Nothing else matters, p.20
Nothing Else Matters, page 20
Sam had finally settled on a jersey knit sheath dress in navy blue with nylons and heels to match. A beaded feather choker hugged her neck. She had been unsuccessful at getting the ring off and noticed it was one of the first things that caught Jake’s attention. He had done a slight double-take but didn’t comment.
Jake had no idea what Sam would be wearing and surprisingly selected a navy blue suit and peach shirt. They were already acting like an old married couple who dress alike. The waitress brought him a beer and Sam a glass of white wine. They studied their menus.
“I’m not very good at this,” Sam admitted. She was nervous to the point of nausea.
Jake flicked his gaze at her over the top of his menu. “Ordering?” he asked. He folded his menu and tossed it aside.
No smile, no twinkle. She was beginning to recall he had a dry sense of humor. The flutters started to disappear.
The waiter came over and Jake ordered shrimp cocktail for an appetizer and then filet mignon for each of them. He looked at her briefly and proceeded to select her potato and vegetable.
After the waiter left, Sam said, “How do you know how I eat my steak?”
He studied her long enough that she felt he was sucking DNA from her brain. “You like your bacon well done so you probably wouldn’t like your steak bloody. You’re too impatient to bother dressing up a baked potato so you probably like double-baked, where the cook does all the work.” He emptied the contents of his beer bottle into his glass and took a sip, eyeing her inquisitively. “You don’t like milk so you probably don’t like creamy dressings. So I ordered Italian.”
Sam felt at a disadvantage. She obviously wasn’t as observant as he was. Although if he were observant, he would have been suspicious at the twenty tons of crackers she had eaten in the past week. She wondered if now was the time to say, “do you like your baby rare or well done?”.
“Lemon juice.” Her eyes challenged him. His one eyebrow jerked up. “I like lemon juice on my salad,” she clarified.
“Noted.”
A hint of a smile pierced his eyes and the peach color of his shirt looked damn good on him. She forced her attention to the window, to the charter boats making their way toward the mouth of the Calumet Harbor, to their winter mooring slips or dry dock. Small talk. She wasn’t good at it and found herself thinking of words synonymous with small, like infant, baby. Her fingers fumbled with the twist of curls snaking out from her French twist and suddenly felt the hair was all wrong, the dress didn’t feel comfortable, and the heels had to go.
The waiter brought their shrimp cocktail, and once he left she said, “How did you get the Chevy running?”
“I wondered when you were going to get around to that. Frank is pretty handy with cars. I’m not too bad. With Alex’s help we got it going. It’s a shame to keep something like that hidden away.”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re upset because I didn’t consult you first?”
“Oh, no. What’s mine is yours.” Sam said with a slight hint of resignation in her voice.
He eyed her sharply as he squeezed lemon on his shrimp. “And exactly what does that include?” Jake finished his beer and the waiter promptly brought another.
How about a baby? Sam took a polite sip of wine, wishing instead to gulp the whole damn thing and ask for the bottle.
She fingered the stem of her wine glass. “Besides the house and property, there’s about ten thousand shares of a variety of stocks, a home in Martinique, about two hundred acres of land in South Dakota, mutual funds, U.S. savings bonds, a number of savings accounts, a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar trust fund I haven’t touched, a few oil wells in Nebraska, give or take a few...” her voice trailed off as she saw the look on his face.
“Sorry I asked.”
“My father meant the land in South Dakota to go to Abby. She can have it annexed to the reservation, maybe get some company to build a plant, maybe UPS. Someone who can bring desperately needed jobs.” She looked at his expressionless face. “Unless you have a problem with that.”
“No, I just have a problem with, I really didn’t know you had...”
“So much?” Oh, you have no idea what else I have to offer. “Matter of fact, why don’t you ask Carl if he’d like to stay at the house in Martinique. Maybe he can mail us pictures since neither Abby nor I have been there.”
“You’ve never been there?”
Sam shook her head. “Abby doesn’t like to fly. There are pictures in the photo albums. Dad and Melinda went there a lot before I was born. But they wanted to wait until I was older before letting me fly. It’s modest, maybe fifteen hundred square feet but it has a great view and a large wrap-around porch. I bet Carl could use some relaxation after...” She twirled the stem of her glass and watched other couples in nearby tables. Some holding hands, gazing lovingly through the flame of the candles. She wondered if they would ever get to that point. But Jake wasn’t a gaze and fondle-type person. Matter of fact, to the casual observer, she and Jake looked like two business associates having dinner. “Do you resent the fact that Carl didn’t tell you about having a son?”
“No, why should I?”
Sam studied him, her eyes glancing at his right hand, imagining how much emotion and grief it would take for him to slam his fist into a wall. Old feelings started surfacing and she could feel her heart slamming in her chest. Maybe now would be a good time to mention that little bundle of joy.
“Did you ever think of having children?” she asked.
He didn’t reply. Just looked toward the entrance and said, “Oh, no.” A waitress was pointing them out to Carl.
Carl pulled out a chair and sat down. “Sorry to bother you. I just got a frantic call from Menut. Seems he didn’t leave town just yet and insists on seeing us now.”
“Can’t you and Frank handle this one?”
“Frank is making arrangements to have Gholam’s body shipped back to Iran. It will be a quick meeting, Jake. I’ll have you back here in less than a half hour.”
Jake checked his watch.
“It’s all right,” Sam said. “I’ll wait. Although I can’t promise you I won’t start eating.”
Carl stood. “Come on. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner you’ll get back to your dinner.”
Jake turned to Sam who said, “It’s all right. Honest.”
She watched them leave, watched Jake give instructions to the waiter to probably hold his meal. She sliced off a piece of bread and buttered it.
Five minutes later, a man, tall and solid, walked over and said, “Hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m waiting for someone.” He ignored her and sat down.
Sam was startled and looked quickly toward the doorway to see if Jake and Carl were still around. She studied her uninvited guest. He was handsome with blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail. His accent was thick, Polish or German. Sam wasn’t sure.
“They will be awhile,” the man said.
As he set his glass down, Sam gazed at his left hand and saw the tattoo with the name, Sparrow, under the bird. Then she recognized the black leather trench coat with a cape collar. The blood in her veins turned to ice. He was calm, in control. He motioned a waitress over and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Turning to Sam, he asked, “Would you like an orange juice, sweetheart? You really shouldn’t be drinking wine in your condition.”
Sam nodded numbly.
The waitress smiled, her gaze resting longer than necessary on his handsome features. She kept asking him mundane questions as though just stalling so she could hear his sexy accent.
Sam wanted to reach over and touch his hand, touch the tattoo. But for the first time she was afraid to, afraid of what she might see. She found herself staring, unable to pull her gaze away from him. How did he know she was pregnant? Had he followed her to the obstetrician’s office? Was he eavesdropping on her phone calls?
“I’m not what you had expected?”
She sucked in a deep breath, as if synthetic self-control were being circulated through the air ducts. “No. Far from it, actually.” He didn’t look sinister enough. Didn’t look like a cross between a Mafia hit man and a deranged psycho. He looked like a former star quarterback, all-American guy, maybe a decathlon champion. A guy women had dreams about.
“I take it Menut did not make the phone call.”
“Of course not,” Sparrow said smiling. The waitress delivered their drinks. Sparrow held his up in a toast, nodding for her to do the same. Their glasses touched, Sparrow took a sip, Sam didn’t. “Tell me, Sergeant. Who was the man with your husband?”
He knew her. Knew Jake. Why should that surprise her? “Carl Underer,” Sam replied, the hint of even lying to him the furthest thing from her mind. “He’s the FBI Security Director.”
“Ahh,” Sparrow said nodding. The waiter brought Sam’s dinner but she suddenly wasn’t hungry. The waiter asked Sparrow if he wanted to order. “No,” he replied, “and the lady can’t stay either. If you could wrap up her meal, and leave it for her husband to pick up, we would appreciate it.”
The waiter carried Sam’s plate away.
“You know, I could scream,” Sam said.
Sparrow studied the last of his drink, then tipped his head back and emptied the glass. He reached out his hand and traced Sam’s face. She didn’t back away.
“Yes, you could. But you won’t. It would complicate matters and I wouldn’t be able to take you to Tim.”
CHAPTER 43
Ten minutes after Sparrow and Sam left, Carl and Jake sped back, aware they were set up.
“She left with a man,” the waiter explained.
“How long ago? What did he look like?” Jake fired the questions at him.
Carl ran outside to question the valet. The young man remembered a woman fitting Sam’s description. He described the man she had left with.
Carl walked back inside and found Jake seated at the table. He told Jake, “The valet recalls seeing Sam. He said she left willingly.”
Jake’s eyebrows formed a straight line across his forehead, his jaw was tense. If he had not been in a public place, he may have picked something up and thrown it. He had a napkin in his hand, staring at it. He handed it to Carl.
Written in black ink was a message:
Sergeant Mitchell,
I will have your wife home by midnight.
Sparrow unlocked the door to his hotel suite at the Ritz Carlton. The drapes were open, the lights on. Rock music played in the background.
“Great, you’re back.” Tim jumped up from his seat. Then he saw Sam. “Hi, Sam. Wait till you see. I found two of the three code words.”
“How can you think with this music so loud?” Sparrow asked, turning down the volume.
Sam looked puzzled. It was either her imagination or Sparrow just changed from a Polish accent to a British accent. And why was Tim so friendly with him?
Sparrow placed his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “You should take a break. I promised you dinner.” He faced Sam. “And a pregnant woman should eat. I will order room service.” He didn’t wait for their response. He picked up the phone. “Cheeseburger, Tim?”
Tim smiled. “If you’re buying, I want a steak.”
Sparrow winked at Sam. “Smart boy.”
Sam walked over to Tim as Sparrow ordered room service. “Are you okay?”
Tim beamed. “He’s great, Sam. You wouldn’t believe some of the places he’s been to, some of the things he’s done.”
“He kills people,” Sam whispered. “You sound like he’s some kind of hero.”
“He’s at war. People die in a war.” Tim turned away from her and returned to his computer.
Sam looked at Sparrow. He had hung up the phone and was peeling off his trench coat. He wore a black open collar sweater and black linen pants. He slipped Sam’s blanket coat from her shoulders.
“Have a seat, please.” Now he spoke without an accent. “You’re American.”
“Of course.” He opened the refrigerator behind the bar and poured Sam a club soda, popped open a beer for himself. Walking over to where Tim was working, Sparrow said, “What have you found?”
“The first code is BIRD. The second is SPARROW. I just have to find the third.”
“Good. I have faith in you, Tim.” He set Sam’s drink on the coffee table and told her, “Please sit.” He motioned to a floral love seat. He studied her for a few moments as if she were some unfinished painting that needed tweaking, then started to pick out the pins holding her hair in a French twist. “I don’t like your hair up.” When all the pins were out, he ran his fingers through her hair as it fell past her shoulders. “That’s better.”
For some reason Sam wasn’t nervous, didn’t fear him. She wondered if he had used mind control on Tim. What else could explain Tim’s enthusiasm, his genuine affection for this killer?
“Exactly what is it you want?” she asked. She could understand Tim’s usefulness with the computer. But why her?
He set his beer down and sat on the sofa across from her. “I need help. I’ve read a lot about you since I’ve been in your town. You are on suspension from the police force. That was a messy case, that last one. It is terrible losing your father at age five. And a crooked state representative? Politicians. You and I both have no stomach for them.” He took a long swallow of beer.
Sam decided he definitely wasn’t bad looking, if you liked Viking gods. He could be very persuasive, he had a certain charisma, that type of you’re-in-good-hands demeanor. Then again, Ted Bundy was also very persuasive.
Sparrow continued. “Don’t feel too bad, Sam. Being suspended might be better for you.”
Somehow it didn’t surprise her that he had done his homework on her. He explained how he had gone to the library and read past articles about her in the Chasen Heights Post Tribune.
“People disregard your gift, Sergeant. They refuse to believe things they can’t explain.”
His eyes were electrifying, and Sam felt like a specimen under a microscope.
“The mind is capable of a lot of things,” Sparrow continued, “things even scientists don’t fully understand. So it is good it doesn’t bother you when the press or even your superiors don’t take you seriously. People like you and me, we function better outside, shall we say, the constraints of a structured work environment. You would be much happier as a private investigator.”
Sam studied his gold watch and guessed his sweater to be cashmere. His eyes were a pale blue and only when he smiled did they crinkle at the corners. He had taken extremely good care of himself and Sam guessed him to be somewhere in his forties.
“You seemed to have done quite well financially in your line of work.”
“Yes. It pays top dollar. Of course, if I had been able to get the contract on a Hussein or Ghadafi, I could have retired.”
“You talk as though it is just another day at the office.”
Sparrow leaned forward, placed his beer can on the table, rested his elbows on his knees. “That’s exactly what it is. A line of work. People make a killing at the stock market every day. I kill people the world would be better off without.”
Sam glanced over at Tim. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be taking any of this in. “So why take the contract on Reverend Smith?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I know. Amid did.”
He nodded, impressed. “Thank you. I usually know enough about my targets not to need background information. But I was in town early. I wanted to check out this man of the cloth. He was a good man. There was no reason he should have a contract out on his life.”
She stared at her empty glass, saw his eyes drop to her legs. “You still haven’t explained how I can be of help.”
He got up, walked over to Tim, and leaned over the teen’s shoulder. “I need to know how much the cops know.” He straightened and looked over at her. “You will help me.”
Over dinner, she told him all the police and FBI knew about the case thus far. And the important thing—that they had yet to identify Sparrow. But they were sure he was still in town, that he was trying to sell the plates, probably to Yang Chu. The Interpol file on him basically reduced him to a mercenary gone mad, which amused Sparrow.
Sam said, “Reverend Smith had counterfeit money on him. And a representative from the Treasury Department found the discrepancy in the bills.”
“Yes. Very good fakes except for that amateur mistake,” Sparrow said.
He seemed to be satisfied with all she had told him. Sparrow and Tim monopolized the rest of the conversation during dinner. Sparrow slipped up a couple times and called her Jennifer. She wondered who Jennifer was. More importantly, where was she now?
When they were done eating, Sparrow pushed the cart out into the hallway, Tim returned to the computer, and Sam returned to the love seat.
Sparrow paced back and forth, first slowly as though thinking, but then quickly, until he looked more like a caged animal. He rambled on in different dialects, changing at will. He addressed someone named Otto as if he were in the room. Tim looked over his shoulder at him several times, then over to Sam.
To Sam, Sparrow looked and sounded like a cyborg whose computer board was short circuiting. Then Sparrow started to repeat the same phrase over and over: Other than survival, nothing else matters. He kept repeating as if it were some type of mantra.
Suddenly he stopped and calmly said, “I think I’m going to go lie down for a while.”
After Sparrow walked out of the room, Sam moved over toward Tim and whispered, “You know, we could just walk out of here.”
Tim furrowed his brows. “But, Sam, he needs us.” He turned back to the monitor.
Sam glanced over at the phone on the credenza by the couch, slowly walked over, stared at it, even entertained the thought of calling 911. But she caught sight of Sparrow in the bedroom. He was sitting on the bed, head in his hands, slowly rocking. As she cautiously walked into the bedroom, she heard him repeating his mantra. Mesmerized by his unbelievable change in moods, Sam carefully approached him and placed her hands over his.
