“Oh, I remember,” I said, though I didn’t, actually—Turkey Creek was a huge, sprawling retail development, hundreds of stores and restaurants strung out along a two-mile, traffic-snarled boulevard. I avoided it whenever possible, which, luckily, was virtually always. I figured I could call Panera on my cell phone for directions if I had trouble spotting them amid the thicket of shops and signs.
“I forgot to bring anything to eat,” Jeff was saying, “and they’ve got decent soups and sandwiches. How about I meet you there in an hour? Well, let’s say fifty minutes; that would be seven-thirty. The dinner crowd will have slacked off by then.”
Forty minutes and two cell-phone calls later, I spotted the striped awnings of Panera and pulled into one of Turkey Creek’s gargantuan parking lots.Turkey Creek my foot, I thought.They should call this place Asphalt Acres. Then,Yeah, and they should call you Grumpy Old Man. I sat in the truck with the radio on—Sirius had a channel with 1940s big-band music I’d gotten hooked on lately—and watched for Jeff. Twenty minutes went by, and I was just about to call and check on him when his hybrid SUV whipped into the parking lot and lurched to a stop. Jeff jumped out, talking rapidly on his cell, and ended the call as we converged at the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “One of my clients is a surgeon, and, being a surgeon, he assumes he’s my most important client. So when he wants to discuss the draft tax return I e-mailed him, he assumes I’m at his beck and call.”
“No worries. I know you’re scrambling, and I appreciate your taking time to grab a bite with me. Let’s order. I’m starving.”
Jeff, health-conscious guy that he was, ordered a salad with grilled chicken; I got a chicken chipotle sandwich. At its center was grilled chicken like Jeff’s, but it was drenched in a tangy, unhealthy sauce and served on crusty, buttery grilled bread. For his side item, Jeff chose an apple; I chose potato chips. The young cashier handed me what looked like a square plastic coaster. I must have appeared puzzled, because she explained, “It’ll buzz when your order’s ready.” I had barely collected my change when the coaster practically leaped out of my hand, vibrating fiercely and flashing with enough red LED lights to serve as a road-hazard sign.
I held the buzzer up to the cashier. “What do I do with it now?”
“Leave it in the basket on the counter, down there where you pick up your order.”
I followed her gaze and arrived at the pickup counter just as our food did. A large wicker basket occupied one end of the counter. Brimming with gadgets like the one vibrating in my hand, the basket buzzed like a flock of angry cicadas and flashed like a miniature disaster zone. It set me on edge, and I could understand why the young man putting our food on the counter looked far wearier than any twenty-year-old ought to look.
Jeff had gotten our drinks and claimed a vacant booth in the back corner of the restaurant. We slid onto the benches and squirmed into our conversation. Jeff asked polite questions about the classes I was teaching this semester, and about my forensic cases, and about Dr. Garcia’s progress. Then, after a suitable amount of small talk, he ventured, “Sounds like you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I do.” I studied my hands. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, Jeff. A couple of months ago, I…uh, slept with a woman.”
He laughed. “Good for you,” he said. Then, “I sure hope you seemed more enthusiastic about it then than you do now.”
I looked up, pained, and his expression changed to alarm.
“Jesus, Dad, what is it? Did you get AIDS or herpes or something?”
I shook my head.
“Wait, wait—have you gone and gotten married to this woman? Is that what you’re worried about telling me?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t married her. Hell, I haven’t seen her since right after that night. She’s gone, I don’t know where.” I drew a breath. “You probably heard about her in the news, son. Her name’s Isabella Morgan. She’s the one who murdered that Oak Ridge scientist, Novak—the old Manhattan Project physicist.”
His eyes got wide. “The one the media called ‘The A-Bomb Avenger’?”
I nodded.
“Christ, Dad.” His eyes darted back and forth as he sorted through various possibilities in his mind. “Are you in some sort of legal trouble? Did you know she’d killed the guy when you slept with her?”
“No, of course not. I would never knowingly get involved with someone who’d committed murder.” I splayed my hands, palms up, on either side of my sandwich, which was missing only one bite so far. “She was a reference librarian at the Oak Ridge Public Library. She helped me with some research. Historical research. I had no idea….”
He reached across the table and took my left hand in his right. “Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry. It must’ve really pulled the rug out from under you when you learned the truth.”
“It did,” I said.
He gave my hand a squeeze.
“But there’s more, Jeff. Feels like another rug just got yanked out from under me.”
“What do you mean? Have they caught her?”
I shook my head.
“Have you found out where she is?”