I dodged a puddle on the sidewalk and wondered who else had access to the old grocery besides Maddie and Deanna. Her builder, to figure out how best to demolish the place without damaging the adjacent structures. Jake Byrd. Who else?
A different guard sat outside the ICU today, working a crossword puzzle. He found my name on the list with no trouble. No sign of Officer Clark.
Maddie was alone, her eyes closed. The curtains had been pulled across both the interior and exterior windows, giving the room an eerie midday darkness, though the door was open. I sat in the chair next to her bed and reached for her hand.
“Maddie, it’s me. Pepper.”
Her eyes remained closed, but she gripped my hand.
“Between Kristen and me, we’ve heard from half the girls in our class,” I said. “We’re all rooting for you. And I see they all sent flowers.”
Her mouth twitched, an attempt at a smile. I handed her the big sippy cup.
“Maddie, I know this is hard, but you’ve never let hard things stop you. Tim said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Soccer,” she said.
That sent my brain scrambling. What had Kristen said? “The kids are back at practice and doing great. Only a few more weeks in the season. Next spring, you’ll be out there cheering louder than ever.”
“He—stayed. The building . . .”
I scooted my chair forward, angling so she could see me better. “Are you trying to tell me who you saw in the building? When you were shot?”
“No,” she said firmly. “Pat.”
That didn’t make any sense at all. Pat had been dead for three years. She hadn’t seen him in the building.
“What? You saw who shot Pat?”
“No. No.”
I heard a soft rap on the doorframe. Tim walked in, a Starbucks cup in hand. We exchanged air-kisses and chitchat about the kids, careful to include Maddie rather than talk as if she weren’t there, though she didn’t say anything. She stretched an arm toward the photo albums, now stacked on the deep windowsill, and Tim handed her one absently. She pushed it away and pointed again.
“Grandma,” she said.
“You want your grandmother’s photo album?” I asked, and she nodded. Tim was closer, so he picked it up.
A nurse walked in. “Time for your pills.”
“Time for me to go,” I said, and leaned in to kiss Maddie’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a day or two.”
Maddie grabbed my hand. “Tell Laurel—the building worked. Tell her.”
“I will,” I said, though what she meant, I had no idea.
Twenty-Five
A scent can reduce us to tears in a moment.
— Philippa Stanton, Conscious Creativity
“SORRY,” Tim said as he walked down the hall with me. “She was talking in full sentences earlier today. It comes and goes.”
“No need to apologize. I can only imagine what you’re all going through.” We pushed through the ICU doors and stopped. The guard stand was empty now. “One thing that’s puzzled me, though, is why the Seattle police had a guard on her earlier but not now. They haven’t made an arrest, so what’s changed?”
“What? No, they haven’t been guarding her. Police have been in and out—two detectives, short black guy, kinda grumpy, and a tall thin white guy. And the liaison officer.”
“Tracy’s the grump. Armstrong’s his partner. What about the FBI? Agent Meg Greer, midthirties, always wears black. She might have a male partner. White guy, about your size. Don’t know his age.”
“Greer, I’ve seen, once. Early on. No partner. My impression is she’s focused on a suspect they’d targeted for Halloran’s murder.”
“A guy connected to a Chinese import–export firm?”
“Yeah. But I can’t see what that might have to do with Maddie. I don’t think they do, either.”
“Maddie’s family owned that corner lot once, didn’t they? Decades ago? Why did they sell?”
“They didn’t sell it. Some uncle or great-uncle lost it in a bad financial deal, something vaguely criminal. I don’t know the details. It kinda tore the family apart.”
What had Miriam Petrosian said about her husband’s uncle? That he’d been the boy in the photograph of the delivery truck. She’d said his name. Unusual, Armenian, but what was it?
“Just now, Maddie mentioned Pat. He was active in the group that opposed Jake Byrd’s development, right? And she went to a few meetings. Is that how she knew him?”
“She knew him before that, from soccer. Pat helped coach the younger kids, including Max.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Pat had coached Maddie and Tim’s son. “What about Bruce Ellingson? His son Cody played on the same high school team as Gabe Halloran.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. I should get back.”
“Yeah, yeah.” We air-kissed and Tim left, the ICU doors swooshing shut behind him.
So Maddie would have known Pat from the kids’ soccer team, which explained why she’d said “soccer.” But why say “building”? And why mention him at all?
I glanced at the empty guard stand, then pushed my way back into the ICU. Tim was standing at the nurses’ station, talking with the nurse who’d given Maddie her medication. I touched Tim’s arm and led him a few feet away.
“Tim, does Maddie know she was shot with the same gun as Pat?”
He ran a hand over what was left of his hair. “It’s hard to say what she knows and doesn’t. We’ve tried not to talk about the incident in front of her, but she could have heard us out in the hall.”
So why was she talking about Pat? Even scrambled, Maddie’s brain had to have its reasons. Laurel’s suspicion of an affair was the last thing I wanted to bring up
