looking for him.”
“Here?”
He nodded, and the wind tugged his comb-over loose so his bald spot shone palely. “For some reason, Jesse liked it here. He worked here as a teenager, you know.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know that. Where?”
“The food court. He flipped burgers at some place that went out of business a couple years back. I think it was where that Chinese food place is now. He and his friends hung out here a lot. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back now that he’s . . . out of the military. The police came to see me, you know. They didn’t say it in so many words, but they think he had something to do with that woman’s murder.” He pressed his thin lips together and gave me a searching look. “They said you saw him.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. Seeing Jesse? Giving his name to the police?
“If he found her, saw her . . . if there was blood, it probably scared him,” Mr. Willard said. “He was always squeamish about blood—couldn’t stand the sight of a scraped knee as a kid, even—and since the IED . . .”
He didn’t need to explain to me how gory the aftermath of an improvised explosive device detonation could be. I’d lived it firsthand. I wasn’t remotely squeamish, but I still had nightmares about the explosion, the screams, the smells of burning asphalt and torn metal and dirt.
“He’s been walking here every morning,” Willard said. “That’s why I came now.”
The night guard at Fernglen unlocked the main door at four thirty every morning so mall walkers could exercise before starting their commutes to D.C. or Richmond. The few times I’d worked the night shift, I’d been amazed by how many people wanted to racewalk through the mall’s halls, especially during the winter when it was dark and cold. “Is that why he was here yesterday—to walk?”
“Um-hm. I dropped him off. He was going to ride the bus home.”
“Does he drive? Does he have a car?”
“He’s not supposed to,” Mr. Willard said. “He’s had a couple of seizures as a result of his brain injuries, but he’s not incapable of driving, if that’s what you’re asking. His car is still at home.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” I promised Mr. Willard, impulsively squeezing his hand. “He’ll be okay. Even if he’s sleeping rough somewhere, the temps aren’t going below forty at night.”
“I’m not worried about that. The kid’s a survivalist—what he didn’t learn from the Boy Scouts and books as a lad, the army taught him. No, I’m worried about—” He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sharp huff. “Can you help him, Officer Ferris?”
He’d startled me. “Help Jesse?”
He bobbed his head rapidly. “Yes. Prove he didn’t do it so he can come home again. He didn’t hurt that woman—I know he didn’t, but the police suspect him. You’re here all the time; you can discover the real killer.”
“I can’t—”
He ignored my protest. “I’m going to be late. Please call me if you find Jesse.”
As I watched him plod toward his car, I thought about his undefined worries. He could be worried about Jesse’s mental state if he’d stumbled over the injured Zoë. Or he could have darker, better-left-unexpressed worries about the nature of Jesse’s encounter with Zoë, despite his conviction that his son hadn’t killed her. Trying to suppress those thoughts myself—I didn’t want Jesse to be guilty of harming Zoë—I hurried into the mall’s warmth, thinking it would be nice to clear Jesse’s name if I could.
• • •
I’d completed a circuit of the mall and done some paperwork by nine o’clock when Joel came in. The phone rang as he walked through the door and he dove for it, dropping the handset as he fumbled to take off bulky gloves. I rolled my eyes at him. “Fernglen Galleria Security, Officer Rooney speaking,” he said, managing to sound both very young and professional at
“Here?”
He nodded, and the wind tugged his comb-over loose so his bald spot shone palely. “For some reason, Jesse liked it here. He worked here as a teenager, you know.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know that. Where?”
“The food court. He flipped burgers at some place that went out of business a couple years back. I think it was where that Chinese food place is now. He and his friends hung out here a lot. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back now that he’s . . . out of the military. The police came to see me, you know. They didn’t say it in so many words, but they think he had something to do with that woman’s murder.” He pressed his thin lips together and gave me a searching look. “They said you saw him.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. Seeing Jesse? Giving his name to the police?
“If he found her, saw her . . . if there was blood, it probably scared him,” Mr. Willard said. “He was always squeamish about blood—couldn’t stand the sight of a scraped knee as a kid, even—and since the IED . . .”
He didn’t need to explain to me how gory the aftermath of an improvised explosive device detonation could be. I’d lived it firsthand. I wasn’t remotely squeamish, but I still had nightmares about the explosion, the screams, the smells of burning asphalt and torn metal and dirt.
“He’s been walking here every morning,” Willard said. “That’s why I came now.”
The night guard at Fernglen unlocked the main door at four thirty every morning so mall walkers could exercise before starting their commutes to D.C. or Richmond. The few times I’d worked the night shift, I’d been amazed by how many people wanted to racewalk through the mall’s halls, especially during the winter when it was dark and cold. “Is that why he was here yesterday—to walk?”
“Um-hm. I dropped him off. He was going to ride the bus home.”
“Does he drive? Does he have a car?”
“He’s not supposed to,” Mr. Willard said. “He’s had a couple of seizures as a result of his brain injuries, but he’s not incapable of driving, if that’s what you’re asking. His car is still at home.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” I promised Mr. Willard, impulsively squeezing his hand. “He’ll be okay. Even if he’s sleeping rough somewhere, the temps aren’t going below forty at night.”
“I’m not worried about that. The kid’s a survivalist—what he didn’t learn from the Boy Scouts and books as a lad, the army taught him. No, I’m worried about—” He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sharp huff. “Can you help him, Officer Ferris?”
He’d startled me. “Help Jesse?”
He bobbed his head rapidly. “Yes. Prove he didn’t do it so he can come home again. He didn’t hurt that woman—I know he didn’t, but the police suspect him. You’re here all the time; you can discover the real killer.”
“I can’t—”
He ignored my protest. “I’m going to be late. Please call me if you find Jesse.”
As I watched him plod toward his car, I thought about his undefined worries. He could be worried about Jesse’s mental state if he’d stumbled over the injured Zoë. Or he could have darker, better-left-unexpressed worries about the nature of Jesse’s encounter with Zoë, despite his conviction that his son hadn’t killed her. Trying to suppress those thoughts myself—I didn’t want Jesse to be guilty of harming Zoë—I hurried into the mall’s warmth, thinking it would be nice to clear Jesse’s name if I could.
• • •
I’d completed a circuit of the mall and done some paperwork by nine o’clock when Joel came in. The phone rang as he walked through the door and he dove for it, dropping the handset as he fumbled to take off bulky gloves. I rolled my eyes at him. “Fernglen Galleria Security, Officer Rooney speaking,” he said, managing to sound both very young and professional at
Similar Books
