Fatal Connections

Chapter 46

Seeing the koala logo for the second time in as many days set off an alarm. Especially given the place I had last seen it. Okay. It seemed the Harcourts enjoyed working with the church. Maybe they had arranged a church group event at Embrace the Wild, whatever that was. I switched to a search engine and entered "Embrace the Wild" and Maryland. A click on the Enter key and it appeared as the top result.

Based on the photos of visitors posed with presumably tame baby chimps, bear cubs, and other normally wild fauna, I quickly deduced it was a kind of exotic petting zoo. Scrolling down the page, I noticed that the place allowed groups to book events. So maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe the Harcourts had arranged such an event. And maybe Reverend Leland had the card for that reason. But as I continued to scan the page, the word "safari" caught my eye.

At first, I thought they were offering real trips to Africa. But that wasn't the case. They had re-created a kind of African safari experience, complete with a village as depicted by Old Hollywood. Except this one came with Jacuzzis, air conditioning, microwave ovens, and big-screen TVs. And it didn't come cheap.

I was interrupted by my cellphone's ringtone. It was Aaron Gallagher calling back. I started my usual greeting, only to be interrupted. "Ms. Jensen, I need to meet with you."

"What's going on?"

"We need to meet," he repeated. His tone suggested more than the usual amount of lawyerly caution. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was essential."

I thought about it for maybe one nanosecond and then said, "Fine. Where and when?"

"Today. You pick the place."

"How about Kit's Cafe in Kensington?" It's a cool coffee shop not far from where I live.

"Great," he said. "Can you be there in, say, half an hour?" he added, his voice now lilting.

"Um, yeah."

"Meet you there."

"Sure thing." Before I even finished those two words, Gallagher was gone.

I like coffee shops. They are usually safe places to meet people. Certainly safer than The Void. And in this case, I was meeting with a nice safe lawyer, assuming there was such a thing. After hanging up, I drove to Kit's Cafe, and arrived fifteen minutes early to stake out a spot.

Along with my writing pad, I brought a paperback to read while I waited. Tried to read, that is, without great success, as my eyes kept moving from the page to the front door and then around the room. Finally, I put the book down. Now was as good a time as any to people watch, I guess. It's amazing how many people frequent coffee shops and drink Italian-style coffee like they never do in Italy.

During the brief time I was in Italy, I learned a few things about coffee. For one thing, as an American, I needed to make it clear that when I ordered "un cafe," I meant real coffee. In other words, espresso. Not that watered-down Yankee crap. For another, you don't drink cappuccinos at any time other than in the morning. You just don't.

Coffee is not an experience you linger over in Italy. It's gulp-and-go. And if you order a frappuccino, be prepared to be disappointed. Or mocked mercilessly. If you're an American, they will likely mock you in a language you don't understand, even if you think you know Italian. But recalling the perils and joys of Italian coffee brought me no closer to solving my current problems.

I checked my phone for the time. Gallagher was running late. Four minutes, creeping up on five. It was rush hour on a Friday, so maybe he'd underestimated the time it would take for him to get here. Given that his office was in Bethesda, he might be able to make the drive in exactly half an hour—at two in the morning. So I picked up my paperback and settled in to wait.

A half hour later, I questioned the wisdom of indulging in a second cappuccino—on American soil, I enjoy the freedom to be an Italian coffee heathen. Then my phone rang. Detective Gordon. I felt a sensation in the pit of my stomach. This could not be good.

The wait for Gallagher didn't improve my overall temper when I took the call. "Hi, Detective Gordon. Are you calling to arrest me?"

"And a good afternoon to you, Ms. Jensen," Detective Gordon said evenly. "The answer is no. But my partner and I have a few more questions for you."

Weary from the previous night's adventures of Dog the Bounty Hunter, stiff from sitting for an hour, and still in pain, I tried not to snarl as I said, "I can't imagine any way I could possibly help you, since I'm also trying my best to understand who could have killed the Harcourts."

"There's been another murder," he said.

That knot in the pit in my stomach suddenly tightened. "Who?" burst out of me.

"The DL ... I'm sorry. His driver's license says his name is Aaron Gallagher. Do you know him?"

I felt slightly nauseated. "We've never met, but we were supposed to. Right now, actually."

"Where were you supposed to meet?"

"Kit's Cafe, a coffee shop in Kensington."

"Wait there." Gordon hung up before I could say anything else. What on earth? How long was I supposed to wait? This is bullshit.

I was seated close to the front door with my back to the wall, so I had a clear view of the entrance and the big picture window from which I could view a small section of front parking lot. I considered calling Gordon back for an ETA, when someone knocked on the front window pane. Detective Gordon stood there, looking in at me. I could feel the blood drain from my face.