Chương 10
He accepted that.
“What did the number mean then?”
“It was written in red grease pencil on the cabinet door.”
“Anything stored inside?”
“Dressings.”
“Drugs?”
“Some.”
“What kind?”
“Antibiotics, pain medication, saline.”
“Military supplies?”
“I don’t know.”
Luis looked at me.
“Again with the numbers.”
“Yeah.”
I picked up the old hotel key card.
M14.
Room 214.
Locker 317.
Maybe patterns.
Maybe nothing.
People become superstitious quickly when frightened.
Owens took the card back from me.
“Do not turn random details into certainty.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
He was right again.
It was becoming intolerable.
Daniels’ radio sounded.
She stepped away to answer.
Owens looked at Luis.
“Do you know anyone at the bus station?”
Luis blinked.
“Why would I?”
“You seem to know everyone else.”
“I know bankers and veterans.”
“That is not everyone.”
“It feels like everyone in December.”
Owens almost smiled.
Then the expression vanished.
“We’ll secure the locker.”
“I’m coming,” I said.
“No.”
“You’ve established a theme.”
“And you’ve established one too.”
Luis stood.
“I’m going with them.”
Owens looked at him.
“No.”
“I’m not Bear.”
“That’s not a credential.”
“I can identify his brother.”
“You saw one old photograph.”
“I’ve seen more now.”
Owens shook his head.
“You both stay.”
Luis looked offended.
“I have a bank office upstairs.”
“Congratulations.”
“This is technically my workplace.”
“Then work.”
I laughed.
Luis turned on me.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“A little.”
It felt wrong to laugh with Michael’s face on the screen.
That made it more necessary.
Owens and Daniels left fifteen minutes later with two additional officers.
They took the envelope, the Polaroid, and the key card into evidence over my objections.
I objected mostly out of habit by then.
Ruth remained under protection.
Luis and I were told to wait.
I hated waiting.
I hated chairs designed by people who had never considered shoulders.
I hated fluorescent lights.
Mostly I hated the fact that every direction available to me had been closed by somebody else’s decision.
Luis eventually went upstairs and returned with sandwiches.
He handed me turkey.
“I hate turkey.”
“You’ve eaten turkey in front of me.”
“That doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Then starve.”
I ate it.
Ruth peeled the crust from hers.
Luis watched her.
“My daughter does that.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-two.”
Ruth smiled.
“Some things don’t improve.”
“She’s a surgeon.”
“That doesn’t mean she likes crust.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Bear eats everything.”
“I am sitting here.”
“That was for Ruth.”
“I remain sitting here.”
Ruth folded the crust into a napkin.
The three of us ate in almost complete silence.
For ten minutes, the world narrowed to mustard packets and paper wrappers and a vending machine that hummed too loudly in the corner.
I noticed my hands had stopped shaking.
Then my phone buzzed.
All three of us froze.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A photograph appeared.
Not of me.
Not of Ruth.
Not of Michael.
It showed Luis entering the bank that morning carrying two coffees.
Below it were five words.
HE DOESN’T KNOW ABOUT 317.
Luis read it over my shoulder.
His face changed.
“What the hell does that mean?”
I showed Ruth.
She stared.
“I don’t know.”
Luis looked at me.
“You believe me?”
“Yes.”
He looked relieved for half a second.
Then annoyed.
“You answered too fast.”
“I’ve known you six years.”
“That has not prevented bad judgment before.”
“No.”
I turned the phone over in my hand.
“Whoever sent this wants me suspicious of you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here.”
Ruth whispered, “Or because of the locker.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“What if they think Luis knows something connected to it?”
Luis laughed once.
“I manage commercial accounts.”
“Michael knew people.”
“Not me.”
“He may have known someone in your family.”
Luis stopped smiling.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Too immediate.
I watched him.
He looked away.
“Luis.”
“No.”
“What?”
He stood and walked toward the window.
I followed.
Ruth remained seated.
Luis stared at traffic outside.
“My father worked logistics.”
I felt something inside me go still.
“For who?”
“The Army.”
“What years?”
“Most of the eighties and nineties.”
“Where?”
“Fort Meade, then contract work.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what your father did?”
“We weren’t close.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“My father talked about work the way priests talk about confession.”
“What was his name?”
Luis hesitated.
There it was again.
That fraction of a second where trust became a choice.
“Rafael Ortega.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Then Ruth made a sound behind us.
We both turned.
She had gone pale.
Luis looked at her.
“You know that name?”
Ruth did not answer.
He crossed the room.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“I heard Elliott say it.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“At the house.”
Luis stared at her.
“What did he say?”
Ruth closed her eyes.
“Something about a shipment.”
“What shipment?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
Her eyes opened.
“I am trying.”
He stepped back, embarrassed by his own tone.
“Sorry.”
Ruth looked at him for another second.
Then she whispered, “He said Rafael had changed the route.”
Luis sat down slowly.
I had never seen his face lose color like that.
“My father changed routes.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“He used to say that.”
“Say what?”
“That his job was routes.”
His voice had gone distant.
“Moving equipment.”
“Where?”
“Overseas sometimes.”
“During Michael’s deployment?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said your father did contract work in the nineties.”
“Yes.”
“What company?”
He shook his head.
“Different companies.”
“Name one.”
“I can’t.”
“Luis.”
“I can’t because I don’t know.”
His voice cracked with anger.
“My father left my mother when I was fourteen.”
He stood again.
“He came back into my life whenever it suited him.”
“Birthdays, funerals, once when he needed a place to sleep.”
He laughed bitterly.
“He sent checks without notes and called that parenting.”
I stayed quiet.
May you like
“He died in 2012.”
“How?”
