8
Jack had brought Entenmann's crumb donuts to the traditional Friday morning perusal of the latest film reviews before the Isher Sports Shop opened for business. The papers were spread on the counter, collecting the crumbs, but only briefly: Parabellum was on clean-up duty, and he was devoted to the task.
Jack had checked in with Gia earlier. She'd said she was doing fine but he sensed something forced in her tone. He planned to stop in later.
He was halfway through a review of the latest Robert Rodriguez film when Abe spoke around a mouthful of Entenmann's.
"Nu? Haven't you been talking to someone at The Light lately? What do you think about that murder there last night?"
Jack almost choked as his throat clenched.
"What? There's nothing in the paper about—"
"Happened too late for the paper. It's all over the radio this morning. Don't you listen?"
Aw, no. A shattering rush of guilt paralyzed him. He hadn't been persuasive enough. He hadn't watched The Light long enough. He'd failed her.
Jack didn't want to hear the answer but had to ask: "Did they say anything about how she was killed?"
"She? No, a he. The guard at the front desk. Shot in the head. I hear the police suspect an inside job because there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle. Probably someone he knew."
Jack's burst of relief was short-lived. That poor unsuspecting guard's death—Jamie had called him Henry—had to be related to what they'd learned last night.
Jack yanked his phone from his pocket and called information for The Light's number. A few seconds later the switchboard was putting him through to her extension.
But a man answered, his voice gruff, sounding annoyed. "Yeah?"
"Jamie Grant, please."
"Who's calling?"
"A friend. Is she there?"
"Not at the moment. Give me your name and number and I'll tell her you called."
Jack cut the call. If that wasn't a cop, he'd eat a pair of Abe's roller blades for lunch.
This was looking very bad.
He checked his voice mail—he'd given her one of his newer numbers because the one on the Robertson card was purposefully obsolete—but no message from Jamie. He couldn't imagine her being stupid enough to go home, but he called her apartment anyway. Her answering machine picked up on the second ring.
He left a cryptic message: "Jamie, this is Robertson. Call me at that number I gave you."
No sense in leaving Jensen even the faintest of trails.
He gave Abe a quick rundown on what had been going on.
"You think this Jensen's got her?"
Jack shrugged. "The only other possibility is that they botched an attempt to grab her and she's gone to ground. But I'd think she'd have called the police then."
"How do you know she didn't? Maybe that coplike person answering her phone is there because she's under protection."
"Since when are you such an optimist?"
"What—I should play Eeyore my whole life?"
Jamie with the police… a possibility, but somehow…
"I have to operate on the assumption they've got her."
"Got her where? I can't imagine they'd risk taking her back to the temple."
"No, she's someplace else. I'm sure they're not stashing her back at the cabin, so… where?" He looked around. "Got any hats?"
"Hats I've got tons of. What do you want?"
"Something big. The bigger the better."