
The Hen House was a street-level restaurant that offered more ways to eat an egg than there were colors in a big box of crayons, the kind of place that preferred the clatter of plates and cups over the soothing tones of violin music. I took a seat at the lunch counter where I could keep an eye on the door, and ordered a coffee. The waitress brought it with a smile that seemed to be working hard to hide a hangover. The restaurant was starting to fill up, so I asked the hostess to hold a table open for when my companion arrived.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a text from Niki. We need to talk, was all it read.
I was about to call back when a woman with a bright-yellow ski parka walked into the Hen House, stopping at the door to scan the room. I put my phone away and walked toward her. When she saw me, she smiled broadly and waved. I hadn’t shown her my badge or gun, but she seemed to recognize me. She slipped the hood of her parka down, revealing light-brown hair, curly and highlighted; it had a bounce to it as she walked. Despite the cold, she wore ripped jeans tucked into brown leather boots with buckles around the ankles.
“Farrah?” I held out my hand to her and she shook it. “I’m Max Rupert.”
“I know,” she said. And there it was—that look of condolence that flashes across the faces of people when they remember that I am a widower. The hostess brought us to a table near the window where we could watch the brittle winter swirl by. Nothing moved outside except the occasional newspaper page or plastic bag skidding down the street. Inner-city tumbleweeds.
“It’s supposed to be warming up,” she said.
“Really? I hadn’t heard,” I said.
“Yeah, a heat wave. May even get up as high as ten above.”
“Time to break out the T-shirts,” I said. My lame attempt at humor received an obligatory smile from Farrah. I picked up my menu to have something to do with my hands. I had so many things I wanted to say, to ask, but I still hadn’t organized my thoughts. The awkwardness at our table hung thick in the air. Finally, I asked the question that seemed to be blocking all others.
“Have we met?” I said. “When you walked in, you acted like you knew me already.”
“No, we haven’t met, but I’ve seen you before.” She paused as if her next statement were giving up a secret, then said, “I was at Jenni’s funeral.”
“You were? I don’t recall.”
“You had . . . other things on your mind.”
“Were you and Jenni friends?”
“No, I’d only met her once—the day she died.”
The waitress came to take our orders, jotting down everything on a green pad of paper: “How do you like your eggs? Pancakes or toast? Sausage or bacon? Hash browns or breakfast potatoes? Juice? Milk?” I wanted to scream at her to leave, but I smiled instead and answered her questions politely. When the waitress was finally satisfied that every possible detail had been settled, she left.
“You were saying that you saw Jenni the day she died?”
“I got a call to go to the emergency room at HCMC that morning. I’m fluent in five languages, but I specialize in Russian and Baltic languages. Your wife had a patient who couldn’t speak English.”
“Do you remember the patient? A name? Anything?”
“I’m not sure it’s appropriate to talk about a patient.”
“It might be very important. I need to find out what happened to Jenni.”