A Quiet Death

FOURTEEN

I drove home with the heat on full-blast. By the time I got to Annapolis my hair was dry, but my wool jacket smelled like wet dog. It would need a couple of trips to the dry cleaner before it could be restored to anything resembling its former glory.

A quick look in the hall mirror only confirmed what I suspected: I not only smelled like wet dog, I looked like a chew toy the dog had been gnawing on for a while.

Paul was in the basement office, grading papers. By the time he’d laid down his red pencil and come upstairs to the kitchen to join me in a glass of wine, I’d brushed the tangles out of my hair and fluffed it up at bit so I didn’t feel like such a freak.

‘What did you get up to today?’ I asked as I handed him a glass of Chablis.

‘Oh, nothing.’ The man was positively twinkling.

‘Liar!’

‘A guy showed up today, asking for you.’

‘Oh?’ I grabbed a pretzel out of a bag I’d left open on the table and took a bite.

‘He said he understood you had found a package on the Metro that belonged to him.’

I stopped in mid-nibble. ‘He what?’

‘I told him you weren’t home.’

I pointed at the kitchen table with the pretzel. ‘Sit.’ When we were both sitting down, I asked, ‘Do you think it was Skip?’

‘No. He introduced himself as Jim Hoffner.’

‘Hoffner, Hoffner. Why does that name sound familiar? Do we know any Hoffners?’ I took a bite of pretzel, chased it with a gulp of wine. ‘Please don’t tell me that you gave him Lilith’s box!’

Paul reached out and stroked my arm. ‘Of course not. Mostly because he didn’t look at all like the guy on the train as you described him to me. So, I told Hoffner, sorry, you weren’t home, and that I didn’t know where you’d put the package. Which is perfectly true.’

‘Was he in a wheelchair? On crutches? Limping?’

‘No, and I found that most peculiar, Watson. The way he sashayed down the steps was just a tad too spry for someone who less than a month ago had his lower body pinned under a couple of tons of twisted steel.’

‘Can you describe the guy for me?’

‘Better than that. I managed to snap a picture of him with my cell phone.’

‘Clever boy! How did you do that?’

‘Pure dumb luck. I’d just finished checking in with Emily when the doorbell rang, so I had the phone in my hand. When Hoffner left, I knew he’d have to turn one way or the other on the sidewalk, so when he headed up toward Maryland Avenue, I was able to get off a couple of shots through the living-room window.’

Paul slipped his iPhone out of the breast pocket of his shirt and thumbed the screen on. A few taps later, he turned the screen in my direction. There, in profile, was a guy I’d never laid eyes on before.

He was tall, at least six feet, big-boned, but not heavy. He kept his dark hair closely trimmed and was already working on a five o’clock shadow. ‘What color were his eyes?’ I asked my husband.

‘You think I gaze deeply into the eyes of other men?’

‘Paul!’

‘They were brown.’

‘Hmmm,’ I mused. ‘Brown hair, brown eyes, khaki pants and a brown jacket. I’ll bet his shoes and socks are brown, too. What we have here is Mysterious Mocha Man.’

Using my thumb and forefinger, I flicked the image to enlarge it. Whoever this man was, he was not the man whose hand I had held on the doomed train. ‘This guy is definitely not Skip.’

‘I didn’t think he was. The absence of a full-body cast was a bit of a clue.’

‘But why would he claim to be the guy I helped on the train when he wasn’t? Whoever he is, he’d have to know that I’d realize he wasn’t Skip.’

‘Ah yes,’ Paul said. ‘But once I told him you weren’t home, the danger of being recognized was past. Maybe he thought I’d simply hand over the bag and he could leave, and you’d never be the wiser.’

‘Maybe.’ I studied the image again, flicked it until the subject’s face filled the screen. Something clicked. ‘I know why this guy looks vaguely familiar!’ I turned the screen in Paul’s direction, hooting in triumph. ‘He’s that guy on late-night TV.’ I waggled my fingers and made mysterious woo-woo noises. ‘Dark, rain-soaked highways and cars careening out of control. Kee-runch! Got a telephone? Got a lawyer!’

Paul slipped the phone out of my fingers. Illuminated by the light from the screen, I watched his eyes widen. ‘By golly, I think you’re right. Hoffner’s one of those ambulance chasers.’

‘Do you think he’s working for Skip?’ I wondered.

Paul turned his iPhone face down on the table. ‘Could be, but why didn’t he say so, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ I lowered my head, resting my forehead against the tabletop. ‘God, I’m tired.’

Paul got up from his chair and began to massage the tension out of my shoulders. ‘Let’s rustle up some dinner then, cowgirl, and talk about it in the morning.’

‘Did the guy leave a card?’ I mumbled as Paul worked his magic on the muscles in my neck.

‘No, he said he’d call again. But I know how you can reach him, if you want.’

‘How?’

‘One-eight-hundred-GOTALAW. If you’ve got a telephone, Hannah, you’ve got a lawyer.