Nine Lives(3)

Before finally falling asleep himself, he thought again about the list he’d gotten in the mail. He recited seven of the names to himself—he had a near photographic memory—but couldn’t remember the final one, probably because he’d barely looked at it. Then he recited the lyrics to the new song, decided they sucked donkey dick, and fell asleep.





4





THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1:44 P.M.


The name that Ethan Dart couldn’t remember belonged to Jessica Winslow. On Thursday she received the list of names in an envelope that was addressed to Special Agent Winslow at the Albany field office of the FBI. There was a single Forever stamp in the right-hand corner of the envelope, and the postmark indicated the letter had come from New York City, mailed two days previously.

It was unusual for her to receive any mail at the office, particularly something so cryptic. Just a list of names. She instinctively held the letter at the very edges, then dropped it gingerly onto her desk. She called her immediate supervisor, Aaron Berlin, asking him to swing by her office.

“Do you know the other names?” he asked, five minutes later, peering at the letter from over Jessica’s shoulder.

Even though she’d read the names on the list several times, she reread them silently to herself one more time.

“Arthur Kruse is the only name that’s familiar to me, but only because my dad used to mention a friend of his named Art Kruse, or maybe I’m imagining it. I always assumed the last name was spelled Cruise, like Tom Cruise, though.”

“You never met him?”

“No, my dad just talked about him. Whenever anyone mentioned a lake house, or living on a lake, my dad would always say something like, ‘Back in college I spent a summer at Art Kruse’s lake house.’ We used to make fun of him for it, and that’s why I think I remember.”

“It’s an unusual name.”

“What, Kruse? Not really. Not if you’re German. I’ve already looked it up on Google and I found some Arthur Kruses but they were all German. Germans from Germany.”

“Hmm.”

Jessica swiveled in her chair to look up at Aaron. She’d never really seen him from that angle and noticed how much dark hair he had in his nostrils.

“What do you think?” she said.

He shrugged. “Get it analyzed if you want. Could be nothing. Could be some computer glitch somewhere spewing out junk mail.”

“Could be.”

After Aaron left, she put the envelope and the letter in separate plastic bags, then moved them to her out-box. She went back to studying the file on the William Brundy murder trial she’d been called to testify at the following week. She kept waiting to hear from the prosecution that it was going to be settled before heading to trial, but now it looked like that wasn’t going to happen. William Brundy was a patrol officer in Stark, New York, who had killed his ex-wife by staging a break-in at her split-level ranch. Blood evidence and crime scene photographs had been forwarded to their office and Jessica had been given the job of lead investigator. She didn’t particularly mind testifying at trials, but Brundy’s defense attorney was a dickwad named Elliot Skenderian who always somehow managed to get under Jessica’s skin. If she owned a dartboard, she’d put a picture of Skenderian’s face on it.

Before leaving the office at just after five o’clock, she took another look at the mysterious list of names and wrote them down using the Notes app on her smartphone. Maybe that night she’d catch up on The Good Wife while doing some more googling. If there was a connection between her and these people, she’d find it. The internet liked to give up its secrets.

She wasn’t surprised to see Aaron Berlin at the Club Room after work, but she was surprised that he wasn’t alone. He was sitting at a booth with Roger Johnson, the outgoing special agent in charge. Roger spotted her entering the bar and asked her to join them.

“I’m going to have dinner with Anthony at the bar, but thanks, anyway.”

Anthony, the bartender, had a glass of Pinot Noir already poured and waiting for her when she slid onto the padded leather stool. She wondered briefly if it looked bad that she’d shunned her colleagues in favor of eating alone at the bar, then shrugged it off. Johnson was moving to the Schenectady office, and Berlin, well, fuck him.

She drank her wine slowly, doing the Times crossword, Anthony helping her out when he wasn’t busy. She asked for a second glass plus a half order of penne with puttanesca sauce and a garden salad on the side. When she’d finished the crossword, only unsure about one of the answers, she slid the folded newspaper back into her purse, paid the bill, and prepared to leave.

“Two Belvederes please, Anthony. On the rocks.” Aaron deposited himself onto the stool next to her.

“Uh, no thanks, Aaron. I was about to go home.” Jessica looked over Aaron’s shoulder and saw Roger making his way to the exit.

“One drink, Jess. Please.”

She agreed, and, surprisingly, he asked her several questions about her recent life before starting in on his favorite topic: their affair and why it had ended.

“You’re married,” she said.

“Sort of. Not really. My wife has affairs. I know she does.”

“That’s not really the point.”

“Then what’s the point?”