Page 24 of Nine Lives

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“It must have changed.”

“No, not at all. The city’s changed, but this street is pretty much exactly how I remember it. It was where I started my life, so I suppose it’s as good a place as any to finish it.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Margaret said, shifting forward, lowering her shoulders. “You don’t even look like you’re retired.”

“I’m semi-retired, I guess. But I don’t know... it feels, to me, that moving back here isn’t temporary. It’s final. I want to stop working completely, and my marriage is kaput. No, it’s okay. One of those separations that is definitely best for everyone involved. And all this was happening, and then I went online and saw that this house was for sale. It was kismet. And now I’m ready for the next part of my life. How did you end up here?”

Margaret told him how she’d gone to college in Hartford, and gotten married right afterward, and even though they’d dreamed of moving to New York City, her husband Eric was offered a job at a local finance company, and she’d gotten a library degree, and was now working part-time at the nearest branch. They’d bought the house just a few months earlier.

“So, you’re new here, too.”

“Relatively. We’d been renting a place just a few blocks away. It was an in-law apartment at my husband’s best friend’s house, so we know the area. But, yes, we are new to this street, and you are pretty much the first neighbor I’ve had over for coffee.”

“Well, I’m honored.”

“And I’d love to have you over for dinner sometime. Maybe even grill out before the evenings get too cold.”

“I’d like that,” Jack said, assuming she was just being polite. He was also assuming that her mentioning a second social event meant this one was over. He stood up. “I have some work to do this morning,” he said.

“Oh, okay.” She stood, as well, and Jack saw an expression—anxiety, maybe, or possibly fear—cross her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was keeping you...”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry about it. It was lovely meeting you, but I do have a few things to do this morning, and if I stay here any longer, I’ll eat all of that coffee cake.”

Back in his own kitchen, Jack stood a little back from the window and watched as his nervous neighbor tidied up the room he’d just departed. He doubted she would make good on her offer of an invite for dinner, which was just as well. He had suspicions he wouldn’t like her husband.

Jack turned back to the kitchen table and surveyed the two piles of mail he’d made. He remembered the FBI agent, and decided to go hunt down her phone number. He’d give her a call later that afternoon, or maybe he’d call her on Monday. Whatever it was, it could probably wait.

Saturday, September 17, 4:04 p.m.

Detective Sam Hamilton had worked with Mary Parkinson, the state police detective, on two other occasions: one case, a foiled bank robbery, that had been cleared up within hours; and another, a hit-and-run, that remained unsolved. He’d gotten along with her just fine, although she was hard to read, one of those tight-lipped, weather-beaten New Englanders who looked like she’d been born with wrinkles on her face, and only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. Still, when she did speak, she was friendly enough, and she’d never shown any reticence about working with a local detective.

He’d been wanting to call her all day, to see if she’d provide an update on the Frank Hopkins homicide, but he’d forced himself to wait, not wanting to bother her so soon in the midst of an investigation. But after spending all day at home hunting the internet for possible connections between the nine names on the list, and finding very little, Sam decided to place the call.

“Detective Parkinson here.”

“Mary, it’s Sam. From Kennewick.”