Steven James - The Knight

“Tessa, are you ready to go?” he called.

“I’ll be right there!” she shouted through her bedroom door. “Gimme one minute.”

So, ask him about it, or not?

She thought about the picture of the little girl, the items in the box, all the enveloped letters that she still hadn’t read.

He kept this from you. He should have given it to you.

But maybe he just forgot?

Either way she needed to know the truth.

But he’s having a hard day, remember? The breakup? A carnage of hearts? Don’t accuse him of keeping it from you. It wouldn’t be right.

So then, ask him about it, but be tactful.

Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.

When I stepped into the house I heard Tessa yell from her room that she’d be ready in a minute-which probably meant I had at least ten-and that was good because it gave me a chance to get dried off and change clothes.

Partly I wished I were back at the morgue, looking for evidence, but my job wasn’t to process individual crime scenes but rather to help focus the direction of the investigation.

And that was proving harder than I imagined.

In my bedroom, I noticed that one of the packing boxes was open but nothing more had been packed, which irritated me a little since Tessa’d had all morning and she knew we were leaving for DC on Wednesday.

Deal with that later.

I changed clothes, and as I was putting on my SIG’s holster I thought of Grant Sikora and the gun he’d aimed at my head less than twenty-four hours ago. He’d somehow loaded it before it was brought into the courtroom…

Or found someone to load it for him.

I speed-dialed Ralph.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Are you still in Chicago?”

“Yeah. Helping the field office here deal with the shooting, get some tighter security measures in place for next week…” His voice seemed muffled, his words jumbled. It sounded like he had something in his mouth.

“What’s that sound? You’re not eating more of those yogurt raisins, are you?”

A moment of silence. The faint sound of swallowing.

“Nope.”

“Listen, Ralph, about the shooting; that’s one of the reasons I called. You’re thinking the evidence room, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The gun was in a sealed evidence bag when it was brought into the courtroom. All someone would have needed to do was get in the evidence room, load the gun, and then wait for it to be brought into the courtroom. After all, why would anyone check to see if a gun that’s stored in a sealed evidence bag from a case thirteen years ago was loaded?”

“Exactly. Have a talk with Officer Fohay. He was working the security checkpoint at the courthouse yesterday.”

“You got something on him?”

“No. But he had strong views about Basque’s guilt, and he mentioned that he works in the evidence room. He would have had access to the gun. If there’s any kind of personal connection between Sikora and him-”

“Gotcha. Anything else?”

“I’m concerned about Calvin.”

“What? Werjonic?”

“Yes.”

I took a few minutes to summarize the previous night’s conversation with Calvin. When I was done, Ralph asked what I wanted him to do.

“His office is there in Chicago. I’m wondering if you can keep an eye on him. I’m worried that he might make a move on Basque over the weekend.”

“A move? You’re kidding me.”

“No. I’m not.”

A pause. “Basque is secure. After that attempt on his life, they’re not letting anyone near him.”

“Remember who I’m talking about here. Calvin is one of the smartest criminal scientists to ever live. If he wants to get in there-”

“Yeah, all right,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t pay Mr. Basque a visit. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks.” We ended the call, and when I emerged from the bedroom I found Tessa waiting for me in the hallway.

“Ready?” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Let’s go to Fruition.”

Tessa took a seat beside Patrick in a booth at the back of the restaurant.

She’d ordered a California alfalfa salad and Patrick had gotten a falafel burger, probably because it reminded him of meat more than anything else on the menu.

She ate her salad for a few minutes while he smothered his falafel patty with ketchup. In between bites he told her he’d managed to arrive in time to save a woman’s life earlier in the morning.

“Are you serious? What happened? Wait. Let me guess; you can’t tell me.”

“No, not all the details. But I can tell you it felt good to get there in time for once. It felt… right.”

She watched him eat for a few minutes, and she realized she was proud of him, of what he did for a living, that he made a difference.

“Well, that’s cool,” she said. It was a little lame, but it looked like he could tell she meant it. Finally, when the time felt right, she asked him about the box. “Hey, um, while I was packing, I was wondering if there’s, like, any of my mom’s stuff still around?” She downed some of her root beer. “You know, that you haven’t already given to me?”

Patrick was eating his falafel burger way too fast to really enjoy it. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

He swallowed, wiped a napkin across his chin. “Pretty sure.”

“Huh, well, that’s weird then, ’cause I found the shoe box.”

“The shoe box?”

“Yeah.”

“What shoe box?”

“The one with my mom’s stuff in it, and I want to know why you never gave it to me.”

I stopped eating.

“Well?” she said.

“I forgot I even had that.”

“How could you forget? It’s her special stuff!” The whole atmosphere of the meal had shifted almost instantaneously, and I needed a few seconds to regain my footing.

I tried to explain that when we moved to Denver I’d just stuck the box in the closet and piled some camping equipment in front of it; tried to help her understand that it had been a hard time for me and I hadn’t thought any more about it, but she didn’t seem to buy it.

When I’d finished, she held up a key. “I found this too. What does it open?”

I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure I knew which key that was.

I went for my Coke and used the time it took me to drink it to stall and collect my thoughts.

“Well?” Tessa demanded. “I’m waiting.”

You don’t have to tell her about it. You could say it was lost or damaged or destroyed. You don’t have to let her read it.

I set down my drink. “I’m not positive, but I think that’s probably the key to your mom’s diary.” Rather than elaborate, I waited for her to respond. I finished my falafel burger. It tasted like toasted sand. Even the ketchup didn’t help.

“Her diary?”

I nodded. “She gave it to me before she died, but she told me-” “Mom kept a diary?”

“Yes, before I met her. I think when she was in college. And she said I wasn’t supposed to give it to you until-”

“Well, where is it? I want to read it.”

“Tessa, stop cutting me off. Your mom told me not to give it to you until you turned eighteen.”

A short, awkward silence. “Why?”

“I don’t know. The point is, if I gave it to you now I’d be breaking the promise that I-”

My ringing cell phone interrupted me mid-sentence. I looked at the screen. Kurt. “Just a second,” I told her.

She set the key in front of her and drummed her fingers on the table while I answered my cell. “What’s up?”

“We might have something. Someone sent flowers to a reporter at the Denver News. He left a note: ‘Must needs we tell of others’ tears?’”

I was missing something here. “And?”