'Right. Name of Clinton Huttinger. I need his photo and five other similars for a spread. Don't let anybody see what you're doing, just put the package together and get over to the hospital as soon as you can.'
Frost waited in the downstairs lobby, facing the big glass doors, but he heard Theo coming long before he saw him. Didn't matter how well you packed and settled your belt if you were as rail-thin as Theo. Damn thing banged on his bony hips, and handcuffs and light and everything else clattered with every step. He sat down next to his Chief and pulled the photo spread out of a large envelope.
'Fast work, Theo, and it looks good. Which one is he?'
Theo pointed.
'Jesus. He looks like an altar boy.'
'Actually, he was. Also Teacher of the Year and voted students' favorite past three years in a row.'
'Is there a sheet on him?'
Theo snorted. 'Sort of. He ran into his elderly neighbor's burning house to save her cat. The officer on site wrote him a warning on interfering with fire fighters.'
'Terrific. I picked a hero.'
'Hey. A lot of people thought Ted Bundy was Mr. Wonderful.'
Yeah, I guess. I've got a nurse, a doctor, Alissa, and you for witnesses when we show the spread to Marian. It's going to be tight in there, but I want this covered seven ways from Sunday in case we get anything. By the book, every second. Let's go.'
It was worse than tight when they all crowded into Marian's tiny room, because everyone had to stand at the head of the bed, where they could see the silent identification if it happened.
Marian looked at Frost, then at the photo spread, then back at Frost. He felt his heart fall to his stomach when he saw a tear fall from the corner of her eye. He'd been way out in left field with this leap, and way off base. He'd let her down, and he wondered if he'd ever get over that.
Then he watched her finger, stronger now than when she fumbled with the pen and paper earlier, but still wavering as it moved slowly, but certainly, to the photo of Clinton Huttinger.
Chapter Twenty-three
The problem was that Grace's brain had fallen off the genetic assembly line before they'd installed an off switch. Annie, Roadrunner, and Harley all had some sort of mindless activity where their brains literally seemed to shut down in a kind of weird living death, which gave them respite from the frenetic mental gymnastics required in programming. Grace's brain just kept working like the Energizer Bunny, and the only way she could blank out the endlessly repeating lines of programming language was to focus that laser attention on something else she was passionate about.
Now, this was simple. Basic. Look at the artichokes. Assess the green, the darker tinge at the edge of the leaves that screamed no, not perfect, move on. And then you find the mother lode, fresh off the truck, firm leaves lightened at the tip by the good California sun, drops of liquid crystal when you pushed your thumbnail into the flesh. Perfection.
Grace was a million miles away from her computer, totally focused on smelling Italian parsley, elephant garlic, waving her arms over vine-ripened tomatoes like a Jewish mother at Shabbat, pulling the aroma to her nose.
She'd walked into Whole Foods pissed, because she'd had to drive the few blocks to the store instead of walking. It was a little cooler than yesterday, perfect weather for a sidewalk stroll, but there were other considerations that made that impractical. Walking to the store on a lovely summer day was a pleasant notion, but if you had to carry more than one bag, you wouldn't be able to pull your gun fast enough if the need arose. And today there would be three bags, maybe four, because she was making lunch for all of them.
Lately she'd been thinking about her passions, about how the only two she had - work and cooking - had nothing whatever to do with people. Magozzi had made a ripple in her smooth pool of solitude. The man simply would not give up. He continually banged on the door of her life, foolishly ignoring all the signals that would discourage a lesser man, as if persistence could break through the barriers she had carefully put in place. She was a pragmatic woman, cognizant of her simple biological needs as a human being, accepting that weakness that occasionally succumbed to the mandate of human physical contact. She knew Magozzi wanted much more, and deserved it, but there were sad limits on what Grace was capable of giving. Fear had always defined her life, and she was beginning to think it always would. It was like trying to live underwater after you had exhaled all the air in your lungs, desperate to take a breath, terrified of the consequences.
She thought of the concern of Annie, Harley, and Roadrunner, who kept telling her she was isolating herself from the only thing that mattered - a lasting relationship. It seemed they didn't ever look inward to see the obvious: they were all isolated. Annie's flirtations and Roadrunner's obsessive exercise and Harley's ever-changing and short-lived liaisons kept them as separated from lasting human connection as she was. Perhaps there was no hope for any of them, except for the connection they had to each other, the one constant in all of their lives.
John Smith was sitting upstairs alone in the Monkeewrench office, staring out the window and wondering what the hell to do with himself. The past forty-eight hours had been a workaholic, adrenaline junkie's fantasy; but the problem with being both of those things was that time was always your enemy - either there was never enough of it, or too much of it, like now.
Most agents at his stage in life had plenty of places to redirect their focus and energy when the action died down. They had kids, grandkids, a wife, and a social life. He had none of those things, which simplified the job. The problem was, he wouldn't even have the job in a few months, and the thought of only himself for distraction was truly depressing.
The Monkeewrench crew, on the other hand, didn't share his lack of imagination - they all seemed to have their own places of retreat where they recharged their batteries and shut off their minds. And with the exception of Grace MacBride, they'd all offered to include him. But he hated exercise, which precluded Roadrunner's offer of a bike ride; and he hated opera even more, so he'd politely declined Harley's offer of sitting with him in a room and listening to people screech out some hackneyed story line. He had no idea what Grace's sanctuary was - he only knew she'd taken off in her Range Rover early this morning. The only remotely intriguing offer had been Annie's, but he really had no idea what one did in a spa, and he was pretty certain there wasn't much they could do for him, anyhow.
Jesus, what was happening to him? He'd even tried to play fetch with the weird dog as a last resort, but the mongrel completely ignored him and just sat by the door after his mistress had left, staring up at the knob. Dissed by a dog - the story of his life.
When he saw Grace MacBride's Rover pull into the driveway, and heard the door open and close downstairs, he felt an odd sense of relief and moved toward the elevator.
He found her at the massive kitchen island, unpacking grocery bags that were yielding a farmer's market worth of fresh produce, meat, and shellfish. She acknowledged him with a brief glance and nod of her head. 'There's coffee and fresh pastry in the breakfast room.'
'Thank you. You're cooking?'
'I will be.'
'Can I help?'
'No. Thank you,' she tacked on at the last minute as a civilized formality, but there was no question in his mind that he had just been dismissed. 'This is how I unplug,' she added.
Smith nodded. 'I understand. Good-looking artichokes.'
He left the room; he left her alone, and this was unexpected. Also unexpected that he would notice the extraordinary perfection of a vegetable as underappreciated as the artichoke.
She laid out the ingredients she would need to prep first; honed the knives she would use and laid them in perfect order on the cutting board, and heard the clink of John Smith's coffee cup on a saucer in the adjacent breakfast room.
God, she hated people. They cluttered up the planet and kept bumping into you; diverting your attention and distracting you from productive work. She softly put down the last honed knife, took an exasperated breath, and walked to the breakfast room. 'Can you handle a knife without cutting your hand off?'
