“Maybe she is trying to tell you to let go of the past,’’ he said, calmly, not even responding to her angry tone.
“I have let go of the past.’’
“Running away from the past and letting go of it, moving forward, are two different things.’’
His words were sincere, and they touched her because she knew he was really trying to help her. He was not trying to manipulate her, but she felt invaded, felt herself edging away from him inside, bringing down walls to protect her truth. She wasn’t responding any better to this “psychic healer’’ than she had to any of her shrinks. Go figure.
What do your dead parents tell you, you smug bastard? The words were poison darts, waiting to be thrown. But she held her tongue, knowing they were vicious, designed to hurt deeply.
“You don’t know me,’’ she said weakly.
“That’s true…in a way. But then why have you come here?’’ he asked calmly, unflappable.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know,’’ she answered. She honestly didn’t know. She had planned to avoid the church, yet she had carried quarters to light the votive candles. Instead of turning away from the church, she ran right to it. Was it something outside herself or inside her that had led her back here?
She rose to leave. “I’m sorry,’’ she said again.
“Please don’t be sorry, Lydia. I understand you.’’ They were simple words, easy to say. But he meant them and they touched her, even if she wasn’t sure they were true.
“When you’re ready, you’ll be back,’’ he said. He rose also, and finished putting his guitar away as if their conversation had never interrupted him.
She paused and looked at him. He looked so normal, so earthly now. He no longer seemed angelic to her, as he had while he was playing his guitar during mass. He was flesh and blood, like she was. How could he exert so much power over her emotions?
“When I’m ready for what?’’
“To come home to God, of course.’’
“But why you?’’ she asked. “Why were you in my dream?’’
She knew what he was going to say before he said it and was disappointed at the cliche in advance.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, Lydia.’’
She walked up the aisle, more confused than she had been when she entered. But something that had been like a stone in her heart had shifted.
Thirteen
Before Jeffrey headed to the station house, he called the New York office to check in and to let his partners know that he was unofficially looking into something with Lydia. As Jeff walked the perimeter of Lydia’s house, making a security check, he spoke to Jacob Hanley on his cellular phone.
“You want us to send some guys down?’’ asked Hanley.
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I’m not convinced there’s anything going on here.’’
“Well, it does sound a little weird. And have you ever known her to be wrong?’’
“That’s the only reason I’m here at all.’’
“Yeah, right.’’
“What’s that supposed to mean?’’
“I wish you two would just get it over with.’’
“Mind your own business, Hanley.’’
“I mean, you need to just take control of the situation. Force her to realize that she loves you, man. Give her an ultimatum.’’
“I think you’ve been watching too much daytime television. Fuck off, Hanley.’’
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. Meanwhile, why don’t I run a few checks up here for you…What were those names again?’’
“Do that. Make yourself useful, for once.’’ He gave Hanley the names and hung up. Believe me, he thought, no one would like to get it over with more than I would.
As far as the security of Lydia’s home went, he was happy except for the fact that the breaker box was outside the house. It was in a locked, weatherproof yellow case, but if the power for the alarm system was located in there, it wasn’t ideal. He wasn’t overly concerned, though, because the system, he knew, was designed to default to alarm. In other words, if the power went out, a signal still went to the local police. But he would need to check with Lydia about the setup later.
He got into Lydia’s Kompressor and headed to the station. He thought about calling ahead to let Morrow know he was coming but decided to keep the element of surprise on his side. One could never be sure how local law enforcement would react to private investigators, particularly ones without actual clients. Jeffrey wanted the facts as they existed, not narrated or colored by someone else’s agenda – whatever that may be. He expected Morrow to be wary of him after their last meeting in St. Louis. Jeffrey had been sure that was the end of Morrow’s career, whether he deserved it or not. Jeffrey wondered if Morrow was still drinking.
He walked into the small precinct house and was greeted by a burly, redheaded desk sergeant who eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m Jeffrey Mark,’’ he said, flashing his private investigator’s identification out of habit. “I’m here to see Chief Simon Morrow.’’
The desk sergeant never took his eyes off him as he picked up the phone and dialed.
“There’s some private investigator here to see you, Chief.’’ He paused. “Okay.’’ He said to Jeffrey, “What is this regarding?’’
“Just tell him Lydia Strong asked me to talk to him about Lucky.’’
The sergeant repeated the information into the phone and paused before putting the receiver back in the cradle. “Have a seat. He’ll be right with you.’’
“Thanks, I’ll stand.’’
When Morrow walked out from a door behind the desk, he did a double take as he recognized Jeffrey. But he recovered nicely and offered his hand. Jeffrey took it and felt that his grip was strong but somewhat clammy. He thought Morrow was sober; his eyes were clear and his breath smelled of peppermint and coffee. But he was definitely guarded, looking Jeffrey up and down uneasily.
“Agent Mark, what can I do for you?’’
“I’m not with the FBI anymore, Chief. I have my own investigation firm now.’’
“Then what brings you to New Mexico?’’
“I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk to me about your missing-persons cases.’’
“What’s your interest?’’
“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about missing persons and would like to offer my help.’’
Jeffrey was a man’s man, most often liked and trusted right away. His manner was understated, respectful. But his handshake was steel, and his eyes revealed a hard edge other men immediately recognized. He was amiable, but not to be fucked with.
“Well, I don’t know how much there is to look into.’’
“Really? Well, you have four missing people, one of them presumed dead. Is this normal for your jurisdiction? Or maybe some of these people have turned up safe and sound. Or maybe all you have in the barrio is a prostitute killing.’’
Jeffrey’s not-so-subtle reference to Morrow’s unpleasant past caused him to flush. He felt his cheeks burning. Morrow remembered that Jeffrey had treated him with respect in St. Louis, but brought him down just the same. In fact, their first meeting had been eerily similar to this one. Morrow had knots in his stomach.
“Come with me,’’ said Morrow, leading Jeffrey to his office.
Seated, Jeffrey waited while the chief got him some coffee. The office was a mess, files stacked in every corner, a half-empty cup of coffee and a stale Danish on the desk, an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts. The blinds over the windows behind the desk were covered in a thick layer of dust and hung unevenly. The white walls
