S. Harper: Cursed

“Looks can be deceiving. Sometimes you think you know a person, and then you realize you don’t really know him at all.”

He nods. “I suppose that’s true.” There’s a hint of sadness in his tone. Zack’s shoulders tense—a reaction so brief I doubt he’s even aware he reacted at all. “Everyone has secrets.”

He makes his way toward the exit and I wonder again what really brought him to San Diego. I wonder why he left his pack behind in South Carolina. I wonder if he’s joined one here. Mostly I wonder if he’s been wondering about me.

We walk through the foyer of the FBI building into the light of day. I pause, close my eyes, and tilt my face up toward the sun. How many more days will pass? How many more women will I have to save? I silently recite the same words I do every time I go out on a new case. Redemption could be one rescue away.

“You coming, partner?”

Zack has passed me and is waiting next to one of the Bureau’s many black Chevy Suburbans parked near the entrance.

Before I can answer, a silver BMW convertible pulls into the lot. It whizzes by, making a sharp right turn and pulling up to the row of SUVs directly in front of Zack. The car’s curves are sleek, its paint job gleaming. A woman steps out of the driver’s side. Zack’s eyes are glued to her. I can’t blame him. Her long legs emerge first, toned and sporting a pair of expensive red heels that boldly accentuate her black-and-white dress. As she approaches Zack, she removes her dark designer sunglasses and the silk scarf covering her head. She’s pretty, even-featured. Her makeup is meticulous. Long blond hair spills out and hangs loose in waves that brush her shoulders.

The tension in Zack’s body tells me the woman is more than a stranger stopping to ask for directions. He knows who she is and he’s not happy to see her. His shoulders bunch, his mouth turns down. I can’t quite make out what she says to him as she approaches, but his response is clear. He shakes his head and motions her away. The gesture is understated, discreet, but it carries with it a sense of finality. He looks past the woman, at me.

Her head turns, following his line of sight. Her eyes connect with mine briefly before she dons the glasses once again. The fraction of a second is all she needs to convey a warning. All I need to determine that she, too, is Were. One intent on marking her territory? I resist the urge to let my hand slide to my hip, where my gun rests securely in its holster. I choose instead to annoy her further by smiling and waving.

“You waiting for an invitation, Monroe?” Zack calls out before climbing into the Suburban and closing the door, effectively dismissing Miss Fancy Pants.

As I approach she turns on her heel. A confident toss of her head in Zack’s direction says she’s gotten her message across. Now that she’s seen me, now that she’s convinced I’m not a threat, she doesn’t bother to spare me a second glance. By the time I reach the Suburban, she’s returned to her car, climbed inside, and fired up the engine. With a squeal of tires, she’s gone.

But not before I notice the license plate. South Carolina. It’s reflex to store the number away in the back of my mind.

I open the car door. “I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.”

Zack is waiting behind the wheel, hands at the ten and two o’clock position, knuckles white. He avoids looking me in the eye. “She doesn’t like the fact that we slept together.”

He says it casually.

“You told her we slept together?” I ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

His gaze meets me head-on. “Would you have preferred I lied?”

“She your girlfriend?”

He throws the car into reverse and steps on the gas. “Ex.”

I wonder if the status came before the revelation and how long they were together. I’m guessing a few months, a year at most. The breakup seems fresh. In the month we worked together, he never mentioned being involved with anyone. There were no calls to apologize for having to work late and no women showing up at the office. But I did come to know Zack’s moods well enough to interpret this one. With one single syllable, he’s effectively closing the door on that subject.

It’s okay.

Zack can have his secrets.

I certainly have mine.

Zack wasn’t bluffing. He gets us from our office in Kearney Mesa to the Haskell Gallery on Prospect Street in La Jolla without a single hesitation or wrong turn. We’ve managed to miss the early-morning rush hours on both Highways 15 and 52, so it only takes about twenty minutes.

La Jolla is an enclave of the rich and famous. Prospect Street is aptly named. It’s the mother lode. A street lined with boutiques, a luxury hotel, fancy restaurants, and galleries of all sorts, the connecting artery to the center of town. Zack scores a spot right in front of the gallery.

He’s been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride over. I don’t recall Zack being one to hold back. I suppose he’s still thinking about the unexpected visit from his ex. I am, too. What’s she doing here? It’s not exactly an afternoon’s joy ride from South Carolina. Or he might be bracing himself for lunch and what he anticipates is going to be a major confrontation.

We sit for a minute, facing the gallery. It’s located in the middle of a block built of gray cut stone, arched entryways separating one business from the next. We could be in the center of a European village, the intent of the architects who planned La Jolla’s exclusive shopping areas. The gallery is not the largest storefront. In fact, some of the businesses on either side are bigger. There’s a simple banner reading HASKELL GALLERY above the door, and adding to the old-world charm, flower-filled clay pots sit on either side of the entrance.

“Ready?” Zack says.

He has a notebook and pen in his hand.

I nod and push open the car door.

We enter into an airy open space broken only by partitions displaying what I presume are Amy’s works. The walls are painted dove gray, the floor is an oak hardwood, and the partitions are stark white—colors picked to emphasize the brilliant hues in Amy’s paintings. They shine like jewels under the subtle lighting.

“Abstract Expressionist.” It’s more of a statement than a question as Zack steps to take a closer look at one of the canvases. It’s about three feet by six feet and ablaze with the golds and crimsons of a fiery sunset, all intertwined until the canvas looks more like a piece of woven cloth than a painting. “Reminiscent of Jackson Pollock, only more controlled, purposeful, less chaotic, more deliberate. I like it.”

Before I can react with surprise to Zack’s adept appraisal, a voice calls out, “Very good.”

The reply comes from just behind the partition we’ve paused in front of. A woman steps out. “Amy’s most definitely influenced by Pollock’s techniques. Incorporating her own individual style, of course. She’s studied many of the Impressionists. Notice the short, intense brushstrokes.” She holds out a hand. “I’m Bernadette Haskell.”

Zack grasps it. “Agent Armstrong. This is Agent Monroe.”

Haskell gives us both the once-over. “I’m glad to see the DA has taken me seriously.”

It’s not hard to understand why he might. Haskell’s presence screams no-nonsense career woman . I’d guess her to be in her early fifties, dressed in an expensive tailored suit made of black lightweight wool. Under the jacket is an open-necked shirt of white poplin. The cuffs of the shirt are adorned with black onyx cuff links, matching her earrings. Black suede loafers and frameless glasses complete the ensemble. Her hair is silver, feathered at the sides to accentuate piercing blue eyes.