Chương 12
“Yesterday when?”
“Late afternoon.”
“Alone?”
“She thinks so.”
I started toward the door.
Luis caught my sleeve again.
“Don’t.”
“I’m going outside.”
“To do what?”
“Breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like copier toner.”
Owens pointed at me.
“Front entrance only.”
I looked at him.
“Am I detained?”
“No.”
“Then stop pointing.”
He lowered his hand.
I stepped outside with Luis behind me.
The air had warmed.
Traffic moved slowly through the intersection.
A woman pushed a stroller past the bank without looking at us.
Two construction workers argued beside a utility van.
The normality felt indecent.
I stood under the awning.
Luis leaned against the brick wall.
“I keep thinking about my father’s boxes.”
“So do I.”
“You think Wren knew him.”
“Yes.”
“You think my father knew Michael.”
“I don’t know.”
“You believe he did.”
“I think the photograph says they stood next to the same truck once.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
He rubbed his face.
“I spent half my life resenting him for not being around.”
I said nothing.
Luis kept looking at traffic.
“What if he wasn’t around because he was doing something worse than abandoning us?”
“That’s not a question we can answer yet.”
“I know.”
He laughed quietly.
“I hate when you sound reasonable.”
“Doesn’t happen often.”
“No.”
My phone buzzed again.
Luis went still.
Unknown number.
This message contained no photograph.
Only one sentence.
WREN WILL NOT TALK WHILE OWENS IS THERE.
Luis read it.
“That’s not subtle.”
“No.”
“You showing him?”
“Yes.”
He looked surprised.
“Growth again?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
We went back inside.
Owens read the message.
His expression did not change.
“Could be meant to separate me.”
“Probably.”
“Could also mean Wren knows me.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Have you worked cases involving him?”
“Not knowingly.”
Luis folded his arms.
“Which is a very police answer.”
Owens ignored him.
Daniels took the phone.
“The sender knows Owens is involved.”
“Everyone in the bank saw him.”
“That message came after our officers reached Wren’s house.”
I looked at her.
“So whoever sent it is watching there too.”
“Maybe.”
“Another word I hate.”
Owens pulled out his own phone.
“I’m calling the officers back.”
Daniels frowned.
“Why?”
“If someone wants me gone, I want to know what changes when I leave.”
“That sounds reckless.”
“It is controlled.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
He looked at me.
“Now you know how I feel.”
I almost respected him.
Almost.
The officers were told to pull away from the house but maintain observation from farther down the street.
Owens remained at the bank.
For twelve minutes nothing happened.
Then a camera feed arrived from a patrol vehicle.
Wren’s garage door opened.
A beige sedan backed out.
The driver was an old man wearing a baseball cap.
Ruth leaned toward the screen.
“I can’t tell.”
Owens enlarged the image.
The face was partly shadowed.
“License plate matches Wren’s registered vehicle.”
“Where’s he going?”
“South.”
Daniels watched the map on her phone.
“Unit’s following.”
The sedan drove six blocks.
Then turned into a grocery store parking lot.
Luis stared.
“You’re kidding.”
Nobody was kidding.
Wren parked.
He got out slowly.
Old age had rounded his shoulders.
He took a reusable shopping bag from the trunk.
Ruth looked at the image.
“That’s him.”
“You’re certain?” Owens asked.
“Yes.”
“He’s twenty-seven years older.”
“So am I.”
“He’s wearing a hat.”
“I know the way he walks.”
Owens looked at her.
“You saw him how many times?”
“Enough.”
On the screen, Charles Wren entered a grocery store.
For five minutes we watched police discuss whether to approach him beside produce.
Luis finally said, “This is the least dramatic manhunt I’ve ever witnessed.”
“No one called it a manhunt,” Daniels said.
“Good.”
Wren bought milk, bread, canned soup, and bananas.
That detail stayed with me.
I did not want Charles Wren buying bananas.
I wanted him fleeing with forged passports and cash.
Instead he compared two cartons of milk and put one back.
Real people were irritating that way.
They refused to become symbols just because you needed them to.
When Wren exited the store, two plainclothes detectives approached.
He stopped.
He did not run.
He did not reach into his coat.
He set the grocery bag on the hood of his car.
Then he looked directly toward the parking lot camera.
Toward us, in a way.
Owens’ phone rang.
He answered.
“What did he say?”
He listened.
His eyes moved to me.
“Put him on speaker.”
A different voice came through.
“Detective, Mr. Wren says he’ll speak voluntarily under one condition.”
Owens looked annoyed already.
“What condition?”
“He wants Grant Callahan present.”
Every person in the room turned toward me.
I felt no satisfaction.
Only weight.
Owens said, “Ask him why.”
The detective on the phone relayed the question.
We waited.
Then the answer came.
“He says Grant is the only person still alive who deserves the truth.”
Ruth whispered, “Michael.”
Owens’ eyes stayed on me.
“Tell him Mr. Callahan is not coming to a grocery store.”
Another pause.
The detective spoke to Wren.
Wren replied.
“What did he say?” I asked.
The phone crackled.
“He says he won’t talk there anyway.”
“Where?”
Another pause.
“He wants to go to Callahan House.”
My chest tightened.
Luis looked at me.
“No.”
Owens said the same thing at almost the same time.
I looked at both of them.
“Why not?”
Luis stared at me.
“Because it’s your building.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s full of veterans.”
“Most are at work.”
“Some aren’t.”
Owens cut in.
“He does not choose the interview location.”
The detective on speaker said, “He says he does if you want him to talk.”
Owens’ face hardened.
“Then he can talk at the station or not at all.”
The line went quiet.
I looked at him.
“You’re willing to lose him over geography?”
“I’m not conducting a witness interview in a building tied to you, your brother, and whatever this is.”
May you like
“Why?”
“Because I don’t control it.”
