Chapter Thirteen
Lucy was on the couch when I came home Sunday morning, reading the newspaper. Ruby raced in from the kitchen, trailed by another cockapoo, this one dirty white with a faint honey stripe down her back, both of their snouts frosted with snow. The dogs barreled into me, leaping on me until I kneeled to the floor, letting them lick my hands and nip at my nose.
'I've no idea where the white one came from,' Lucy said. 'Ruby went outside this morning and brought her back.'
'Her name is Roxy. She belongs to my ex-wife, Joy. Roxy stays here when Joy goes out of town. I forgot that she was leaving today for a week. Joy left Roxy in the backyard, figuring she'd come in through the doggie door.'
'Bad marriage, worse divorce?'
'Bad marriage, good divorce. She knew it was time even if I was late to the party. She's a good person who deserved better than she got from me.'
'That's noble. Did you deserve better than you got from her?'
I took my time, not because I didn't know the answer but because I was surprised Lucy would ask the question and that I was okay with telling her.
'Yeah, we both deserved better.'
'And you each got a dog in the property settlement?'
'Nope. We each got our own dog after the divorce unbeknown to the other. Go figure. We take better care of them than we did our kids.'
'The dogs always go crazy like that when you come home?'
'They do that whenever anyone comes in the door. They are trained to quit jumping up as soon as they are too tired.'
'Looks like you had a nice time last night,' Lucy said.
I'd told her I was having dinner with a friend and that she could use my car if she wanted to go out.
'I did.'
Lucy sat cross-legged on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her, inviting me sit. 'So? Who is she? What's the story?'
I joined her. 'What are your plans now that you're back in Kansas City?'
'No dish, huh?'
'No dish.'
'Well, I need a car and I need a job. I haven't gotten any further than that. How about you? What do you do?'
'I do some security consulting.'
'For who?'
'Right now. The Harper Institute of the Mind.'
'What kind of security does a place like that need?'
'The confidential kind.'
'You left that binder in the car Friday night. It didn't say top secret so I checked it out yesterday. I took another look this morning and saw those incident reports. The suicide looks sketchy. You think he was murdered? Can't tell about the other one. But since they were both involved at your institute, if the guy was killed, you'll have to take another look at the woman. Need any help?'
'No, and next time you find something lying around this house that doesn't have your name on it, leave it alone.'
'I'll try but I can't make any promises. Let me ask you a question. How long have you had this gig?'
'I start on Monday.'
She rolled her eyes. 'I've got another one. When was the last time you worked a full day without shaking?'
I didn't answer.
'When was the last time you were scared to get behind the wheel because you were shaking so bad, not counting Friday night?'
I didn't answer.
'And, last but not least, how are you going to shake and bake your way through a new job at the same time you investigate whatever it is your friend at the FBI won't let you in on? And don't tell me that's not what you are going to do. I was a cop and I saw the look on your face when I asked you what was in that envelope.'
Lucy reminded me too much of Wendy. She was smart, funny, and tough and afflicted with a bad judgment gene that had sent her off the rails once and would likely do so again. Landlord or not, I didn't want to sign on for the ride.
'What kind of car are you looking to buy?'
She leaned into the sofa. 'You don't give anything up, do you? I'm trying here. I really am, but you're not working with me.'
'What are you saying?'
'I'm saying you need a place to live and I need your rent money. You need help and I'm willing and able but you won't give me a chance. We're stuck with each other. I'm trying to make lemonade out of this and you won't even admit we've got lemons.'
'We may have problems, but they aren't the same ones. You can borrow my car on Monday after you drop me off at the institute.'
The Harper Institute of the Mind sits on ten acres that was once home to a hospital. Harper tore the hospital down and built a 600,000-square foot facility for three hundred million dollars. It dominates the landscape, dwarfing any of the buildings on the nearby campus of the University of Missouri at Kansas City. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art stands in the near distance to the north, its closest architectural rival.
Lucy dropped me off in the circle entrance beneath a roof sheltering a courtyard and a fountain that had been turned off in deference to the freezing weather. I walked inside, stopping to admire a twenty-foot transparent sculpture of the human brain that hung suspended from the four-story ceiling. The surrounding circular walls were painted in varying shades of aquatic blues and greens, lighter colors ascending toward the ceiling, catching the natural light pouring through glass walls, creating an image of a vast sea.
On the far wall, etched beneath the institute's name, was a rhetorical question that joined the images of water and brain.
A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a name tag identifying her as Nancy Klemp sat behind a high round desk at the rear of the lobby, the elevators visible over her shoulder. Anyone wanting to go farther had to get past her. One of the best ways to secure a place like the institute is to staff the entrance with someone who will demand your firstborn male child as the price of admission. Nancy struck me as such a person. She wore a dark brown, nondenominational uniform that commanded attention without any obvious rank or authority. Her straight-backed, steely-eyed appraisal of me as I approached evoked all the authority she required. I liked her already.
'May I help you?'
'I'm Jack Davis. I work here but I don't know where. Today is my first day.'
She picked up a phone and announced my presence to whoever answered.
'Ms. Fritzshall will be down in a moment.'
'Thanks, Nancy. By the way, I'm the new director of security. I like the way you handle yourself.'
If she was flattered, she kept it quiet. 'I know who you are. Ms. Fritzshall told me to call her when you arrived.'
'And who is Ms. Fritzshall?'
'Sherry Fritzshall. Vice president and general counsel,' she said, her mouth twisting as if she'd swallowed sour milk.
