The Survivors by Robert Palmer

it a hundred-dollar offense to use a handheld phone in the car. After a couple of tickets, I learned my lesson and had Bluetooth installed. I clicked the button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”
    â€œDr. Henderson, it’s Jamie Weston. You wanted to talk to me?” There was a thump and she said, “Hey, watch it.”
    â€œWhere are you? It sounds like quite a crowd.”
    â€œOutside the Metro station by my office. It’s like a cow barn this time of day. So what can I do for you?”
    â€œI’d like to see you, if you have a few minutes. Your office is on 6th Street, right? I’m only a few blocks from there now.”
    â€œUm, I’m on my way to get coffee. Let’s meet there.” The crowd noise around her was dying down. “So . . . what do you like?”
    That was an odd way to put it. Not, “What can I get you?” or “What would you like?” Maybe it was only an innocent slip, but it left me wondering. With a patient I’d unlock that door, usually with something unexpected. “What do I like? How about . . . quiet walks on the beach.”
    â€œWhat?” She laughed. “I meant coffee.”
    â€œSure you did. Black, medium.”
    â€œSimple things for a simple man.” She gave me the address of the coffee shop and hung up.
    By the time I got there, she’d bought the coffee and found a table. She spotted me through the window and waved. Her eyes were puffy, and she was wearing the same blue pantsuit as yesterday. She’d probably spent the night waiting for Scottie in Mount Pleasant. Being tired didn’t kill her smile, though.
    â€œDoctor Henderson, have a seat. So you’ve heard from Mr. Glass?”
    I eased into the chair. “What makes you think that?”
    That smile again. “Why else would you leave a voice mail for me at six forty in the morning?”
    â€œI did speak to him, and I don’t think he’s a threat to anyone.”
    She took a sip of her coffee. I caught the syrupy scent of hazelnut. “I appreciate your opinion, but if you saw the e-mails he sent, you’d know we can’t leave it there.”
    I didn’t want to get into the details—whether I’d read the e-mails, if I’d actually met with Scottie or just had a phone call. “Scott isn’t any kind of master criminal. You seem to be devoting a lot of energy to such a small fish.”
    She cocked her head to the side, making a silent question.
    â€œI know you staked out his house last night. I drove up there looking for him, and I saw you and Agent Cade in your car across the street.”
    â€œThat was you,” she said. “I had a bet with Cade. You just cost me ten bucks.”
    I took out my wallet and laid a ten on the table. “That’ll cover it. Now tell me: Why all the attention to a case like this?”
    â€œFirst you tell me why this matters to you. You said you’d barely met the guy.”
    â€œYou know Scott was injured as a boy. Shot in the head.” She nodded slightly. So they’d dug into his background. I was going to bet they hadn’t connected me to the shootings. My name—Henderson—wouldn’t give them a clue.
    â€œI assume you’re worried about the e-mail messages Scott sent to Eric Russo.” She gave the slight nod again. “Scott found out that Russo talked to the woman who shot him only an hour before it happened. It’s natural for him to want to follow up, to see if Russo remembers the conversation or if there is anything else he can tell him about that night. Even though it’s been years, it’s normal to want that kind of information. It helps with closure.”
    â€œIt sounds like you had a pretty useful talk with Mr. Glass.”
    â€œHe told me about Russo and filled me in on some research he’d done. He said in addition to Russo, he’d contacted some people from Braeder Design