Full Disclosure (13 page)

“So am I.”

“I'm surprised we haven't bumped into each other in her kitchen, swiping a piece of apple pie.”

“She does make a really good pie.”

Paul wanted to end the conversation on a smile and this felt like a good point. “I won't keep you any longer. Have a good night, Ann.”

“'Night, Paul.”

Without referencing the reason he had gone, Paul posted pictures to his family the next morning from his late-night trip. “I watched someone turn down half a million dollars this week. I wish I could tell you that entire story. It was quite a trip.”

“Him or her?” his father emailed back.

What was his dad doing up this early? “Her.”

“Nice. Coming to dinner this weekend?”

“Planning to.”

“Bring her to dinner.”

“Maybe someday.” Paul wisely redirected the conversation. “How's Mom?”

The roses were gorgeous. Ann smiled as she placed them on her desk, where everyone who came through the sheriff's office would see them. She anticipated her first
Who's your beau?
question would come before noon. She loved the small-town interest. She fingered one of the rose petals. She would say they were a thank-you gift. That was true enough, and kind of Paul. She had wondered how he would take the gift of funds and he'd surprised her by accepting them without much of a fuss. The lady shooter needed caught, and she needed to avoid a press
conference. She was comfortable that her decision to decline the award had been the right one.

Paul Falcon was an interesting guy. She should have listened better in the past when Dave had talked about his friend. They had for years overlapped friends, but not in schedules or she would have met him some time ago. She'd had in the back of her mind that he was seeing Gina Lewis, and hadn't paid much attention when that had changed.

Paul wasn't seeing anyone now, she knew. Kate's antenna had been quivering at the idea of Paul and Ann getting together—Kate had already made a pitch for Ann to fly north for dinner.

Ann picked up another packing box and turned her attention to her desk drawers. She had pleaded off with too much work, and it was true enough. But she'd ducked Kate's invitation because she was still uncertain if she wanted to follow it. She sensed an interest on Paul's part, but a casual one. The roses were an interesting choice of a thank-you, and hard to read. A guy sent a lady roses, it was some degree of personal. And she felt just a bit of interest in return. But patience defined how she treated guys and possible situations, and she wasn't inclined to do more than wait and enjoy the roses.

She liked his personality. He had driven hours to deliver a message, tracked her down in Nebraska with hot chocolate, asked thoughtful questions about her work. There was a lot to enjoy. He put effort into people, and she admired that trait. He'd make a good friend. If Paul was interested in pursuing matters, he would let her know. Ann stepped around her dog and got the roll of tape. She paused to smell the nearest rose again and smiled at the gift.

Paul studied his calendar, thinking through options. Most of his team would be traveling for the next two months conducting interviews. A skeleton staff left behind could handle the other active cases on the board. He had seven experienced guys in the
group, who were fully able to run their cases without assistance. He was wise enough to let them. He had a lot to supervise but not too much pressing on his day-to-day. It would get intense again if one of the lady shooter interviews turned up something.

If he wanted to get away for a few days, sometime during the next two months would be his best chance. It looked like his personal schedule opened up in about two weeks. He went to find Sam. He'd take a few days at the end of the month. Ann was worth pursuing, and it was time.

P
aul navigated the country roads, the numbers marking the fields and the crossroads beginning to make sense the more of them he read. He looked again at the photo he held, then at the house up ahead, and knew he had reached his destination. He pulled in behind a blue pickup truck and parked. He picked up the gift he had brought along with the sack Joe had sent, leaving his personal bags in the car.

The mother of the FBI regional counterterrorism director stepped out on her porch. “Welcome, Paul. You made good time.”

“I appreciate you letting me visit, Mrs. Rawlins.”

“Neva, please. My son calls, says he's sending a guest, I am too curious to say no. Then I hear it's about Ann Silver and I know I have to meet you. You'll stay, at least for a week.”

“A weekend, Neva. It's all I can—”

“You can't court someone in a weekend,” she replied, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Ann doesn't know I'm coming. A weekend will do for a surprise. A week would be an intrusion.” He stepped inside with her. “The gift with the bow would be my thanks, and the sack would be from your son. He had ideas about glassware and crystal and told me to take care on the delivery.”

“Leave the sack for me on the kitchen table, and I'll see if he found me the right pattern to match my mother's collection. You'll join me for lunch?”

“I was thinking if you would direct me, I would see Ann first, then we would both join you for dinner?”

Neva laughed and nodded. “She's not much of a cook, so it might be wise. You'll likely find her at the sheriff's office. She calls if she's had an MHI request, lets me know she'll be away, so I'm certain she's still in town.”

She stepped back out on the porch with him. “The center of town and her office would be five miles west on the road you came in on, just stay to the right when the road splits off.” She pointed toward the trees in the distance. “And that would be her property from the trees and for the next half a mile.”

“I'll call you if we'll be later than five.” He smiled. “Or if for some reason it will be just me.”

“I'm glad for the company, but you didn't come to see me. Dinner's going to be my leftover roast beef for sandwiches, corn on the cob, and pie, and doesn't need a particular time. I'll expect you when I see you. And I'm partial to the late news and a movie, so you'll not bother me by making it a late evening.”

“Thanks.” Paul left the porch, stopped, and came back to lean against the base post of the porch railing. “Would you have any advice for me, knowing Ann as well as you do?”

She looked surprised by the question, but paused to think about it, and nodded.

“One piece of good advice about Ann. When it's silent and you make a remark and she looks startled that you interrupted her, just repeat the remark or question and don't take offense. She's busy in her mind. The quieter she is, the more likely she's listening to dialog, or watching a scene unfold, or having an internal conversation. She goes somewhere else as easily as I breathe. Bothers people who don't know her well. She's just listening to a few things the rest of us don't hear, sometimes misses the first of what you say.”

Intrigued, for it was unexpected, he thought about it and could see it. “How do you know when her mind is quiet?” he asked, curious.

“She'll grab one of those yellow legal pads that go everywhere with her and write it all down longhand. Sometimes the characters go quiet for a bit after that. There are days there is nothing in particular on her mind, and others where she is so busy creating she can't write it down fast enough. You can tell with just a bit of noticing what kind of day it is. When she goes to get a drink and stands with her hand on the soda can for a minute or two before she remembers to open it, you can bet someone you can't see interrupted her.”

“You like her books.”

“I do. She was writing stories here on my porch when she was a young girl, and I knew she'd have a future at it. She writes for the love of it, rather than thinking of it as work.”

“That's going to be very helpful. Thanks, Neva.”

Paul drove toward town thinking about Ann.

The cop part of her life he would easily understand—what she saw, what mattered, the crime scene and the people involved. He'd share that slice of her life easily, even have something to contribute. The writing would take much more effort to understand. What he'd just heard was going to be very useful advice. He hadn't stopped to think about how she wrote. Would have assumed it was like any job, there when you sat to work on it, and out of mind the rest of the time. But writing would be more about puzzling out questions, he decided, a lot more of her subconscious figuring out the details and then playing it out, than sitting to just write. She would create the stories one piece at a time and weave it together on the page. He wondered if she would be willing to share that part of her life with him, and hoped she would.

The population listed on the Welcome to Medora sign was three thousand twenty-six. He found a center square with benches, grass, a pretty fountain, and two statues honoring
soldiers from the town. The square was surrounded by restaurants and businesses spreading out a few blocks. He could see open fields down the road.

He used the flag and the post office as a guide and found the sheriff's office beside it, a real estate office on the other side. He parked near the front door, next to a county police vehicle and a light tan vehicle that had police lights and radio antennas but no location markings.

The doors were glass, heavy, with hours listed as eight a.m. to six p.m., and a phone number stenciled beneath. He stepped inside.

The office was an open room with three desks and a long counter. A hall disappeared back into the building. From the items on the table and the bulletin board inside the door, it also served as the town's lost and found, and the hub for community announcements. The pink roses on the far desk still looked reasonably alive. Ann's desk. A phone, a monitor, a stapler, but not a single piece of paper or personal picture. She had already packed for the move.

The woman at the nearest desk was town police, the guy talking with her was county police. They were discussing a burglary, based on the snatch of conversation Paul heard before the woman looked over. He was recognized instantly as a stranger, for they both focused on him and slightly turned. He turned the badge on his pocket toward them, knowing he'd raise questions for why he was wearing a side arm under the suit jacket.

“I'm looking for Ann Silver.”

The massive dog lying by her desk rose to his feet.

He made a guess and held out his hand. “Hey, Midnight.”

The lady stood, her curiosity obvious. “May I ask who's looking to find her?”

“Paul Falcon with the FBI.”

“Bad wreck, driver died?”

“That's me.”

“She was glad to have that off her desk. Midnight, go find Ann.”

The dog ambled away down the hall.

“He saves us shouting for each other.”

She glanced at the roses on the other desk and back at him, but before she could ask, the front door opened behind him. A young man pushed a flat cart inside with a stack of boxes and a tower of tape rolls. “Where d'ya want these, Marissa?”

“Straight on back to the end of the hall.”

“Packing day. We're moving policing to the county, effective Monday morning,” she said to Paul.

“What's going to happen with this building? It's a nice location.”

“A community center. We'll fill it with tables, games, and have a place for the young and old to mingle.”

Midnight came back and flopped into a heap on the floor by the counter, Ann trailing in a few steps after him. She had rubber bands around her wrist, along with a roll of tape worn like a bracelet. She stopped when she saw him. “Falcon.” The idea of it processed, and she smiled. “You're a long way from Chicago.”

“I heard you needed a hand to help pack.”

She leaned against the counter. “A nice story with a bit of fiction in it, I'm thinking. I pack fine—what I dislike is the carrying.” She considered him and dug keys out of her pocket. “You'll need these. The moving van out back is heading to the county building. The red truck is mine. You have to relock the van padlock every time you come back inside. What do you like to drink?”

“Root beer, diet orange soda, tea-no-sugar, in that order.”

“Marissa, why don't you go buy a case of his root beer and a bag of ice. He's my roses. When I wear him out hauling boxes, you can rescue the leftovers.”

“He's your roses?”

“He'll want them back after I have him help clear out the vault.”

Marissa laughed. “I'll forward phones to you and be back in ten.”

Ann pushed away from the counter. “This way, Falcon.”

She headed down the hall. “Your conscience bothering you about the money?” she asked quietly. “I'll take the help, but you shouldn't mind the gift. The only response needed is ‘thank you.'”

“Not the money. I've got a year of vacation time accumulated, and you're moving. I show up when friends move. Family too, but for them I tend to bring several guys and expect to be doing the packing as well as the carrying.”

“In that case—how long can I keep you?”

“I'm staying with Mrs. Rawlins for the weekend.”

“Nice. Think five star bed-and-breakfast. Don't pass up her cinnamon rolls or her cherry pie.”

She pointed to the closed, door-sized bank vault. “Evidence vault. We've been hauling out for a week, and it still looks stuffed. And my personal nemesis”—she stepped through an open door and gestured—“years of case files. I'm shredding what I can if the person is dead, if the statute of limitations has passed. The rest go to county. I've got five years left to sort.”

“Why don't you have half the town crowding in here to help you?”

“Three reasons. I promised the town council if they agreed to move policing to the county, I'd protect the privacy of those who'd had encounters with the law over the years and manage the move myself. Second, we don't have to be out on any particular day—it's my own imposed deadline. I'd just like to get the job done. And third, Nita Stans is also moving this weekend, and she's the sweetest lady in town. If you show up here, you get sent to help her. My contribution to her hour of need. Along with a side agreement between her and me that no one gets to see the fact her late husband got arrested for driving the mayor's car into the town fountain as a youth.”

“Everyone probably knows the story.”

“Not a question. But it still embarrasses her.”

Midnight trailed in after them. Ann ruffled his ears and absorbed his weight as the dog leaned into her. “If Midnight gets in your way, just tell him to go away. He'll move a few feet.”

“He's a calmer dog than I would have figured.”

She grinned. “Deceptive. He conserves his energy for what's important.”

“These boxes are ready to go?”

“Those are heading for the county, and that box of pictures—that goes with me.”

“Return to shredding and sorting. I'll start carrying.”

He stacked three boxes high and disappeared.

By the time she was down to two years to sort, Paul had cleared the room of boxes ready to go to the county.

He brought back two glasses of ice, took a seat on a rolling chair, and split a root beer with her. “Finish the drink, then you can open the vault for me and give me an overview of what is ready to carry.”

“You are trying to impress me by doing it all in one day.”

“I was thinking one afternoon.”

Ann touched her glass to his. “Appreciate it. Marissa and I flipped for who would be on duty today, and I cheated on the coin toss. Used a mis-stamped coin to make sure she got the duty. I couldn't handle the last day of calls. I'm going to miss this place, right down to the flag that gets stolen and the candy that gets lifted and the kids speeding around the square on rainy nights. We've had four burglaries, six domestic calls, a dozen public intoxications, and four times that in nuisance vandalism, noise, and sidewalk disputes in the last few months. The worst of it was an aggravated assault with two guilty parties, and a fire that was probably deliberate. Not a single murder. It feels so normal, and I haven't had normal in a long time.”

“Might have been easier if you'd chosen to be an accountant, or used that engineering degree.”

She lifted one eyebrow.

“Dave,” he confirmed.

“I designed chips for a telecommunication firm for a while. Logic puzzles, tests that could check if you were right or wrong, and I was good at it. I was knocking down solutions to problems and watching my chips go into production. It was good for a summer or two, but I found the desk and design software and a square office with walls as draining as anything I had ever done. I could do the work, but as useful as the work was, it would have a limited lifespan. Two years, five, and my chip would be obsolete and replaced with someone else's design or a new one of my own. I decided I'd rather do my puzzle solving on something more interesting that might matter more.”