All the tables were taken but there was a seat at the back counter. She ordered iced tea, a smoked chicken leg with rice and beans, and fried plantains on the side. The old Latino guy behind the counter scanned her face, then asked her one of her least favorite questions. “Where you from, chica?”
She hadn’t heard this particular question in a while, but she’d heard it enough in her life. That and “What are you?” or, the less rude but just as condescending “Aren’t you pretty?”
“Maryland,” she answered.
“No, I mean before that.”
“Maryland, far as I know.”
The old man raised one eyebrow, but gave up, and went down the counter to take another order. Jessica had been adopted, but all her parents knew for sure was that she’d come from Vietnam. There was definitely some Vietnamese in her, but there was also some African blood, and white blood as well. She wasn’t certain, but she assumed she was the product of a Vietnamese woman and an African-American soldier. And if that was the case, then it was possible that her mother had been a prostitute. Honestly, she didn’t care that much. She never thought about it till some stranger decided they’d love to know all about her ancestral history, as if it were any of their goddamn business. She felt the anger rising up and tamped it down. The old guy was probably harmless, just wanting to figure out if she spoke Spanish. Lots of people took one look at her and assumed she did.
The geezer brought her the chicken leg, and it was much better than she’d been told. Halfway through her lunch, her phone, turned upside down on the counter, buzzed twice, and Jessica ignored it, partly because her fingers were covered in chicken grease, but mostly because she just wanted to enjoy the remainder of her food. But the third time her phone buzzed, she put the chicken leg down, wiped her fingers on her napkin, and looked at the screen. Two of the calls were from Aaron, and one was from Stephanie, the receptionist. There was also a text from Aaron. Where are you?
She was about to text him back but called instead. He picked up right away.
“Where are you?” he asked, some annoyance in his voice.
“Lunch. It’s lunchtime.”
“You know that list?”
“The one I got yesterday in the mail?”
“Yeah. One of the names on it was Frank Hopkins.”
“I remember.”
“A Frank Hopkins was murdered this morning in Kennewick, Maine.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. Come back to the office, soon as you can.”
“I will. I’m on my way.”
She thought about bagging up the remainder of her lunch but decided against it. She paid up and left.
Back at the office Aaron intercepted her halfway between reception and her cubicle. She thought he looked pretty ragged and wondered how long he’d stayed at the Club Room last night.
“What’s the story?” she asked.
“I sent the list to analysis, and apparently someone there had actually read about the murder of a Frank Hopkins today in Kennewick, Maine. I mean, they would’ve caught it, anyway, but still.”
“What happened to him?”
“To the analyst?”
“No, to Frank Hopkins. In Maine. How’re you doing this morning, Aaron?”
“Sorry, I hung out a little too long with Anthony last night.”
“No worries. How’d this guy die in Maine?”
“He’d been taking a walk on the beach near where he lived. He was forcibly drowned, his head held in a tide pool or something.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. No one. I know you saw his name on a list yesterday and said you didn’t recognize it, but have you given those names any more thought? Do you have any connection with this man?”
“Nope.”
“So here’s the thing—”
“It’s a pretty fucking common name.”
“Frank Hopkins?”
“Yeah, I mean …”
“So here’s the thing. There was an envelope at the scene of the crime, addressed to Frank.”
“He had the list?”
“Exact same list. The one with your name on it.”
“Shit,” Jessica said.
“Yep,” Aaron said.
3
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1:33 P.M.
Ethan Dart was entering his own apartment when he heard the trill of the landline. He checked the digital readout on the handset, just to make sure it wasn’t his mother, the only actual person, besides solicitors, who still called him at his home number. It was a number from Albany, New York, that he chose to ignore.