Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

Gunny said, “It belonged to Mr. Henry.”

“Henry LaRoque? Goodness, what a memory you have. He’s been gone for what—five years? What a fine man he was, so friendly, so helpful. Do you know his bank gave me my first loan to remodel Heaven Sent? Gunny, wait, don’t you think the buckle only looked like Mr. Henry’s? I mean, how could it be his?”

Gunny shook her head, raised a hand, and lightly pulled on the long French braid her mother plaited for her every morning, a sure sign she was stewing about something.

“Gunny, if it was indeed Mr. Henry’s belt buckle, then dozens of other people must have seen him wear it, not just you.”

“That’s not true. I might be the only one who ever saw it.”

“But how could that be possible?”

“Mama, you know you always told me how important it is to keep a secret? Well, this is a secret. But maybe, since Mrs. Chamberlain and Mr. Henry were special friends, I could ask her about it. Maybe he showed her, too, maybe she can tell me what to do.”

Lulie nearly fell off her chair. Special friends? Half the town knew Henrietta Chamberlain, Gunny’s supervisor and the real power at the post office, had been Mr. Henry’s lover for years, until he’d died, and had chuckled at the pairing of the same names—Henry and Henrietta. She was floored Gunny knew about it, too. She could picture Gunny asking Mrs. Chamberlain about the belt buckle, picture Mrs. Chamberlain’s embarrassment focusing back on her daughter. But mostly she could picture Mrs. Chamberlain’s pain at being reminded of how horribly Mr. Henry had died. How could it even be true? She said in her firmest voice, “Now, don’t you go bothering your supervisor, Gunny, unless she brings it up, all right?”

Gunny frowned. She didn’t say anything more. Lulie watched her lovingly place the last bite of parmigiana in her mouth, heard her hum, and wondered, as she often did, what her daughter was thinking.

While she waited for her to figure out the words she needed, Lulie looked around her remodeled kitchen with its shiny appliances and the large granite island, made to her exact specifications, perfect for her daily baking. For the past three years, she hadn’t had to go into Heaven Sent at dawn every morning to work. No, she simply rolled out of bed, made herself a pot of coffee, and whipped up cinnamon buns and raisin muffins and the half dozen other pastries she served each day, right here in her own kitchen. It had cost her—well, it had cost Andrew—a buttload of money, but he’d been willing to pay it. After all, it was to his advantage she keep quiet about Gunny’s paternity, and of course she would. She didn’t hold it against him—in fact, she liked him, admired what he’d accomplished—but she knew he’d never be part of his daughter’s life. He couldn’t be, not without the very good chance his own life would be ruined. It was also true Andrew didn’t want her or Gunny to have any financial worries. He’d insisted on paying for her to remodel the 1960s two-story house set in the middle of a large lot covered with maple and oak trees on East Hilton Street Lulie had inherited from her parents seven years ago. But she was the one who paid Ray Lee, the big-eared teen down the street, to keep the lush grass mowed weekly. She’d filled the hanging flower baskets with petunias and impatiens bursting out now in the middle of the long hot summer.

Lulie sighed and thought again about her nightly bookkeeping ritual, an endless stream of crap to do for a dozen different government agencies, and all the while the government buffoons preached how they loved small businesses. She wondered who looked at all the papers she churned out. She saw a faceless bureaucrat, probably yawning, balling up her work, banking it off the wall into a government

wastebasket. No one cared, but it didn’t matter. One of them might, and who knew when or if that would ever happen. So she had to do it or risk paying huge fines, maybe lose her bakery, maybe even go to jail.

“All right, Mama.”

What was all right? She’d forgotten. Oh yes, Mr. Henry’s belt buckle. And a secret. What secret? Like many other citizens of Haggersville, Lulie felt indebted to Mr. Henry LaRoque, who’d founded the First National Bank of Haggersville. “Yes, that’s best, Gunny.”

Lulie left Gunny to wash the dishes, her nightly chore, while she went to her small study to toil on her computer, the part of owning a small business she hated. Every few minutes she cursed the government, couldn’t help it. She tried not to curse out loud because she knew Gunny had sharp ears and she didn’t want her to hear talk like that.

Gunny heard her, of course, and she smiled. Words she wasn’t allowed to say. She wondered if she’d ever be old enough to say what she wanted. She turned to survey the spotless kitchen, ready for her mama’s baking at dawn tomorrow. Perfect, everything was perfect. She turned off the light, went to her mama’s study, and kissed her good night. As she walked up the stairs to her room, she thought about the TV show that was waiting for her—Elementary. Her mother said the show had been on for too long and the plots were getting silly, but Gunny didn’t care. She couldn’t get enough of Jonny Lee Miller, even though he was bald now. When you loved someone, she’d heard Mrs. Chamberlain say, you overlooked small flaws.

Before Gunny fell asleep, she thought again about Mr. Henry’s Star of David belt buckle. She knew the one she’d seen on TV was his, not one that looked like his. She remembered when, years ago, she’d visited him with a cake for his seventy-fifth birthday. The housekeeper, Mrs. Boilou, had shown her into Mr. Henry’s study. He was polishing something. He looked up and smiled at her, considered, then beckoned her to him. That’s when he’d seen the cake, and they’d all had a slice. After Mrs. Boilou had left, Mr. Henry had shown her what he’d been looking at, his golden Star of David belt buckle, and asked her if she didn’t think it was very fine indeed. Of course she’d said yes. He’d told her there was no other belt buckle like it in the world. And then he’d told her she wasn’t to tell anyone else about seeing it. It would be their secret. Could she keep this secret? Of course she could, she knew all about keeping secrets.

Mr. Henry had always been kind to her, often given her a small packet of gummy bears when he saw her in the post office or at her mama’s bakery. Once he even came out of his office at his bank to say hello and give her gummy bears.

Mr. Henry was dead five years now, and still she’d kept his secret, until tonight, when she’d told her mama. But she’d seen his belt buckle on television, and how could that be? What should she do? Go to her godfather? He’d listen to her, but what could he do? No, she’d speak to Mrs. Chamberlain, Mr. Henry’s very special friend, even though her mama said she shouldn’t. Maybe Mr. Henry had shown her his belt buckle, too, and she’d kept it a secret, as Gunny had. Maybe Mrs. Chamberlain would know what to do.

31

* * *

PRINCE WILLIAM FOREST PARK

VIRGINIA

MONDAY EVENING

Victor was still shaking from what Lissy had done. He couldn’t believe she’d awakened him from a sound sleep in the shade of those thick oak trees down the block from that fried lobster place and claimed Savich and Sherlock were inside. He didn’t believe it, not until he saw Savich’s red Porsche. They were there, only fifty feet away from him. Someone had recognized him, someone had called Savich.

They’d waited until the agents left, and Lissy had followed, staying back until they were on a street with no cars coming in either direction. Lissy was screaming in his ear to shoot them, but he’d said no, no way. She’d pulled out his Glock—well, actually, the agent’s Glock—and let loose. And nearly gotten both of them killed.

So I didn’t get them. It was still fun, shot holes in that red Porsche of his, and he smashed in his front fender—bet he cried and wailed and carried on like a little girl. And he got himself a flat tire, too. That’ll slow them up some. Bet it’ll cost him a bundle to fix his baby.

Victor waited for the hammer to drop. It had been Lissy’s fault, the whole debacle, but he knew she’d turn it around on him.

If I hadn’t had to drive, I could have shot him and that redheaded bitch. Okay, I’ll admit it, I was surprised when he did that turn and came straight at us, Ms. FBI Agent shooting at us like that.

“She nearly got me. I got glass in my face, Lissy. Now they know for sure what car we drive. We’ve got bullet holes for the world to see. Someone will call us in.” He added more twigs and wadded-up papers to the embers in the fire pit.