Unlucky 13

Chapter 63

Conklin and I walked out onto a darkened Bryant Street and headed to Enzo’s, a greasy pie pan joint on 7th, where we scarfed down a pizza before returning to surveillance footage hell.

It was my turn to make coffee, and Conklin used a letter opener to cut Cappy’s donated pound cake into thick slices.

Four hours later, I had marked and snipped out three images of customers who looked suspiciously like the same person in disguise: a skinny guy with (a) a beard, (b) a knit hat, and (c) a hoodie.

That was the extent of suspicious individual sightings. Still…

I showed my snippets to Conklin, who said sweetly, “I think you’re reaching, Linds.”

I took a fistful of pencils out of the mug on my desk and hurled them, one after the other javelin-style, toward the trash can near Brenda’s vacant desk across the room.

I made six baskets out of ten. Which sucked. It was a big trash can.

I said to Conklin, “Maybe I’m reaching. Maybe I’m right on the nose. You don’t mind if I send these photos to the lab. Get another opinion?”

“There’s a naked woman in my bed,” Conklin said, reaching behind his chair for his Windbreaker. “I think I’ll go now, catch her while she’s still in the mood.”

“Go,” I said. “This will still be waiting for us tomorrow.”

Conklin waved good-bye, and then my phone rang.

It was Joe, and he got right into it.

“This just in on the FinStar,” he said. “Shots have been heard. Another body has washed up. Crowds are gathering all over Alaska, demanding an end to the hostage crisis. The government of Finland is jumping up and down, but there’s absolutely nothing they can do. Communications with the Coast Guard vessel have broken down. That’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry.”

“Shit.”

“I know,” said my husband. “Come home now, Blondie. Your family misses you.”