The Solace of Bay Leaves

with someone.”
“Are you kidding? You pull a stunt like that, Lovely Rita will be on the phone to Detective Tracy faster than the speed of light. He’ll never trust you again.”
Oh, gad. I’d not only overreacted to old news, I’d seriously mucked up my chances in this investigation. The apology was forming in my rattled brain when I spotted a man studiously avoiding us.
“Don’t look now, but there’s a man on the other side of the doorway who was upstairs when we were. Not that that’s suspicious, necessarily, but . . .”
“But you are suspicious.” Laurel’s voice was tight, her eyes twitchy.
“Let’s take a walk. Just act normal.” Of course, the moment someone tells you to act normal, that becomes nearly impossible, but we tried. We strolled past him, me jabbering about a problem customer made up on the spot. When we got within a few feet, he leaned down to stub out his cigarette. Ah, the irony of a smoking area outside a hospital entrance. A trick, to avoid letting us see his face?
The rain and fallen leaves had made for slick spots on the sidewalks so we walked with extra care. At the next intersection, I glanced behind us.
“Can you see him?” Laurel asked.
“No.” FBI? I hadn’t noticed him in Montlake. Was he watching over Maddie, or watching out for us? I did see Ramon, the security guard, crossing the street a block back. He was wearing a rain coat. Security staff shift change?
“I—I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before. The guy you spotted at the door, I mean.”
“What?” I stopped midstride and nearly tripped over my own feet. Better than my tongue, which happens with some regularity.
“Friday afternoon, at Ripe. You know that open passage between the main tower and the café?”
I nodded. I’d worked in the tower for years.
“I stayed late to help prep for a catering gig. When I left, about four thirty, I crossed the passage, then headed to the garage elevator. He—I’m sure it was him—was sitting on a bench inside the lobby.”
“Alone? Doing anything?” Friday afternoon. After Maddie was shot, but before we knew about it. By then, the cops must have had the ballistics linking the bullets recovered from Maddie’s shooting to Pat.
“On his phone, I think, though he did glance up when I walked by. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy.”
The phone. The perfect surveillance cover.
And the guy. A guy you wouldn’t notice, unless you did. Average height and build. A ball cap and a dark rain jacket, the kind of jackets half the men in Seattle wear. Some even wear them with suits. I closed my eyes briefly to picture it. Navy. Like that narrowed things down.
“People wait outside hospitals all the time. And sit in building lobbies, too. Had you seen him before? Does he work there?”
“I don’t think so. Seen him, I mean—I have no idea whether he works there. Thousands of people work there. They don’t all come into Ripe.”
“Fools. They have no taste. He must be FBI.” I told her about seeing Special Agent Greer in the Market, even though I’d convinced myself she wasn’t watching me. “Do they smoke? I always think of them as super-healthy, clean-living types. Runners.”
“A secret vice.”
Or the cigarette had been another bit of innocuous cover, like pretending to be on his phone while he kept an eye on Laurel Halloran.
A familiar figure caught my attention and I called out. “Tim!”
Tim Peterson stopped and looked around. I called out again and hurried toward him.
“Pepper,” he said. We hugged.
“We were hoping to run into you,” I said. “How is she?”
“Still in a coma, but her vital signs are good. Thank God they got to her quickly, so there wasn’t a lot of blood loss.” His voice mingled exhaustion with relief, and he pushed back the hood of his rain jacket and ran a hand over his thinning light brown hair. Maddie hadn’t changed her name when they married, saying that since Petrosian and Peterson both meant “son of Peter,” why bother? Tim used his middle name; his real first name, like his father’s, was Peter. I’d roll my eyes if I hadn’t been the victim of parental naming weirdness myself, though I’d lucked out when my grandfather bestowed the perfect nickname on me as a toddler.
I introduced Laurel. At the sound of her last name, Tim’s eyes widened. “Patrick Halloran’s wife?” he said.
“I am so sorry,” she said, holding his hand in both of hers. I felt my eyes swell and my jaw tighten. Why did tragedy strike good people? It’s an age-old question, and there is no answer.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll let Maddie know—I like to think she can hear me.”
“Tim, a quick question. Do you know why she was there? In the old grocery? I know you don’t get involved in the company, but . . .” Tim was on the management team for the Sounders, though doing what, I couldn’t say. Soccer isn’t my game.
“All I know is she was meeting her builder there. He was late— got caught on the other side of the drawbridge.” Tim shook his head. “Thank God he got there when he did.”
“Was someone else meeting them? Or did someone follow her?” I asked.
“Not that we know. The police have her phone and they’re checking, but they haven’t found anything yet. I’ve gotta run and pick up the kids. Maddie’s mom’s coming in on the red-eye.” We air-kissed and he hurried down the block, aiming his clicker at his car as he went, the lights flashing in response.
When Laurel and I reached the back side of the Cathedral, we sat on the steps. I could almost hear the medieval chants, though I was pretty sure they were only in my head.