Some magic links connected in my brain, and I thought of my session with MC and her emails. I tried to remember the sender. Sampson? No, that was Carol Sampson, an editor I knew at BUL in Berkeley. Stinson? No, that was the beach in Northern California. Swanson? Early TV dinners. Then it came.
“You mean Dr. Simpson?” I asked. Wayne squinted and thrust his chin forward. I knew I’d hit it right.
“Maybe,” Wayne said, drawing on his cigarette. I coughed, unused to being so close to a smoker.
“What is it that Dr. Simpson thinks MC knows, Wayne? May I call you Wayne?” Get cozy, something I learned from the few times I’d watched crime dramas on television. Matt outlawed them in his presence, however, and I hadn’t really missed them.
I’d calmed myself considerably now that Wayne had distanced himself from me physically and mentally. I couldn’t help thinking of how MC had been in this same situation not long ago. Wayne was no longer touching me, and his concentration seemed to be on his cigarette, and on how or whether to answer me. He breathed heavily. More secondhand smoke for me and my Cadillac, a first in its lifetime.
“She got an email with some information that no one except me was supposed to get. See, there’s stuff going on with the money and all. Some creative diverting of funds, you might say.”
Never mind escaping; I couldn’t miss this. “Diverting of research funds? So Lorna Frederick’s annual reports don’t tell the whole story?”
Wayne checked me out again, with the same squint and chin thrust. I’d hit it again, apparently, by guessing that Lorna was involved, and that some clues might be in the reports Andrea had dug out for me. I wished I’d gotten to read them, but they were still in my briefcase, my retirement being a lot busier than my regular full-time working life had been. I wondered if Lorna could be reinterviewed based on Wayne’s weird expression.
Wayne opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, his eyes widening as he looked over my right shoulder toward the street. I turned to see what caught his attention. A car had pulled up next to mine. The young male driver casually glanced our way. In fact, his sedan was the last of a whole line of cars piled up for a red light. My captor and I were suddenly in the middle of a traffic jam. I’d heard bells chime five o’clock a few minutes before, possibly from the nearby Immaculate Conception Church, and guessed that we were seeing a brief local tie-up from retail businesses or offices closing for the day.
This new opportunity for me to summon help dawned on both of us at the same time. Wayne’s response was to grab the door handle and move his feet to leave the car. Mine, strangely, was to reach out, as if to hold him back, my need for information dwarfing my initial fears for my safety.
“Let’s talk this out, Wayne,” I said. “If I know more about what MC should be worried about, I might be able to—”
He shook his head and spoke around his cigarette. “I don’t think so. Just talk some sense into her,” he said. He slammed the door and ran in the direction of the bushes that lined the sidewalk.
I scrambled across the seat and opened the door again, annoyed that he’d rushed off without giving me any satisfying information. What’s wrong with me? I wondered. I should have been happy to be alive, needing only a painkiller for my backache and air freshener for my car. Maybe I was a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome, bonding with my hostage-taker.
I got out of my car, switched on my flashlight, and started toward the bushes Wayne had ducked into. On the other side was a small, dirt parking lot with a clear view to a building on the next street, but Wayne was nowhere in sight. I let out a heavy sigh and returned to my car to gather up the spilled contents of my totes. I felt I’d been close to something important, something that would have shed light on MC’s predicament.
Diversion of research funds. Something missing from the annual reports. That was the phrase Wayne had responded to. I needed to commit it to memory, to keep in mind for when I was safe at home examining the reports Andrea had given me.
With the next traffic signal cycle, the street became nearly deserted again. I thought I should leave in case Wayne came back, but I continued to pick up my faux atoms, as if three dollars’ worth of Styrofoam were important enough to risk being manhandled again.
Between two pretend carbon atoms I saw something wrinkled and shiny enough to catch the headlights of a passing car. I picked it up, gingerly, the way Jean had fingered the soap in the guest room. An empty cigarette package, most likely Wayne’s, since he’d opened a new one after he entered my car. I spread open the crumpled package. Camels. Who smoked Camels these days?