Close to Home by LindaO

It was sheer luck, Finch supposed, that he found her at all. Being Christine, and being very angry, the first thing she’d done was shut off her phone, and the second thing was to take the battery out of it. Her message to the world was, I don’t want to talk to anyone. Her message to Harold was, And you can’t find me.

There were a thousand places in the city that she might go, and that assumed that she’d stay in the city at all. She had cash and clean ID’s; she could go anywhere.
But she wasn’t running, Finch reasoned. She was just going away to cool off. So she wasn’t likely to go too far away, or to make any special effort to hide. He started back to Chaos. The coffee shop, he thought, was her most likely destination. And if she wasn’t there, it was the best place to wait for her.

But then, two blocks north of the cybercafé, a small sign and arrow caught his eye. Library. Her neighborhood library. Finch paused, then turned that way. If she wasn’t there, he could always double back. But he was unreasonably certain that she was.

He parked the car, took the dog’s leash, and walked through the front door. There were two librarians behind the counter; one was much younger, a red-head with freckles. The other was a handsome woman somewhere near fifty with long dark hair and eyes. He could tell by her bearing that she was in charge. She looked at him, at his limp, at Bear, and decided that the dog could pass for a service dog, whether he actually was one or not. She was a dog person, he could tell. She knew the dog would behave. She smiled at Finch as he approached the counter.

“Hello,” Finch said, in a calm, quiet voice, precisely pitched for the library. Bear sat calmly beside him. “This is going to sound like an odd question, but I’m looking for someone. A young woman. Christine Fitzgerald.”

“Scotty.”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She nodded her head toward the far corner.

“Can you let her finish shelving first?” the younger woman asked. “She’s really fast when she’s mad.”

“Shelley,” the older librarian scolded.

“Well, she is.”

Finch sighed. “Thank you.”

He was half-tempted to let Bear off his leash, let him seek out the woman and softened her up. But it seemed too cowardly. He moved down the rows along the far wall. Bear tugged uneasily at the leash, picking up on his nervousness. “It’s all right,” Finch told him. The dog looked up at him like he was crazy.

He heard the cart before he saw her. It had a squeak in one wheel. The younger librarian was right; she was moving very quickly. Angrily. And the message was very clear: You own a library. Good for you. I can walk into any library I want and make it my own. I don’t need yours.

Or maybe he was overthinking it. Libraries were where she went for comfort. They were where she’d spent her childhood, hiding from her abusive mother. They were her safe place. Her sanctuary.

He rounded the end of the last row. She was half-way down. The cart of returned books was nearly empty.
She glanced at him, then looked away and continued shelving books. “Is there some part of ‘leave me alone for two days’ that you didn’t understand?” she asked coldly.

“I couldn’t bear the idea of you being angry with me for that long,” Finch answered honestly.

She paused, rested her forehead against the shelf in front of her. “Harold, please go away.”

Harold, he noted. Not Random. She never called him Harold. Though she was calmer, she was still very angry. “I am so sorry, Christine. I was clumsy and careless. And I apologize.”

She turned her head and met his eyes for the first time. “All you had to do was ask.”

“I know that. And I never intended to use the library as any sort of enticement. I just wanted to share it with you. It was entirely independent of the favor, I swear. It never occurred to me that you’d think of it as a bribe. That was absolutely not my intention.”

“Harold …” She turned her shoulders so that she was facing him, finally.

He moved a little closer, but not too close. “I am not generally a careless man, Miss Fitzgerald. And that fact that I was this careless with you in this should be seen as an indication of my faith in you. My trust that I do not need to be hyper vigilant about every move I make. I allow myself a level of carelessness because I know that I can rely upon your forgiveness if I do make a mistake.”

Christine shook her head. “That was the most elegant line of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

Harold allowed himself a small smile. “Honesty, I didn’t mean it the way it seemed.”

“I know.”

“Am I forgiven, then?”

“Of course you are.”

“Thank you.” He moved closer still. “I have something for you.”

“You’re about to screw this up again, you know.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He drew the small box out of his pocket. “Please.” When she didn’t reach for the box, he opened it and showed her the pendant inside.

“It’s beautiful.” She eyed it, but made no move to take it. “I don’t suppose those are rhinestones.”

“Yes, of course. From the new Tiffany’s rhinestone collection.” He slid the little dove apart with his thumb, revealing the USB drive hidden inside it. “It was custom made. I can’t return it.”

“Random …”

Finch nodded in relief. She was back to using his nickname; she truly had forgiven him. “Please,” he said, holding the box out to her. “It was to be your Christmas gift. Now I’ll have to come up with something else, I suppose.”

Christine sighed. “If I take that, will you promise to get me what I really want for Christmas?”

“Of course. Anything. Within reason.”

“What’s within reason for a man who owns a library?”

Finch smiled. “Anything you can name, of course.” He took her hand and folded it around the jewelry box. “Just tell me what it is.”

“Blueberry pie.”

“That seems a bit … conservative.”

“Blueberry pie, with real whipped cream, and Irish coffee. On Christmas night, in the library, with you and John.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I’ll bring the coffee. I’ll have Zubec make us a Thermos.”

“That’s all?” Finch repeated.

“That’s all,” she answered firmly.

He nodded thoughtfully. “All right.”

“Good.” She handed him the next book off the cart, gestured vaguely behind him. He found the spot and shelved it. “So what’s this favor you need?”

“Ah, that.” He drew a picture out of his pocket. “I need you to enthrall a young man for me.”

She took the picture, handed him another book. “This is …”

“Yes.”

Christine nodded solemnly. “Okay. But what’s the favor?”

***

Special Agent Donnelly glanced at his watch again. Then he looked toward the door.

It wasn’t like her to be late.

Well, it was New York City. Traffic snarls, subway delays. Any meeting was subject to starting at the whim of the city. But it was utterly unlike Christine Fitzgerald to be late for anything.

She’d invited him to lunch, and she was ten minutes late.
He brought out his phone and studied it for a moment. He could call her. In the city, too, he couldn’t absolutely rule out the ‘mugged in an alley and in need of help’ possibility, either. Five more minutes.

He put the phone down and brought out the book. It was a paperback, Les Miserables, that she’d loaned him months before, on the night of what had been their first and last date. She’d asked him to bring it back. The request had surprised him a little; he’d thought it was a gift. But he didn’t really object. It was just odd.
As odd as her being late was.

The waiter stopped at the next table, where a woman was sitting alone. “Are you ready to order?”

“Oh, could I wait just a few more minutes?” she asked apologetically. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend.”

“No problem.” The waiter moved away.

Out of long agent habit, Donnelly watched the woman for a moment. She looked at her watch. At her phone. And then she picked up her book and resumed reading it.

The book was the tell, of course. The minute he saw the title. Donnelly knew Christine Fitzgerald wasn’t late. She wasn’t coming at all. She had never intended to.

“You bitch,” he murmured very softly. He very rarely thought in such terms, and even more rarely gave voice to them. This time the word was bitterly delicious on his tongue. “You devious little bitch.” He’d been played. Like an overture. And he hadn’t seen it coming.

As fast as his anger had flared, it faded. Grudgingly, he had to admire the maestro’s skill.

The smart thing, the dignified thing, would just be to stand up and walk out.

But he studied the woman with the book a moment longer. She was an attractive woman, in her late thirties or early forties, with dark, shoulder-length hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck. She was dressed casually, conservatively, a blue-green sweater and black slacks. Small gold stud earrings, a thin gold chain around her neck. No wedding ring. Subtle make-up. Big brown eyes.

She had glanced up from his book, right into his eyes. The look held just for a moment. Then she smiled modestly and looked down again.

Get up, Donnelly thought, and walk out. If you talk to this woman, if you engage in any way, you are playing right into Christine’s plan.

And yet …

She seems nice enough. Are you going to walk out and leave her here, waiting for someone who will never arrive? Someone she thinks is her friend? Someone I thought was mine?

Someone who had gone to a fair amount of trouble to be sure the two of them met?

It was insane.

The woman at the next table closed her book again, glanced at her watch, and picked up her phone.

Not insane, Donnelly amended. Just wildly impulsive. Christine had thrown a dare in front of him. He wondered if she was watching somehow, waiting to see if he’d take it.

He was not going to be played with. Not this way. He put his things back in his pockets and stood up to walk out.

And made it as far as the woman’s table. She clicked off her phone, shook her head. She looked worried. Her hand fell onto her book, almost like a talisman, a comfort. Up close, Donnelly could see that the book was the French version.

“It went right to voice mail, didn’t it?” he asked quietly.

The woman looked up at him, startled. “I … yes.” She smiled, embarrassed, and looked away.

“She’s not coming, you know.”

She looked up again. “Excuse me?” She looked around quickly, verifying that she safely surrounded by other people. He was scaring her.

“Christine Fitzgerald,” Donnelly said evenly. “Scotty. She was supposed to meet you for lunch fifteen minutes ago. But she’s not coming.” He flashed his badge. “I’m Special Agent Donnelly. FBI.”

The woman’s face changed. “Oh, God, is Scotty in trouble again?”

Again. What an interesting life Christine Fitzgerald had, that her friends, confronted with a badge, immediately assumed that she was in trouble. Again. “I don’t know,” Donnelly said. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Pardon?”

The waiter scooted behind Donnelly with a tray. He glanced at him, then looked back to the woman, gestured to the empty chair. “May I?”

“Please.” She was still flustered, but curious. The badge had calmed her fears about him.

He sat down. “I know Miss Fitzgerald isn’t coming,” he explained, “because she was supposed to meet me here for lunch fifteen minutes ago. And as you probably know, she’s never late for anything. Also, she asked me to return a book I’d borrowed from her.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. Donnelly brought the book out of his pocket and let her see the cover.

“I’m going to kill her,” she pronounced firmly.

“That’s pretty much what I was thinking, yes.” He considered. “Of course, as a federal agent I can’t actually condone that kind of thinking, but …”

“We can fantasize.”

“Absolutely.”

The woman sat back. “I can’t believe she’d actually … no, I can. I absolutely can. Damn it.” She shook her head. “I am so sorry, Agent …”

“Donnelly,” he said again. “Ellis Donnelly.”

“I’m Theresa Ramos.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Donnelly hesitated. “I think. I mean, it is, but …”

“… under the circumstances,” she completed for him. “I understand completely.”

The waiter returned. “Ready to order now?” he asked cheerfully.

Theresa looked at him, startled and confused. “Uh … no, I don’t think we’re going to …”

“I think we should,” Donnelly answered. “We’ll need nourishment while we fantasize her untimely demise.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Then she changed her mind and ordered the cobb salad. Donnelly opted for the grilled chicken sandwich. They both asked for coffee. The waiter went away, brought coffee, went away again.

Donnelly added just a little sugar to his coffee; Theresa drank hers black. “It’s not as good as hers,” she commented.

“True.”

“A minor loss.”

“How do you know her?” Donnelly asked.

“I used to be a librarian. I mean, I still am, but not in the public system any more. But when I was …”

“You saw Miss Fitzgerald on a regular basis,” he guessed. He knew from his background checks on Christine that she visited the library nearly every week. “Where are you working now?”

“At the law library at NYU.”

“That’s a big change.”

She nodded. “The money’s better, the clients I’m not so sure about.”

“Law students are harder to deal with than the general public?”

“Law students are very demanding. And … entitled.”

“Ahh.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but how do you know Scotty?”

Donnelly considered his answer. “She may be a witness in a case I’m working on.”

“So her arrest is not imminent.”

“Sadly, no. She’s not a suspect.”

“Pity.” Theresa smiled briefly.

Donnelly nodded his agreement. “That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” He did not add that he had been emphatically told by his superiors that he could not arrest her no matter what she did.

“Can you tell me about the case?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation. I really can’t discuss it. Except to say that I’ve been working on it forever.”

The woman studied him across the table for a long moment. “I think I like a man with a little mystery to him.”

Unexpectedly, Donnelly found himself relaxing. He hadn’t been aware that he was tense. But of course any first date was an audition, even a completely unanticipated date. A delicate balance between trying to impress the woman, trying to get her to like you, while at the same time being honest about who you were.

Theresa Ramos liked him. Or at least was open to the possibility of liking him.

Their lunches came. They ate, they talked. They got along. Wonderfully. Of course. Because Christine Fitzgerald would not have planned it any other way.

And then, though they ate slowly, the lunch came to an end.

Donnelly waved down the waiter. “Can I get the check, please?”

“Of course.”

“We should split it,” Theresa said. “This wasn’t your idea …”

“No,” Donnelly admitted, “but I enjoyed it very much anyhow. And there is nothing about me that will let me split a check with a lady. Ever.”

She seemed doubtful. “Ellis, I can’t … “

“Please.”

The waited dropped the folder with the bill in it, and Donnelly snagged it before she could reach for it. He opened it and shook his head. “And the point is moot anyhow.” He flipped the folder around. There was no check inside. There were, instead, two movie tickets.

Theresa shook her head ruefully. “She is damnably thorough.”

“Determined.”

“Relentless.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Are those …” Theresa looked more closely at the tickets. “Les Miz, of course. On Christmas Day.” She looked just a little wistful. “Every ticket in the city has been sold out for weeks.”

Donnelly put the folder down, took out the tickets, and slipped a twenty dollar tip into their place. “You should take them,” he offered.

“Oh.” She took them, tentatively. “I imagine you already have plans for Christmas.”

Oh, yes, Donnelly thought grimly. They mostly involve sitting in a bland apartment alone, watching insipid TV, heating a frozen dinner in the microwave, and wishing the hours would pass more quickly so I can get back to work. “Nothing special. But you could take a friend ...”

“I would rather go with you.” She seemed startled by her boldness; she was, Donnelly thought, a bit old-fashioned. He liked that. She’d only asked because she thought he wasn’t going to. “But of course if you’d rather …”

“I would love to see the movie with you,” Donnelly assured her quickly. “But that means that we have to admit she was right.”

Theresa nodded solemnly. “It means we have to let her live. At least through Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“Well. But the tickets are impossible to get.”

“True.” Donnelly shrugged. “I’m really rather busy at work anyhow. Not much time to plan a discrete murder.”

“I could do some research,” Theresa offered. “Find some kind of loophole. You know, just in case.”

“We’ve already committed conspiracy,” Donnelly mused.

“Sure. But a jury of our peers, if they heard the whole story? They’d never convict.”

“True,” he agreed. “Totally justified.”

“But … not until after Christmas.”

“Right.” He drew out his card and gave it to her. “You should keep the tickets, though, in case I get called in to work.”

She nodded.

“And I should warn you … that happens a lot.”

“I imagine it does. I’ll consider myself warned.”

Donnelly studied her for another moment. He liked this woman. It was perhaps unconventional to bond with someone over hypothetical plans to murder the person who’d introduced them, but they were perfectly in accord on that. He liked her wit. He didn’t know enough about her to decide anything further than that. But he wanted to know more, and that was more than he’d expected. He liked her.

And she seemed to like him.

You devious little bitch, he thought in the general direction of Christine Fitzgerald. But he actually smiled in fondness at the thought.

***

Reese squinted unhappily at the picture Finch was taping to the board. “Soldier?” he asked quietly.

“No. Not anymore.” Finch stepped back. “Gregory Farrell. Married, no children. Six years in the Army, two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan. Honorably discharged eight months ago. No more recent pictures available. Nothing very remarkable one way or another in his service record. However, since his discharge he’s been through three jobs. Two minimum-wage warehouse positions, the third as an appliance delivery man. He was fired from that one last week.”

“He got lost coming home,” Reese said.

“Perhaps.” Finch pulled another sheet off the printer and hung it up. “Mr. Farrell’s wife, Susie, works in the accounting department of a national firm. She’s been there for eight years. Her income has been sufficient to keep them afloat.”

“But?”

“Three days ago, Susie’s credit card was used to rent a room at a long-term-stay hotel.”

“She moved out on him,” Reese said.

Finch smirked, showed him the address. John recognized it. He’d stayed there. “She kicked him out,” he amended.

“I would say.”

“So he’s likely to be a perpetrator.”

“I’m sorry to have to agree, Mr. Reese.” Finch sat down at his desk and tapped the speaker phone.

“Carter,” the detective barked after two rings.

“Hello, Detective,” Finch answered.

“I just caught two new cases, so make it quick.”

“Gregory Farrell.”

Her keyboard clicked. “Okay, got him. Picked up six months ago in a bar fight. Released without charges. Caught a speeding ticket three weeks ago and got belligerent with the officer. They brought him in, but he blew clean, so they released him.”

“Not drinking and driving, just angry,” Finch said.

Reese moved closer to the desk. “Any domestic calls?” he asked.

“Not seeing anything.”

“Run the wife. Susie.”

A brief pause. “Fender-bender last January. Icy road, cited for assured clear distance. That’s it.” And then, “Farrell’s a vet, you know.”

“We know.”

“Call me if you need me.”

Thank you, Detective.” Finch cut off the call.

“Keep digging,” Reese said. “I’ll see if I can find him.”

***

q95;