In the parking lot, I stumbled for the Ghost, rolled down both windows, and closed my eyes. Within seconds, I was gone, gone, gone, dreaming of DeMott and my mother and the SAC who somehow melded with Dr. Freud and told me I had many problems. I woke up with a gasp. But even after realizing it was only a dream, another bolt of panic hit me. My firearm. If that didn’t get back to the Bureau, the suits would come after me.
I turned the key and roared toward Black Diamond Road.
Walter Wertzer was standing alone in the fire station’s lunch room, waiting by the microwave and blowing his nose. When he turned toward me, I couldn’t tell if he had allergies or a cold, but the red bulbous nose combined with the sprouting gray hair and broomy gray mustache made him look like an ash heap with one coal burning in the middle.
I said, “My name is not Raleigh David.”
The microwave dinged, as if awarding points for the correct answer. Wertzer tore open the door, sloshing the contents of a bowl. I smelled salt and gummy starch, that heavy scent of my grade-school cafeteria. Chicken noodle soup. He carried the bowl to a small table. I followed him. But I didn’t sit down.
“I was working undercover for the FBI,” I said. “Now I’m not.”
“You were playing games with me the whole time?”
“I was doing my job. I regret that it meant lying to you.”
He threw a plastic spoon into the soup. It floated, which seemed to make him even madder. “Do you have any idea how much money I spent on that polygraph? It might surprise you, Miss David, but I’ve got a budget.”
“Harmon.”
“What?”
“My name is Raleigh Harmon.” I opened my purse and tore a page from my notebook. I wrote down the ten digits. “Call this number. Ask for Allen McLeod. Head of the Violent Crimes unit. You can send him the gun. It doesn’t belong to me. Not anymore.”
I offered him the note. He picked up the spoon instead, chuckling coldly.
“Nice try. You’re a liar. Whoever you are.”
“You’re right. I’m a liar.”
The spoon stopped in midair. His mouth waited. But his bloodshot eyes had the narrow focus of the physically ill, when even the simplest functions required too much concentration. One eye was watering. He closed it, then slurped the noodles off the spoon.
“I have another confession,” I said. “I manipulated that lie detector test.”
The spoon hesitated again.
“I ate a lot of salt. Enough sodium to juice my blood pressure. I made sure my heart pounded on the supposedly factual questions. And I knew what Deception Indicated meant.”
I had his full attention now.
“It’s not an excuse, but I was trying to protect my undercover identity. I wanted to keep my job, and I didn’t know what you planned to do with the information. But I didn’t set that fire. And if you want to re-administer the test, I’ll take it.”
“You already wrecked my budget.”
“Ask me. Now. Anything. I promise to answer truthfully.”
He picked up the pepper, shaking it over the greasy surface. I waited, figuring he was trying to load his best shot. A question that would surprise me, catch me off guard.
“What about the smoke detectors?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“I knew you couldn’t answer straight.”
“What smoke detectors?”
He tried to chuckle and ended up coughing. It was a cold, I decided. Not allergies. A summer cold. The kind that ignited the worst self-pity. Winter’s misery always had company, but summer colds were singular sufferings in a world that was sunny and warm and completely unfair. He pressed a finger against the bushy mustache. With a hernia, every sneeze probably felt like a knife.
I tried again. “What smoke detectors?”
He started eating. His bitterness filled the air, heavy as the salty broth. But it didn’t work on me. Not now. Not after what I’d just been through. With Ortiz. With the FBI. Jack. Felicia. Claire. I stared at him until every noodle was gone. And when he finally looked at me, his bloodshot eyes seemed annoyed. And just a little bit sad.
“You really don’t know,” he said, “do you?”