David Baldacci - Memory Man

As he thought about this another possibility entered his mind.

He said out loud, “7-Eleven.”

That had undoubtedly been a clue. In her interview notes, Lancaster had instinctively interpreted it as a reference to the ubiquitous convenience stores. But was there more to it than that? Leopold had not wanted to come right out and say he was actually referring to 711 Duckton Avenue. But he had to know that Lancaster had misinterpreted his statement. She had actually asked him which 7-Eleven, and when Leopold had been noncommittal she had just assumed it was the one closest to Decker’s home. But Leopold had let that go. He would know that the police, that Decker more importantly, would check that out. That he would go to that store on DeSalle and see what he could see. And that meant—

He might be wrong. But he didn’t think so. In fact, Decker thought he was absolutely right.

He left his room and headed back out into the night.

He spent ten minutes watching the store from across the street. He saw people go in and people go out. Cars came and went. And still he kept watching. He was watching to see if anyone was watching him. When Decker was satisfied that there was no one doing so, he hurried across the street and approached the door. He glanced through the glass and saw the same woman at the counter, once more counting packs of cigarettes and ticking them off on her sheets. He could see no other customers in the store.

He opened the door and the bell tinkled. The woman looked up. It took her a moment but she recognized Decker.

Because of his size and appearance he was hard to forget and harder to miss.

“You’re back?” she said.

“I’m back,” said Decker, his gaze darting around the corners of the store. His hand had slipped to his pocket where his gun sat.

She said, “I owe you change from when you were here last. The coffee, pastry, and paper didn’t add up to five dollars.”

“Keep the change. You work long hours. Morning, night.”

“I do work long hours, but I’m also on different shifts. Today I work the night shift.”

“How’s business?”

“Slow now. We sell a lot in the morning when people are going to work. Coffee, cigarettes, and sausage biscuits. And Red Bull by the gallon.”

“The other person here when I came by the first time. Billy, right? Is he here?”

She shook her head. “No, he’s not here.”

“He doesn’t work here anymore, does he?” Decker said.

She looked startled. “How did you know that?”

“When was he here last?”

“The day you came in the first time. I was pissed when he didn’t show up for work after that. I had to do his job too.”

“Do you have his employment file here?”

“Yes. In the back.”

“Can I see it?”

“No. Company policy.”

“Can you tell me his last name?”

“Why?”

“He might be the one I was looking for.”

“I don’t see how.”

Decker held up his phone. “I can have the FBI here in five minutes. And they’ll take every file in this place.” He eyed the woman steadily. “Are you an American citizen?”

She blanched. “No. But I have papers.”

“I’m sure they’re in perfect order. At least I hope they are. The FBI will check, of course. They check everything. Twice.”

The woman slowly put a pack of cigarettes in the appropriate slot and made a check on her inventory sheet. He could tell she was stalling as she thought about how to respond to this.

“I might... I mean, my work visa might be a little overdue .”

“That’s unfortunate. With the government in gridlock over immigration reform, it’s a touchy subject. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“And if I let you see Billy’s file?”

Decker put his phone away. “That might change things.”

The woman went into the back office and came out a minute later with a file. “You can have this. I made a copy.”

Decker went to the door, locked it, and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

“What are you doing?” the woman cried out.

Decker pulled out his phone again. “The FBI will be here in a few minutes. I’m afraid this store will be closed for quite a while.”

“But I gave you the file.”

“And I thank you for that. But one has nothing to do with the other.”

“But what will the FBI do here?”

“They’ll be looking for any trace of Billy. And don’t worry. They won’t care about your immigration status.”

“But why is Billy so important? He just mops floors.”

“He’s important principally because he’s not Billy. His name is Belinda.”

Hours later Bogart walked out of the 7-Eleven and over to Decker, who was standing in the parking lot sipping 7-Eleven coffee while the snow slowly swirled around him.

Bogart said, “We got one usable print, seven points on a mop bucket in the storage room. We ran it but got no hits back yet. It may be Wyatt’s or whoever else handled that bucket. And she might not be on any database. Or I guess she’s a he now. This Billy guy.”

“But she was gang-raped in Utah, according to Dr. Marshall. They must have a police file on her.”

“You would think. But we checked with the police department where she grew up. They have no record of any rape of Belinda Wyatt.”

Decker looked stunned. “But that can’t be. She was raped and beaten and left for dead. It changed her brain. It’s why she was sent to the institute. You heard Dr. Marshall. And he said he’d talked to the doctor from Utah. She had been raped and beaten and left for dead.”

“Well, maybe she was. But maybe she didn’t file a police report, Decker. That’s a possibility.”

“But why wouldn’t she?”

“Consider her personal situation. It being a small town where everybody knows everybody else’s business? She might have made the decision not to report.”

“Or her parents made that decision for her,” retorted Decker.

“That’s actually far more likely,” conceded the FBI agent.

Decker finished his coffee and threw the cup into a trash can. “Belinda was very tall for a woman, about five-eleven, and skinny. Billy was that height and lean too, but he was wiry. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.”

“And definitely a guy?”

“I think so, but he looked androgynous too. Belinda looked the same at the institute. I’ve already given your sketch artist a description. They’re working on a finished drawing now.”

“We can get that all over the place once it’s done.”

“I would just get it out to law enforcement for now. Don’t go public. They may go underground if they discover we’ve gotten that far.”

Bogart didn’t look convinced but said, “Okay, we’ll play it that way. For now.” He put his hands in his pockets and studied the pavement. “We heard back from the pool service company the Wyatts used in Colorado. They came and winterized the pool two months ago, but didn’t see anyone. Their fees are on an automatic pay system. In fact, all their bills were on autopay. They didn’t have to interact with anyone. Dead end. No pun intended.”

“And Leopold?”

Bogart let out an extended breath. “Leopold, yes. I was getting to him. We finally got a hit.”

“His real name?”

“Surprisingly enough, Sebastian Leopold. You were right. He’s Austrian.”

“And his story?”

“Still coming in. But the gist is his wife and daughter were murdered and the killer was never brought to justice.”

“When did he come over here?”

“Hard to pin that down. The murder was eight years ago. So anytime after that, I guess. I doubt he’s here legally. But then again, I don’t think we’re as picky with Europeans as we are with other folks.”