After she received a key, her attention was drawn to an exercise room at the far end of the lobby. Behind a set of glass doors she saw rows of treadmills and elliptical machines, and she walked closer to get a better look. Lund thought, Maybe later, and turned around to find the elevators. She nearly ran into Trey DeBolt.
“Hi, Shannon.”
Lund took an involuntary step back and tried to right her capsized thoughts. “Trey … it’s good to see you.” She looked him up and down, and thought he seemed in decent shape. Far better, at least, than when he’d left Kodiak.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Tired. How are you?”
“Given my circumstances … could be a lot worse.”
“I’m glad you decided to come — but I never called. How did you find me so fast?”
“That,” he said, casting his eyes around the lobby, “is something we should talk about. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
They went for a walk, ending at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Terminal E. DeBolt ordered two large coffees, and Lund noticed that he paid with a fresh hundred-dollar bill. At the cream and sugar stand she took a splash of half-and-half and shunned her usual two packets of sugar. They found a table and settled in while travelers rushed through the corridors behind them.
Sitting across from the not-so-late Trey DeBolt, Lund amended her standing assessment. He seemed in good shape physically, but there was something different about him now. This wasn’t the DeBolt she knew from the Golden Anchor, a carefree young man with an easy manner and an engaging smile. She sensed some great weight on his shoulders now, a burden that subdued his affable nature and made him seem older.
“I need to convince you of something, Shannon, but I can’t just come out and say it. You’d never believe me — nobody in their right mind would. I think a demonstration would be better.”
Lund’s eyes narrowed as if she was expecting some kind of magic trick.
“You came in on Alaska Airlines Flight 435, sat in row fourteen, seat C.”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
“The middle seat was empty, but the guy on the window was named Garland Travis, sixty-one years old. He’s from Texas, recruits people to work on oil rigs up in Alaska.”
She took a deliberate sip of her coffee, enjoying the rich scent as much as the taste, and tried to guess where he was going with this little game. Lund was good at what she did, a professional when it came to managing interviews so that witnesses and suspects ended up in the arenas where she wanted them. She knew how to mete out facts, while retaining enough information to verify responses. It was the game all law enforcement officers played. Yet DeBolt had no such background, and the tenor of his voice, the urgency in his gaze, convinced her that whatever he was up to, it was no attempt to manipulate. She felt more like a priest holding confessional.
She said, “We didn’t talk much. But yes, his name was Garland, and anybody with a name like that has got to be from Texas. He never told me what he did because he slept most of the flight. What are you getting at, Trey?”
“Bear with me. You were born in … no, that’s too easy. You were born at 7:47 in the morning. Your mom’s name was Beth, your dad’s Charles. The name on your birth certificate is Ruth Shannon Lund, but Ruth never stuck, and in 2001 you had the order of the first and middle names legally reversed.”
“Look,” she said, “you’re right, but anybody could find out—”
“Your adjusted gross income last year was $82,612, twelve thousand of that from an annuity. You canceled your Netflix account last week, and your most recent phone bill was $109.63.” Lund went very still. Her phone was on the table, and he picked it up and selected the calculator app, then gave it to her. “Give me a random number, something over a thousand.”
“Trey, this is—”
“Please.”
She sighed with forced patience, or perhaps to hide the trace of unease that was building. “Five thousand six hundred and seven.”
In an instant, he said, “The square root is 74.879903. Check it.”
He repeated his answer and Lund multiplied it out. He was dead-on — six places to the right of the decimal. “So … what are you telling me? That you’re a savant of some kind?”
He chuckled humorlessly, then gave her an appraising look. “When I called you yesterday you were at the Safeway in Kodiak. You didn’t buy anything when you left.”
That did it. Lund felt a chill go down her spine. “What the hell? How could you know that?”
“Look at the street behind me. Pick out a car or a van, any vehicle. Give me a license plate number and the state.”
She almost protested, but the resolute look on DeBolt’s face didn’t allow it. She supposed it was the same expression he wore when he jumped into the Bering Sea to rescue foundering shipwreck victims. Sheer determination. She looked outside and saw a road packed with options. There was no way he could see the cars given how he was positioned.
“Maine plate 4TC788.”
A distinct hesitation, then, “Yellow cab, Dodge minivan.”
“Guess that was too easy.”
“Cab number is AY3R.”
An increasingly unnerved Lund checked the numbers on the roof. AY3R. She didn’t tell him he was right, but the expression on her face must have done it. Her hands were beginning to fidget, and she fought back by stirring her coffee with a plastic stick.
“Here’s an even better one,” he said, “I figured out I could do this while I was waiting for you this morning.” He pointed toward the crowds. “Pick out a person, anybody except a kid.”
“Why?” she said tautly.
“Oh, you’re gonna like this. But you will have to check my work.”
There were more than a hundred people in sight. She pointed out a man standing in a nearby line with a briefcase in his hand. DeBolt seemed to study him for a time, then thirty seconds later, he said, “His name is Roger Pendergast. He works for an accounting firm in Chicago — Smyth, Carling, and Waters. Forty-one years old, wife and two kids. His address is 1789 Townsend Hill Road in Elmhurst.”
Lund stared at him as if he were crazy.
“Go and ask him. Smyth, Carling, and Waters.” There was not a trace of humor in DeBolt’s voice. Only conviction.
She got up tentatively and walked toward the man. Lund was a few steps away when she saw a tag on his roller bag. Roger Pendergast. 1789 Townsend Hill Road. Elmhurst, IL. Her mind began to reel. She turned toward DeBolt, looked at him, and wondered what he saw in her expression. Confusion? Fear? He made a shooing motion for her to carry on.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The man turned.
“I think we might have met. Do you work for an accounting firm?”
A rather plain-looking man, Roger Pendergast beamed. He was clearly not used to being recognized in a crowd. “That’s right — Smyth, Carling in Chicago. And you?”
“Oh … no, I … I’m from up in Alaska.”
He gave her an odd look, and Lund retreated to the table. Not knowing what to say, she sat in silence.
DeBolt said, “Facial recognition, I guess. I’m not sure how it works — but so far it’s been dead-on. I can—”
“Stop it!” she insisted. Lund groped for an argument of some kind. “I don’t know what kind of parlor tricks you’re playing, but I don’t like them.”