Jimmy has a theory.
He won’t tell me the theory, but assures me it’s valid and says it explains some of what we’ve seen. On the drive back to the hotel I press him for his thoughts. “Just a hint,” I say, but he’s stubborn and mulish when he’s working on a theory, has been as long as I’ve known him. To make matters worse, he placed his briefcase in the trunk, so I can’t even rifle through it when we stop for gas.
He’s wise to me.
“Give it a rest, Steps!” he finally says as we’re pulling into the parking lot. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to make sure it all makes sense first.”
Jimmy has a natural gift for crime analysis; give him a case file and he’ll find a dozen things that need further exploration: questions that haven’t even been asked, let alone answered. He doesn’t trust his instincts enough.
He should.
Back at the hotel, I convince Jimmy to eat something while he works, and we order room service. It gives me an excuse to camp out in his room, a constant reminder that he has a theory to explain.
“Seriously, Steps,” he argues, “why don’t you go to your room and get a shower or a bath or watch some TV? I’ll call you when the food arrives.”
“I’ll just watch TV here,” I reply. “Yours has more channels.”
“They both have the same channels,” he says with a sigh.
“My room’s boring.”
“This room is identical to yours, how is it less boring?”
I shrug.
“Really? You’re going to just sit here and watch TV while I work?”
“Unless you want me to help?”
Jimmy holds up both hands and shakes his head. “No!”
After that he just ignores me.
Retrieving the Bureau-issued Dell laptop from his briefcase, along with two pens, one black and one red, and the offending notebook he’s been scribbling in for the last couple days, he settles at the small round table in the corner of the room and gets to work.
Clearly I’m just the eye candy in this brain trust, so I settle back on the queen-sized bed and start flipping through channels. The volume’s a little loud, I admit, so when Jimmy casts an annoyed look my way, I turn it down a notch. Apparently one notch isn’t enough, because his eyes narrow and he continues staring until I turn it down another five notches.
Touchy!
Room service arrives twenty minutes later, and I dig into a pepperoni calzone with extra sauce on the side while Jimmy pauses long enough to eat his eight-ounce steak smothered in A.1. sauce and a loaded baked potato the size of a large river rock. He’s not normally an overly picky eater, but the first thing he does is scrape the chives off the potato.
“Those are good for blood pressure,” I say between bites. “You just turned thirty-three a couple weeks ago; you should pay more attention to stuff like that.”
“Thirty-three is not old,” he shoots back, “and my blood pressure is nearly perfect.” Pointing his fork at the little pile of green ringlets, he adds, “You’re welcome to them, please. The sooner they’re off my plate, the better.”
“I’m just trying to look out for you,” I say, trying not to grin.
He goes back to his potato.
“They’ve also got antioxidants that help fight cancer.”
He looks at me now, fork in his left hand, knife in his right; I notice they’re both pointing in my general direction. “When did you become an expert on chives?”
“We grew chives on the back porch when I was a kid. Mom loves them. Dad’s not particularly fond of them but doesn’t complain much.”
“He doesn’t complain because your mother would beat him with a dirty frying pan.”
I’m about to object, but then realize there might be some truth to that.
In ten minutes I finish off the monarch’s share of my calzone—the thing was huge—and dump the remains in the garbage can. I thoroughly rinse the plate and silverware in the sink and set them back on the serving tray. When Jimmy finishes, I do the same for him so he can finish collecting and sorting his thoughts on the case. As I go to scrape his plate, the only thing left is a lonely pile of chives nesting in A.1. sauce and butter drippings.
Sad. Just sad.
Meanwhile, Jimmy apparently has a lot of thoughts to collect and organize. So much so that I finish watching one episode of NCIS and I’m halfway through another before he speaks again.
Finally, the theory!
There’s a great shuffling as he turns the laptop around to face me and returns the notebook, pens, and miscellaneous scraps of paper to his briefcase.
I hit the off button on the remote and the TV goes black; the room goes quiet.
Jimmy motions to the chair next to him at the table and I grudgingly extract myself from a stack of pillows and blankets.
“You remember your description of Ashley’s car?” Jimmy begins. “About how Sad Face’s shine was all over the inside, the steering wheel, even the gas cap, like he’d fueled up as some point?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“And it was pretty clear from Ashley’s shine in the trunk, and her hands on the inside of the trunk lid looking for a latch or a release, that she was held there for a while, probably just long enough to transport her to wherever he keeps them, right?”
I nod.
“Which other cars looked the same?”
“How do you mean?” I’m puzzled.
“How many did Sad Face drive? How many did he fuel up? How many had the victim’s shine in the trunk?”
I think for a moment.
“Other than Ashley there was … well, Valerie Heagle for sure … and the one from Susanville—”
“Tawnee Rich.”
“That’s right … and Leah Daniels. I think that’s it.”
“You’re missing one.”
I think for a moment, running the names, the cars, the shine around in my head.
“Jennifer Green,” he says without waiting.