David Baldacci - Memory Man

“But I guess there were a lot of positives. I mean, a perfect memory makes school and work pretty easy.”

He looked back up at the building. “Do you like yourself?”

“What?”

“Do you like the person you are?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I could exercise more and I have yet to find the right guy, but yeah, I like who I am.”

“Well, I liked who I was too. And now that person is gone. Only I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Her face fell. “Right. I didn’t really think about that.”

“And it would be nice to be able to forget some things. People do , you know. Want to forget some things.”

“Decker, even someone with a normal mind would never be able to forget something like what happened to your family.”

“But I remember every single detail of it, in the color blue. I will never forget any of it, even exactly how I felt when I found the bodies. Not until the day I die. For me time does not heal, because my mind no longer allows for the passage of time to dull my memories. They are as vivid today as the day it happened. It’s like a picture that never, ever fades. Some people can’t go back? I really can’t go forward.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned to look down at her. “I can’t process sympathy anymore,” he said. “I used to. But not anymore.” He walked into the building and Jamison hurried after him.

The building directory did not contain the name of the research facility. Decker went over to a reception desk set up in one corner and flashed his temporary police credentials, but the woman there could not help him. She had never heard of the place Decker named.

Decker and Jamison walked around the large lobby. Decker was peering everywhere, taking it all in.

“Going for a trip down memory lane?” said Jamison impishly.

He looked down at her with raised eyebrows.

She blushed. “Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood. I guess humor doesn’t really work with you either.”

But Decker had hurried across the lobby to a small flower shop in the corner of the floor. Jamison caught up to him as he approached the counter inside.

A woman in her late forties was behind the counter. She had light brown hair cut short and her build was blocky. Black slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse constituted her work clothes.

“Can I help you?” she asked Decker.

“This place has been here a long time,” Decker began. “I remember it.”

She smiled. “Dora’s Floras. It’s been here ever since the building opened in 1955. My mother was Dora. She started it.”

“I remember her too. You look like her.”

The woman smiled more broadly. “I took over the shop ten years ago. She and my father had built up a great business. When I was in college I’d come here and help them. My only job now is not to screw it up. I’m Daisy, by the way. What else would I be named, right? I’m the youngest of four girls and we’re all named after flowers.”

“So you’ve been here ten years, Daisy?”

“Yes.” The woman’s brow creased with a frown. “Why do I think you’re not interested in purchasing a flower arrangement?”

“I’m not,” Decker said bluntly. He showed her his credentials.

“Out of state,” she said. “Must be important.”

“It is. There was a research facility in the building. Well, it was here twenty years ago. The Cognitive Research Institute?”

Daisy smiled. “Oh sure, I remember them. They were a good customer.”

“Were? So they’re no longer here?”

“No, they moved out. It was, let me think — oh, probably seven or eight years ago. I remember the big trucks out front. As a general rule most businesses here stay here. It’s a great location, beautiful old building that’s been meticulously maintained, really prime real estate. And it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to Chicago.”

“I suppose you don’t know where they went?”

“No, I don’t. Did you try looking them up in the phone book? Well, I guess online these days.”

“I did. There was no listing.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry.”

Decker said, “Thank you anyway.” He started to turn away.

She said, “But there is old Dr. Rabinowitz.”

Decker turned back. “Harold Rabinowitz?”

“Yes, how’d you know his first name?”

“I did some research before I came,” he said quickly.

“Oh, well, yes. He’s still around, and if you can believe it, he still orders flowers from us. You know, the Coggers — that’s what we used to call them — were some of our best customers. My mother used to tell me, fresh flowers every week they ordered. And they sent a lot of flowers to folks, too. It was really nice. Nice for them, nice for our bottom line.”

“So you have his address?”

Her expression changed. “I’m really not supposed to give that sort of information out,” she said doubtfully.

“Can you give me his phone number?”

“I’m really uncomfortable with that too. You seem nice enough, but it’s against our policy.”

Decker said, “How about you call Dr. Rabinowitz and tell him that Amos Decker would like to see him. If he says it’s okay you can give me his address. If not, no harm done.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense. So you know him? I saw on your card that you’re Amos Decker.”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Hold on.”

She went to a phone, looked up the number on her computer, and punched it in. She turned her back to them as she spoke. A minute later she put down the phone and came back to them. She wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to Decker.

“Bingo. He said he would be delighted to see you.”

Decker looked down at the paper and then back up at her. “Are your parents still alive?”

Daisy looked mildly surprised by the query. “My mom is at an assisted living center and loving it. Big surprise, she does all their flower arrangements.”

“Well, tell her that Amos Decker remembers her flowers. And... that they helped a lot.”

“I sure will. She’ll be glad to hear that. The way Mother sees it, the more flowers we have the better world we’d have.”

Outside, Jamison looked at Decker. “Nicely done.”

He didn’t respond.

“So the flowers helped, huh?”

He shot her a glance. “Yeah, they did actually. So?”

“So maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.”

On the drive over to Rabinowitz’s, Jamison glanced at Decker in the rear of her car. “One question,” she said.

“Just one?”

“Maybe not. So to be straight about this, it wasn’t Leopold you dissed. It was his partner. The waitress. Leopold simply delivered the message.”

“Right.”

“Presumably because you would have recognized this person?”

“I’m sure I would have.”

“And that person was with you at the institute?”

“It would be the only reason for the Mallard2000 reference. I don’t believe in coincidences, especially ones that large.”

“Okay. So our shooter was a male. Well, at least the probabilities lie there. Although the barman very crudely called the person an ‘it.’ He seemed to think she was a man dressed up as a woman. Or maybe a transsexual. Given that sort of radical change, you might not recognize the person.”

“Maybe not.”

“And she might have been a man at the institute and is a woman now. Or vice versa.”

“Could be.”

“So you dissed that person while you were at the institute?”

Decker’s phone buzzed. It was Lancaster.

She said, “We found a lot of usable prints and DNA in the restroom at the bar. We did basic eliminations and then ran them through the perp databases. FBI did the same.”