“If it isn’t the same killer,” I said, “then the terror has started to spread. I think that’s exactly what’s happened.”
Molinari nodded slowly. “I’m going to advise the Bureau, Agent Thompson, to treat these cases as independent actions. At least for the time being.”
Agent Thompson sighed.
“In the meantime, we still have a murder to solve. The man’s dead here,” the deputy director snapped. He looked around the room, his gaze ending up on Thompson. “Anyone have a problem with that?”
“No, sir,” Thompson said, flipping his phone back into his jacket pocket.
I was stunned. Molinari had backed me up. Even Hannah Wood mooned her eyes in his direction.
We spent the rest of the day at the FBI regional office in Portland. We interviewed the person Propp was meeting in Vancouver and his economist friend at Portland State. Molinari also brought me in on two calls back to senior investigators at his home office in D.C., backing up my theory that this was a copycat crime and that the terror might be spreading.
About five, it dawned on me that I couldn’t stay up there much longer. There were a couple of fairly prominent cases that needed my attention back home. Brenda informed me there was a Southwest flight back to San Francisco at 6:30.
I knocked on the gray, carpet-covered cubicle Molinari was using for an office. “If you don’t need me up here anymore, I thought I’d head home. It was fun being ‘Fed for a Day.’”
>
Molinari smiled. “Look, I was hoping you might stay a couple of hours. Have dinner with me.”
Standing there, I did my best to pretend that it didn’t matter hearing those words, but my general rule about Feds notwithstanding, I was curious. Who wouldn’t be?
But a few reasons why I shouldn’t be popped into my head as well. Like the murder cases on my board. And the fact that Molinari was the second most powerful law-enforcement figure in the country. And unless I was mis-reading the little tingle bubbling up my spine, knocking down the old Chinese wall in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation wasn’t exactly the best protocol.
“There’s an eleven o’clock back to San Francisco,” Molinari said. “I promise I’ll have you to the airport in plenty of time. C’mon, Lindsay.”
When I hesitated one more time, he stood up. “Hey, if you can’t trust Homeland Security… who can you trust?”
“Two conditions,” I said.
“Okay,” the deputy director agreed. “If I can.”
“Seafood,” I said.
Molinari showed the outline of a smile. “I think I know just the place….”
“And no FBI agents.”
Molinari’s head went back in a laugh. “That’s the one thing I can definitely guarantee.”
Chapter 50
“JUST THE PLACE” turned out to be a café called Catch, down on Vine Street, which was like Union Street back home, filled with trendy restaurants and cutesy boutiques. The maître d’ led us to a quiet table way in the back.
Molinari asked if he could handle the wine, ordering a pinot noir from Oregon. He called himself a “closet foodie” and said what he missed most about a normal life was just staying home and puttering around the kitchen.
“Am I supposed to believe that one?” I grinned.
He laughed out loud. “Figured it was worth a try.” When the wine came I held up my glass. “Thank you. For backing me up today.”
“Nothing to thank,” Molinari said. “I felt you were right.”
We ordered, then talked about everything but work. He liked sports—which was all right with me—but also music, history, old movies. I realized that I was laughing and listening, that time was going by pretty smoothly, and that for a few moments all of the horror seemed a million miles away.
Finally, he mentioned an ex-wife and a daughter back in New York.
“I thought all the deputy-level personnel had to have a little woman back home,” I said.