Olivia even washed her hair.
Then she went down to the grocery store and got more booze, and some milk for Smokey.
Incidentally, to get to the cemetery she had to drive about a quarter of a mile on Highway 11. That gave her a brief view of the Baker Home. That created a diversion as well, for as she passed by, the thought of Mr. Kowalski crossed her mind.
Some intuition told her that the numbers that Harald Kruger wrote on the paper were key to solving the case.
Olivia was still tumbling the numbers around her mind when she drove through the iron gates of the cemetery not very far from the trailer park towards the east.
The air was fresh with the redolence of newly cut grass. She parked her Volkswagen Jetta under a large maple. The breeze tugged at her hair and the hem of her skirt. Mortuary monuments spread before her.
There was no one in sight. No one who had lost someone on this day, she reasoned.
Perhaps none that feel guiltily responsible for the death of the most important person in their life?
She picked the flowers she had gotten and walked into the early morning sun.
She thanked the caretaker inwardly for cutting the grasses.
She was kneeling before a white tombstone that declared:
Here Lies John Rueben Williams Who Died.
She choked.
She always had to read his epitaph. She always had to relive every moment that led to his death, from the moment she heard the gunshot — slide by slide it played in her head— till the devastating, soul-wrenching instant his head exploded, right before her eyes.
And then her eyes welled up with tears.
The convulsing act of crying shook her shoulders, violently.
“Oh John, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I am so sorry, John. It was all my fault, I should never have…”
She fell on her knees and wept, gripping the flowers so hard they were ruined. She bent over and heaved.
She heard the sound of a car approaching but she did not turn around to see. Maybe she wasn’t the only one hurting today, after all.
But soon she heard footsteps and it seemed as if they were coming her way, behind her. When she turned around, it was Sheriff Tom Garcia.
Tom Garcia was one of the first people to come to her aid, and was the last to let her off when the time came. Healing was a longer process than she thought and that morning was proof.
Tom held her tight and let her cry.
“Betty couldn’t make it, she went in for an appointment with her doctor.” He soothed her. “She sends her condolences.”
Olivia sniffed.
“I miss him so much,” she whined in a thin, broken voice. “I just want him back, Tom. I can’t deal anymore.”
“Yes you can, you have. And you will, Olivia. You’re a strong woman.”
“I killed him, Tom. It was my fault.”
Tom held her closer. “Come now, don’t say that. You know the people who are responsible for John’s death, and they are in prison. You put them there.”
“I need a drink.” She sniffed.
Sheriff Tom Garcia exhaled. He herded her back to his car. He told her he didn’t think Olivia was in a condition to drive. She protested. Tom insisted.
“I’m taking you home. Betty won’t be long, she’ll make some food. You need hot coffee, not a drink.”
“You’re kidnapping me, Tom.”
They both smiled.
8
Some law enforcement officers keep their job locked up in their offices when they close for the day. Sheriff Tom Garcia brought his home in newspapers and watched the rest on BBC.
Betty was still at the gynecologist. Tom brewed a nearly decent coffee.
The news was about the worsening relations of the United States and Russia. Putin was threatening Japan because the US was doing the same to South Korea.
Tom was on the phone with the guys from Forensics. When he finished, he came back into the cool and spacious living room. He sat in the opposite chair and watched TV.
“Feeling better?”
“Uhuh.” Olivia sipped coffee. She eyes Tom. “I could use some whiskey in this coffee, though.”
“No whiskey today.”
A professor of historical something in something, came on. Olivia didn’t catch the bald-headed, bespectacled man’s field before the screen changed to a military scene in Russia.
“Frisky ruskies,” said Tom to the TV.
But Olivia was listening to the historian who was giving the public a rundown through the history of the political tension between the US and Russia. He sounded convincing to Olivia, even though much of what was being said sounded Greek to her. And she understood a little Greek.
Olivia dropped her cup of coffee on the table. She rummaged in her bag and found a pen and her jotter. The name of the historian came on again as she had predicted. And he taught European Politics at New York University.
She wrote: Professor Hans Rutherford.
Tom stared at her. She threw her coffee back and got up. “I have to go check something out.”
“But Betty promised—”
Olivia bent and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Tom. But I can’t wait. Give Betty my love.”
Disappointed, Tom Garcia shook his head. He pointed. “You stay off whiskey.”
“Wine?”
“Olivia, I’m serious.”
“Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Don’t crash it.”
Tom came to the door, he patted her on the back. He gave her a smile that said Olivia was doing great.
“I’ll have the boys bring your car home later,” he called after her.
Olivia waved and drove off.
Sheriff Tom Garcia’s car was unmarked. It was ideal for breaking a few traffic laws.
Olivia found an illegal spot by a pay phone on Rurale Boulevard. She jumped right in and quickly flipped through the yellow pages. She found Hans Rutherford's name was listed.
The phone rang a long time before someone picked it up.
“Hello?” asked a thin voice.
“Professor Hans Rutherford?”
“Yes, please. How may I help you?”
“I’m Olivia Newton, a journalist with the Miami Daily newspaper.” Former journalist, she thought.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about a subject I’m working on,” she added.
The man on the other end seemed to hesitate. His breath came in hard and receded again, as though there was someone with him.
“Is this a good time, Professor?”
“Ah, very thoughtful of you. How about you come right round to my office and talk tomorrow—”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Then this is utterly difficult for me.” His voice receded again. Olivia was getting irritated.
“I’m in the middle of an important meeting and—”
Olivia cut in, “Can I talk to you by email then?”
“That’d be peachy.”
Olivia got her jotter and took down the address. She thanked the professor and hung up.
Peachy, she mused.
Her car was parked in front of the building when she arrived.
She checked to see if she would find a bottle. There was none. She bit down the irritation that always preceded her thirst.
Shortly after, she sent off an email with a description of the contents of the box that Harald Kruger left with Kowalski. Everything except the numbers.
She supposed that Tom Garcia would not approve of her actions now, and giving away the numbers would make him even less approving.