Memory Man (Amos Decker 1)
Alex Jamison stood at the door to the breakfast area. She had on black slacks and a frayed black overcoat out of which peeked a turquoise turtleneck. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had on heels that kicked her height up several inches.
She walked over to his table and looked down at the paper next to his plate.
“I guess you’ve read it,” she said quietly.
Decker said nothing. He picked up his fork, pulled his plate toward him, and started to eat.
She stood awkwardly next to his table. When he didn’t say anything she said, “I gave you an opportunity to talk to me.”
Decker kept eating.
She sat down across from him. “It’s not like I wanted to do this.?
?
He put his fork down, used a paper napkin to wipe his mouth, and looked at her. “I find that people almost always do exactly what they want to do.”
She tapped the paper. “You still have a chance to make it right.”
“People who make things right do so because they’ve done something wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You were meeting with a man who allegedly killed your family.”
“Allegedly. And now all charges are dropped, which you knew before you wrote this story. And which I knew before I met him in the bar.”
“Why did you meet with him?”
“I had questions for him.”
“What sorts?” She took out her recorder, pad, and pen, but Decker held up his hand.
“Don’t bother.”
She sat back. “Don’t you want your story to get out?”
Decker shoved the plate of food away, leaned across the table, and said, “I don’t have a story to tell.” He sat back, pulled the plate toward him again, and resumed eating.
“Okay, fair enough. But do you think Leopold had a hand in the murders? Even if he didn’t commit them personally? And then there’s the fact that the same gun was used at the high school.”
Decker eyed her grimly. “Brimmer could get fired for that one. It’s not public knowledge. And you know it’s not, or else you would have already written about it. I could call her out on that. You want to see your contact lose her career? Or is that just considered fair game for the story?”
“You’re a very unusual man.”
“I have no context with which to frame a reply to that observation.”
“Sort of proves my point, doesn’t it?”
Now Decker sat back and looked at her. “Tell me about yourself,” he said abruptly.
“What, why?” she said warily.
“I can find out easily enough. Everyone’s life is online. So, to borrow your phrase, I’m giving you the opportunity to tell your story.”
“Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Touché’?”
“You have something to hide?”
“Do you?”
“No. But you know all about me.” He tapped the paper next to his plate. “Proof is right there. So tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Hometown, family, education, career, life goals.”
“Wow, you don’t ask for much.”
Decker waited. He had no problem with silence, with waiting. His patience, like his mind, had no bounds.
She folded her arms across her chest and said, “I’m from Indiana, Bloomington. I went to Purdue, graduated with a degree in mass comm. Started out at some small papers in the Midwest basically fetching coffee, writing the crap stories no one else wanted to write, and pulling the shifts no one wanted to pull. I tried some online journalism and blogging but hated it.”
“Why?”
“I like to talk to people, face-to-face, not through a machine. That’s not real journalism. It’s data management fed to you by schmucks you don’t even know. It’s reporting for lazy people who live in their PJs. Not what I wanted. I want a Pulitzer. In fact, I want a shelf of them.”
“Then you came here. Why? Burlington is not a rip-roaring metropolis.”
“It’s bigger than any other town I was in before. It’s got crime, interesting politics. Cost of living is low, which is important, because when you add up my hours worked I don’t even make minimum wage. And they let me work my own beat and follow up my own stories.”
“Family?”
“Large. All back in Bloomington.”
“And the other reason you came here?”
“There is no other reason.”
He pointed to a finger on her left hand. “There were two rings there. The marks are slight but distinct. Engagement and wedding rings. No longer there.”
“So I’m divorced. Big whoop. So are half the people in this country.”
“Fresh start away from your ex?”
She rubbed at the spot on her hand. “Something like that. Okay, are we done with me?”
“Do you want to be done?”
“You understand that you’re not actually playing me, right? I’m just feeling generous, sort of going along for the ride, seeing where we end up.”
“You follow up your own stories, you say?”
“I do.”
“Do you intend to try to trace a connection between the killings of my family and the shootings at Mansfield?”
“Of course.”
“What do your friends call you?”
“You’re assuming I have friends?”
“What does Brimmer call you?”
“Alex.”
“Okay, Alexandra, let me be as clear about this as I possibly can be.”
She did an eye roll and looked at him disdainfully. “Do I sense a patronizing lecture coming?”
“Would you like a scoop?”
Her expression changed. She picked up her recorder. “Is this on the record?”
“So long as your source is anonymous.”
“You have my word.”
“Do you normally give it that quickly?”
“You have my word,” she said tightly.
“An FBI agent was killed last night and her body was left hanging just above our heads on the catwalk up there. She was a skilled, armed federal agent who really can take care of herself. Now she’s a murder victim who was dispatched as easily as someone crushing a bug underfoot.” He slid the plate out of the way again, reached over, and clicked off her recorder.
She made no move to stop him.
“I’ve seen a lot in my twenty years on the force, but I have never seen—” He stopped, grappling for the right words. “I have never seen menace like this. But it’s not just that. It’s—” Again he stopped, tapping his fingers on the table and closing his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Menace coupled with brains and cunning. It’s a very dangerous combination, Alexandra. And I asked about your family only because I wanted to know if you would have anyone to mourn you when you’re murdered too. Because please make no mistake, he will kill you as easily as exhaling smoke from a cigarette.”
“Look, if you’re trying to—”
Decker didn’t let her finish. “He could be watching us right now for all I know, and sizing up where and how exactly he plans to take your life. It seems that he likes to screw with me that way. Kill people I’m close to or associated with. You wrote a big story on me. That ties you and me together in just the way this guy seems to love. And I have no doubt he plans to keep killing until he gets down to his last planned victim.”