She zoomed out until the town of Dripping Springs appeared to the west.
The Flying V Ranch was where Joe had been killed.
Next Mary typed “Nutty Brown Cafe” into the query window. The café had its own website and advertised itself as a restaurant and outdoor music venue. Pictures showed a long, low-slung building set back off the highway, a white awning running its length bearing the café’s name. A twenty-foot-tall neon cowboy slinging a lasso welcomed visitors. She plugged in the address and a map appeared showing the café to be located on Highway 290, fifteen miles east of Dripping Springs.
“FK. Nutty Brown Cafe. 1PM.”
She assumed that Joe had met someone at the café at one p.m. yesterday. Was that someone “FK”?
She dredged through the names of Joe’s colleagues, looking for one that started with an F. She didn’t remember any, offhand. She asked ONELook to search “Boys’ names beginning with F.” A long list appeared, but she didn’t remember any Farleys, Franks, or Fredericks.
Or was “FK” the informant’s initials? Mary didn’t think so. It didn’t make sense to meet an informant in a public place, then drive out to a secluded ranch to meet him again a few hours later.
She returned to the phone number written at the top of the page. She picked up her phone and dialed. Four rings and then: “Angelo Caruso speaking.”
“Hello, Mr. Caruso?”
“State your business.” A crusty voice. Older. Tobacco-cured.
“I’m Mary Grant.”
“Do I know you?”
“My husband was Joe Grant.”
“Who’s that?”
“Special Agent Joseph Grant of the FBI. He was killed yesterday.”
A pause as Caruso cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. But I don’t think I can be of help.”
“I saw your name and number on his pad and-”
“Then you know that I am a superior court judge for the state of Texas, Travis County. Any business I had with your husband must and shall remain confidential. May I ask why you are calling?”
“I had some questions about his work. I saw your name on his legal pad. I thought that maybe-”
“Your husband was a federal agent, Mrs. Grant. As such, his business did not concern his family. I suggest you halt your inquiries. Good day. And again, I am sorry for your loss.”
Caruso hung up.
Mary lowered the phone, stunned by the man’s bluntness. He might as well have slapped her across the face. Who was he to say that Joe’s business did not concern her or that she should halt her inquiries? “And F you too, Judge Asshole,” she said aloud.
It was at that moment that Mary Margaret Olmstead Grant formally assumed the role of her husband’s advocate, protector, and voice in this world.
I will find out what happened to you, Joe, she promised his spirit, though she had no idea what in the world she might be getting herself into. At that moment she didn’t care. Something was being kept from her. She wanted to know what.
Mary studied the wrinkled paper, her eyes fixing on the doodles scrawled across its lower half. They were pairings of triangles colored solid blue with little sticks extending from one side. No, not that. She had it wrong. Twin sticks connected at one end like the hands on a wristwatch, each leading to a blue triangle. The triangles were positioned differently. The first at twelve and three. The second at four and eleven. The rest at odd variations thereof. Phone doodles made while Joe carried on a conversation.
Mary folded the paper in half and stood. The thought came to her that Don Bennett wasn’t the only one hiding something.
And then she remembered that she still hadn’t examined one thing. Something that had come home from the hospital along with Joe’s shoes, belt, wristwatch, Marine Corps tie clasp, and the beloved Saint Christopher medal he’d worn around his neck since the age of thirteen.
She ran upstairs.
22
Joe’s belongings sat on her dresser where she’d left them the night before. A drawstring bag held his shoes and belt. A smaller zip-lock bag held his wristwatch, tie clasp, and Saint Christopher medal. Mary selected the remaining zip-lock bag, which contained his wallet. It was a standard leather billfold, scuffed and worn. A Christmas present from the girls to their dad three years before, to replace the horrid Velcro one he’d used for years. She removed it and looked inside. As usual, she was amused at how few credit cards Joe carried. There was a government-issued Visa for his work expenses and an American Express card for personal use.
Joe believed in paying off all his debts each month. It was a nice concept, but quaintly outdated in the era of a laptop for every student and prescription medications that cost $600 a month. Consequently Mary was in charge of family finances and merited an honorary degree in juggling balances between her four MasterCards and her bank custom credit line.
She slipped her fingers into the pouches beneath the cardholders. One side yielded several school portraits of the girls, an organ donor’s card, and a business card for a roofer who’d visited the house a week ago to check on a leak Joe couldn’t patch. At the bottom of the stack was a small, folded piece of paper, gossamer soft, fraying with age. Once it had been sky blue, but now it was white. She unfolded it carefully, her chest tightening as she realized what she held in her hands.
A younger woman’s flowery, hopeful script read: “You have made me the happiest woman in the world. I love you. M.”
Mary looked away quickly. It was the note she’d given Joe on their wedding day, hours before the ceremony. She hadn’t thought about it since, yet here it was, soft and frayed, evidently unfolded and read hundreds of times over the years. The sky-blue paper, her youthful, innocent handwriting, the crazily optimistic words, were an indelible snapshot of one day in her life. It was something to cherish and to treasure. Something permanent. She looked at the words again, then folded the note and slipped it back into the wallet.
That was that.
Mary sighed. She was pleased to have discovered the wedding note but disappointed that Joe hadn’t left her another clue. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find…just something to add to the skein of information gleaned from the crumpled paper in Joe’s office.
As an afterthought, she cracked open the wallet to count Joe’s money. She thumbed through a ten, a five, and four ones. There was a receipt, too. It was from the Nutty Brown Cafe and dated yesterday. She stepped out of the closet to read it in the daylight.
The time listed was 2:05 p.m. Items included one cheeseburger, one French fries, one Coca-Cola, one egg-white omelet with green peppers. One coffee.
On the flip side Joe had penned, “SSA FK 7/29.”
Mary forgot her disappointment. There was FK once again. If she was no closer to guessing his name, at least she knew more about him. “SSA” stood for Supervisory Special Agent. FK, whoever he might be, was not the informant. He worked for the FBI.
–
The walk-in closet was as big as Mary’s childhood bedroom. Two cabinets hung from the ceiling, Mary’s to the left. Joe’s to the right. She opened her husband’s. The smell of him wafted over her. Sandalwood and citrus. The scents were sharp and nearly provoked an onslaught of tears. Mary steeled herself and concentrated on the job at hand. Some spare change and a few golf tees were scattered across the top shelf. A box of matches from Chuy’s, a fun Mexican place downtown.
She started on Joe’s suits. He owned six or seven, usually buying two a year and retiring two. There weren’t too many casual Fridays with the Bureau. She found a napkin from Whataburger in one pocket, a few dimes, a handkerchief, and a bonus card from the local car wash. Her movements grew sloppier in lockstep with her frustration. She stopped returning his slacks to the rack, instead dropping them onto the carpet. The pockets were empty. All of them.