“What happened here?” Renard demanded.
Captain Renard showed up at LC Leasing, Inc. after the crime scene techs had taken their measurements and photographs, while someone from the coroner’s office removed Lamar Crawford’s body. One of the computer forensic techs had bagged Crawford’s computer tower for examination and data retrieval, while another checked the computers in each office—after Nancy provided employee login and password information—to determine if they needed to confiscate more than just Crawford’s PC.
Sergeant Wu glanced at the blood-splattered windows and blinds and shook his head.
“Not often a suspect eats a gun right in front of you,” he said.
Nick had already provided Renard with the sequence of events leading to Crawford’s suicide, so he assumed the captain was after some context and speculation at this point.
“Crawford is connected to the bare bones murders somehow,” he began. “His direct actions triggered the disappearance of a delivery truck driver right before missing persons cases in this area spiked. Plus, I found another copy of this flyer”—he indicated the bagged flyer on Crawford’s desk, which Nick had already photographed with his cell phone—“at the vacant lot where the first murder victims were found.”
“Crawford got them started,” Hank said. “They promised him a miracle cure for his illness in exchange for his help and silence.”
“And he believed it?” Renard asked.
“He was convinced.” Nick glanced at Wu, who was unaware of the Wesen aspect of many of their cases. “He was desperate, his illness was fatal, so he wanted to believe in a miracle cure. They took advantage of that.”
“And yet he killed himself anyway,” Renard said.
“No miracle cure for a bullet through the brain,” Wu commented.
“We got the impression he killed himself to protect his family,” Nick said. “If we took him into custody, they would be targets to ensure his silence.”
“Or killed if he talked,” Hank added.
“Let’s hope forensics can pull something useful off his computer,” Renard said.
“We want to talk to the wife,” Hank said. “See how much she knew about the restaurant and the hijacked shipment.”
“Get to her before the press,” Renard said. “She needs to be notified of his death.”
“I want to see where this flyer leads,” Nick said. “Crawford said he picked it up at the library, but that’s a different address.”
“You believe it’s a message?” Renard asked. “Some kind of code?”
Nick displayed the photo of the flyer on his cell phone and showed it to Renard.
“Anything seem familiar about it?” he asked pointedly.
Renard understood: Did the symbols ring any Wesen bells with him? He peered carefully at the photo, then met Nick’s gaze.
“Nothing I’ve seen before,” he said.
Hank agreed to talk to the widow, while Nick followed the trail of the flyers, which might require running around to multiple locations, starting with the library flyer table to confirm Crawford’s story.
Nick pulled Wu aside and asked him to take the receptionist in for questioning, after getting a copy of any restaurant-related purchase orders. Depending on the nature of her relationship with Crawford, she might have valuable information about the restaurant cover. In addition, Nick wanted her out of circulation while Hank visited the widow and son. If Nancy talked to the press or called the family, the police would lose control of the information and Crawford’s co-conspirators might have time to erase evidence to cover their tracks or interfere with the investigation.
Nick dropped Hank off at the precinct so he could take his own car to Crawford’s residence, then he returned to the business district and located the closest library to LC Leasing, Inc. He parked out front, walked through the library’s lobby and found the community table with small business tri-fold brochures, computer printed and photocopied flyers, and at least two-dozen business cards. After less than a minute scanning the table, Nick found a small stack of flyers—seven, by his quick count—that matched the one he’d found crumpled in a ball on Crawford’s office floor.
He took one of the flyers to the front desk and asked the librarian on duty if anyone could leave flyers on the table or if they had a submission and approval process with written records of who left what.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” the rail-thin woman said. “We have no records for that sort of thing. Anyone can leave a flyer or a business card there as long as the content is not obscene. We don’t even check if they’re members of the library.”
He placed the flyer on the counter, face up, and asked, “Do you recognize this one?”
She glanced down and nodded. “I’ve seen it before, in passing.”
“Do you know who left it? Or what it means?”
She frowned, staring at the paper, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, she shook her head.
“I don’t know who left it, or what it means. Maybe it’s some kind of math club.”
“How long do items usually stay on the table?”
She shrugged. “Until they’re gone,” she said. “Every couple weeks, if the table gets too cluttered, we’ll get rid of some stuff, sometimes sweep it clean.”
“When was the last time that happened?”
She glanced over at the table, estimating the amount of accumulated clutter, he imagined.
“At least a week. Maybe two. No more than that.”
Nick glanced around the upper walls of the library, but saw no cameras mounted anywhere.
“Don’t suppose you have any security footage?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Nick returned to his Land Cruiser. The library was a dead end, but he had another obvious lead: the address on the flyer itself. He recognized the street name. The destination was several miles from the library and, with luck, might provide some answers.
* * *
Monroe had prepared his dining room for meditation. He had moved the table and chairs aside, put down the two foam mats he’d taken to the Pilates class, dimmed the lights, prepared a candle for their focus, and turned his stereo on, playing a CD of soothing electronic music without the hint of a beat and set it on repeat. Get Decker in the right frame of mind from the start, Monroe thought, and maybe this will work.
His own anxiety stayed manageable because, as he kept reminding himself, the meditation session had no downside. Either it worked and Decker found the key to his own reformed path, or it failed as miserably as the Pilates and t’ai chi classes. Either way, Monroe was off the hook. He would have legitimately tried to help Decker—three times—with nothing to show for his efforts.
Decker himself seemed tired of the effort involved in reforming—and he hadn’t taken more than a single step. The drive to change was the key to success or failure. Without Decker’s willingness to work for the change, nothing would change. They could part as old friends, part of a shared past. Monroe wouldn’t look back fondly on those memories, but he had enjoyed himself at the time… for a time. Everything in context. He was a changed Blutbad now. Decker had, until now, remained constant, and might continue unmoved by anything Monroe had to offer. And Monroe could accept that now. If this last attempt failed, it was just that, a last attempt.
Everything ready, he checked the time and heard the rumble of a car engine, followed by the sudden stillness as the engine cut off, then the thunk of a car door slamming.
“At least he’s on time,” Monroe said to himself. “Good start. Now the fun begins. Or the not-fun.”
Monroe met Decker at the front door, momentarily seeing the other man’s image distorted through the stained glass window as he navigated the front walk. When Decker raised a fist to rap on the glass, Monroe pulled the door open and said, “Good to see you again.”
Decker’s left hand clasped Monroe’s shoulder in a powerful grip while offering his right hand to shake, and subsequently applied enough pressure for the gesture to serve as a show of dominance in addition to a greeting. Monroe refused to play the game, matching pressure for pressure, without attempting to win the exchange. Decker’s attention had already moved on.
“Once more into the breach, brother!”
“Unto,” Monroe said quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Monroe said, shaking his head. “Come in. I’ve prepared everything so we can get started.”
“Just the two of us this time.”
“As promised,” Monroe said. “No instructor or classmates. No judgments.”
Decker cocked his head. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise—oh, the music,” Monroe said. “I chose something conducive to meditating.”
“Got any Skynyrd?”
“I don’t know. Probably, but—”
“Allman Brothers? Hell, Creedence?”
“Trust me,” Monroe said. “For meditation, you want this kind of music. Or silence, really. But as a beginner, I thought you might need some aids. Just to get started.”
“By meditating, I pictured us sitting on a deck, drinking some brews, blasting some old school tunes, talking about the good old days.”
“Actually, meditation is kind of the opposite of everything you just said,” Monroe replied. “Except for the sitting part. That’s in there.”
“You’re the pro, bro,” Decker said, performing a slight bow and a sweep of his arm. “Lead the way, Maharishi.”
“I’m no expert at this,” Monroe admitted as he led Decker to the cleared dining room. “I’ve studied a few techniques. Enough for you to try and see if it works for you.”
Though the admission was true, Monroe also thought Decker might have been intimidated by expert instructors, even if the classes they attended had been for beginners. Along with dominance displays, Decker wouldn’t want to feel inferior in any public activity. And lack of knowledge or skill would definitely give him an inferiority complex. Monroe wanted his own attitude about the meditation session to be one of discovery as well.
“I’ve silenced the house phone and my cell,” Monroe said. “It’s best not to anticipate possible interruptions. So turn off or silence your cell phone and I’ll put it on the table over here with mine.”
Decker frowned. “What if I miss a call?”
“Voicemail,” Monroe said. “Whatever it is, it can wait thirty minutes, right?”
“Probably,” Decker said, pulling out a scuffed-up cell phone and powering it down. “Done!”
“Great,” Monroe said. “Take off your boots. Pick a mat, sit down and get comfortable. Give me a minute and we can get started.”
While Decker positioned himself on the left mat, Monroe lit the candle he’d placed on a wall shelf in their line of sight. The lights in the room were already dim, and the electronic music played softly in the background, functioning almost as white noise. Everything ready, Monroe kicked off his loafers and sat cross-legged on the mat next to Decker.
“Cross your legs, hands clasped in your lap, spine straight,” Monroe instructed, his voice coming out hushed, adapting unconsciously to the environment he’d prepared in the room. He glanced over at Decker, who had mirrored Monroe’s posture, but not without some low grumbling. “Good,” Monroe said once the other man was ready.
“What now?”
“Look at the candle flame,” Monroe said. “Focus on that and be still.”
“Locked and loaded,” Decker said. “What now?”
“Stay quiet and calm,” Monroe said in a soothing tone. “Quiet… now take deep, measured breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth… Think only of your breathing. Feel your body expand as you inhale, contract as you exhale.”
Decker stayed quiet, which felt like progress.
“Feel the stillness of your body in between breaths.”
Decker’s breathing fell in rhythm with Monroe’s.
“Focus on your breathing now,” Monroe said. “Think of nothing else. Only your breathing. Breathe in… and breathe out.”
Monroe felt the calming effects of meditation descend over him and spoke less and less, focusing on his own breath, breathing in and out, staying in time with Decker’s—
—snoring!
“Dude! You fell asleep?”
Uncrossing his legs, Monroe reached over and shook Decker’s shoulder. Sometime during the breathing exercise, Decker had slumped out of his straight posture position, his head lolling to the side, a thin line of drool dangling from his grizzled chin.
“Hey! Why’d you wake me?” Decker said, shaking off his lethargy. “That was totally relaxing. I can see why you do this.”
“That’s not why you—”
“I’ve never fallen asleep so fast in my life.”
“Decker, you aren’t supposed to sleep through meditation,” Monroe said. “You’re supposed to clear your mind, let go of stress and anxiety…”
“Too short for a power nap,” Decker continued, heedless of Monroe’s corrections. “But that’s on you, brother. Woke me too soon.”
“I give up,” Monroe said, shaking his head.
“Hey, it was relaxing,” Decker said. “That’s a good thing, right, man? But, you know, some Skynyrd would have kept me stoked.”
“I should have known,” Monroe said in resignation. “Of course you would fall asleep during meditation.”
“Listen, this is on me, Monroe. I’ve been keeping late nights, not catching much uninterrupted sleep. It’s an exhausting lifestyle, am I right? This—this naptime thing—was bound to happen. Don’t blame yourself, man.”
“I don’t,” Monroe said. Only thing I blame myself for is believing any of this had a chance at success, he thought bitterly. “An exhausting lifestyle.” That’s his biggest problem. He doesn’t want to give up that lifestyle. Doesn’t want to change. “Why, Decker?”
“Why’d I fall asleep? Already explained—”
“Why do you bother? To try this. Or Pilates. Or t’ai chi.”
“I wanted to spend some time with an old buddy,” Decker said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” Monroe said. “This is all too much effort for—for catching up with an old friend.”
“I wanted to try it on for size, brother,” Decker said. “To see what makes the watchmaker tick—now. I knew, before, back when we ran together. But now? Pure, unadulterated mystery.”
“So you were… curious?”
“Yep,” Decker said. “And… I wanted to wrap my head around it. See if I could do what you do. Thought it would be challenging but, man, I had no friggin’ idea. Like crawling over broken glass to cross the road. But this time, with the meditating, I glimpsed it, you know. For a couple minutes, at least, I felt at peace. Then it was gone.”
“When you fell asleep.”
“Exactly,” Decker said. He held up a thumb and index finger, an inch apart. “But I made some progress, right? On the road to enlightenment.”
“I suppose every long journey begins with thinking you’re about to begin a long journey,” Monroe said. “I have an idea. So far, it’s been all about the stick. We should try the carrot first. A meal.”
“I hate carrots,” Decker said. “That’s the stuff I feed the stuff I eat.”
“I bought a pair of steaks for us earlier today,” Monroe said. “Terrific veggie steaks.”
“Those three words should never be so close together.”
“You’re gonna love these,” Monroe said. “Trust me. Maybe we’ll try round two of meditation after we’ve had something to eat.”
“Yeah, something,” Decker grumbled. “Say, purely as a backup plan, you got any delivery menus?”
* * *
Nick located the address listed at the bottom of the circle-with-triangles flyer. He had to double-check the number because the street address was not prominently displayed outside the Homestead Food Co-op market. With a quarter-folded copy of the flyer in his hand, he wandered through the market, looking for anything unusual, anything that raised a red flag. Not that he expected to find human body parts scattered in the produce section of the store, but if cannibals were involved, a food connection seemed plausible.
He asked the store manager—a tall woman with gray hair tied in a ponytail, wearing a blue cap with the store name embroidered across it—if the flyer with the store’s address meant anything to her. She nodded.
“I’ve seen it before.”
Without another word, she strode down the aisle away from her office, so Nick followed her. For a minute, he thought she was escorting him out of the store, but she stopped near the entrance and turned to face a cluttered corkboard hanging against a glass partition. She reached forward and pushed aside a flyer with tear-off tabs listing a car for sale and another one announcing the formation of a bowling league. Underneath those two, Nick saw several identical circle-and-triangles flyers held to the board with pushpins.
“Right there,” the manager said. “Saw it before these others covered it.”
Nick removed one of the flyers and stared at it. Identical.
No—not identical! The address written below the circle and triangles was different from the address on the flyer he’d brought with him—and the address on the new flyer was not the library’s address.
“Do you know who posted these?” he asked.
“Not a clue, Detective,” she said, then chuckled. “Sorry. No pun intended. People come in, tack the stuff up, and leave.”
“When did you first notice this on the board?”
She exhaled forcefully. “Maybe… a week ago? No longer. I only noticed because of the parchment paper. Everything else is either plain white paper or neon colors.”
Nothing helpful, but he had another address to check.
As he climbed back into his Land Cruiser, he wondered if he’d fallen victim to a prank, someone’s idea of a wild goose chase or a snipe hunt. Possibly, but he had to play along for now.
Before driving to the new address, Nick texted Monroe the photo he’d taken of the Crawford flyer. Though Captain Renard was unfamiliar with the geometric image, Monroe might have seen it before. If not, he might have some old books or records that explained it.
If the addresses led nowhere, Nick planned to check Aunt Marie’s trailer. Though most of her journals dealt with the nature of the various types of Wesen, she might have information about the design and its significance, especially if it had been distributed before, which seemed likely. He recalled Crawford’s words: “I participated last time, in Rio. So long ago.”
So far, he had nothing to show for his efforts. He hoped Hank had had better luck with Crawford’s widow.