“Oh, okay.” She stood, as well, and Jack saw an expression—anxiety, maybe, or possibly fear—cross her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was keeping you …”
“Oh, no. Don’t worry about it. It was lovely meeting you, but I do have a few things to do this morning, and if I stay here any longer, I’ll eat all of that coffee cake.”
Back in his own kitchen, Jack stood a little back from the window and watched as his nervous neighbor tidied up the room he’d just departed. He doubted she would make good on her offer of an invite for dinner, which was just as well. He had suspicions he wouldn’t like her husband.
Jack turned back to the kitchen table and surveyed the two piles of mail he’d made. He remembered the FBI agent, and decided to go hunt down her phone number. He’d give her a call later that afternoon, or maybe he’d call her on Monday. Whatever it was, it could probably wait.
8
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 4:04 P.M.
Detective Sam Hamilton had worked with Mary Parkinson, the state police detective, on two other occasions: one case, a foiled bank robbery, that had been cleared up within hours; and another, a hit-and-run, that remained unsolved. He’d gotten along with her just fine, although she was hard to read, one of those tight-lipped, weather-beaten New Englanders who looked like she’d been born with wrinkles on her face, and only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. Still, when she did speak, she was friendly enough, and she’d never shown any reticence about working with a local detective.
He’d been wanting to call her all day, to see if she’d provide an update on the Frank Hopkins homicide, but he’d forced himself to wait, not wanting to bother her so soon in the midst of an investigation. But after spending all day at home hunting the internet for possible connections between the nine names on the list, and finding very little, Sam decided to place the call.
“Detective Parkinson here.”
“Mary, it’s Sam. From Kennewick.”
“Hi Sam. You must have something for me.”
“I wish. I don’t have anything. I was calling in the hopes that you’d update me.”
“On Frank Hopkins?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m off that case now, myself. Well, they told me I’m consulting, but it just went federal so there you have it.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Just happened about an hour ago.”
“Why? Do you know?”
“There was another homicide. In Massachusetts.”
“What do you mean?” Sam said.
“A Matthew Beaumont was killed this morning in Dartford, Massachusetts. Shot while he was out for his morning run. I’m sure you remember that he was one of the names on the list. Well, he’d gotten the same letter as Frank had, so now it’s some kind of serial killer crossing state lines. Or that’s what it looks like.”
“Wow,” Sam said. “I’m not surprised but I am surprised at the same time. If you know what I mean.”
“I was surprised, too. I’ve been at this a long time, and when a homicide looks complicated, it mostly turns out that it’s not.”
“That’s what I was thinking, as well.”
“Well, it could still turn out that way,” Detective Parkinson said. “Frank Hopkins was probably killed by some strung-out drug addict. You’ve still got those over in Kennewick, right?”
“Drug addicts?”
“Yes.”
“A few,” Sam said.
“Look, Sam, people keep walking by my desk looking to see if I’m off the phone yet. I’m sorry I don’t have more information for you.”
“You had plenty, Mary, thanks.”
After ending the call Sam sat for a few minutes just staring out his second-floor window and thinking. Despite what Mary had said, that Frank’s death could still just be the result of some desperate addict, Sam knew that the second death negated that possibility. Frank had died with a list in his hand. Nine names. And now another person named on that list had been killed as well. There was no scenario in which this was simply a coincidence.
Sam stood up and went to the built-in bookshelf on the opposite side of his office. It contained, among other books, his grandmother’s entire collection of Agatha Christie novels. She hadn’t explicitly left them to Sam in her will, but everyone in the family knew that she wanted him to have her books, and in particular the Christie collection, some of which were probably very valuable first editions.