Nine Lives(11)

She was about to text him back but called instead. He picked up right away.

“Where are you?” he asked, some annoyance in his voice.

“Lunch. It’s lunchtime.”

“You know that list?”

“The one I got yesterday in the mail?”

“Yeah. One of the names on it was Frank Hopkins.”

“I remember.”

“A Frank Hopkins was murdered this morning in Kennewick, Maine.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Come back to the office, soon as you can.”

“I will. I’m on my way.”

She thought about bagging up the remainder of her lunch but decided against it. She paid up and left.

Back at the office Aaron intercepted her halfway between reception and her cubicle. She thought he looked pretty ragged and wondered how long he’d stayed at the Club Room last night.

“What’s the story?” she asked.

“I sent the list to analysis, and apparently someone there had actually read about the murder of a Frank Hopkins today in Kennewick, Maine. I mean, they would’ve caught it, anyway, but still.”

“What happened to him?”

“To the analyst?”

“No, to Frank Hopkins. In Maine. How’re you doing this morning, Aaron?”

“Sorry, I hung out a little too long with Anthony last night.”

“No worries. How’d this guy die in Maine?”

“He’d been taking a walk on the beach near where he lived. He was forcibly drowned, his head held in a tide pool or something.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. No one. I know you saw his name on a list yesterday and said you didn’t recognize it, but have you given those names any more thought? Do you have any connection with this man?”

“Nope.”

“So here’s the thing—”

“It’s a pretty fucking common name.”

“Frank Hopkins?”

“Yeah, I mean …”

“So here’s the thing. There was an envelope at the scene of the crime, addressed to Frank.”

“He had the list?”

“Exact same list. The one with your name on it.”

“Shit,” Jessica said.

“Yep,” Aaron said.





3





FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1:33 P.M.


Ethan Dart was entering his own apartment when he heard the trill of the landline. He checked the digital readout on the handset, just to make sure it wasn’t his mother, the only actual person, besides solicitors, who still called him at his home number. It was a number from Albany, New York, that he chose to ignore.

He went to make coffee, saw that there was a quarter pot left from yesterday (or was it the day before?), and poured it over ice, then got his guitar and returned to the living room. Sitting down in a shaft of pale sunlight coming in through the window, he watched dust motes rise up from the sofa he’d had for as long as he’d had this apartment. He was exhausted, and took a long, teeth-numbing swig of his iced coffee.

Settling the acoustic guitar on his knee, he strummed out a couple of chords, then tried to recall the words to the song he’d written the day before. They instantly came back to him. Reciting them now, he remembered deciding, the night before, that the song had been crap, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Last on Your List.” That name wasn’t too bad. And maybe, just maybe, the song was actually about Hannah, whose apartment he had recently departed. From what he knew about her, her list of conquests was pretty extensive. Not that his wasn’t. Was he falling in love? Would the song work better if the first line was, “Woke in Hannah’s dreams again last night”? Then he could call the song “Hannah,” a better title than “Last on Your List.” He tried it out, then fished around in the glass ashtray for enough pot to fill a bowl. What he really wanted was a goddamn cigarette.

Jittery, he stood up, did a few jumping jacks, then checked the phone to see if Albany had left a message. They had. He checked it, expecting some robocaller, but got a real voice instead, a woman’s voice, identifying herself as Jessica Winslow and asking him to call her back right away. He knew the name instantly; she’d been on that strange list he’d received yesterday. In fact, she’d been the name he was having trouble remembering the night before. Maybe that list really did have something to do with one of the songwriters’ agencies he’d sent demos to. Albany, though? That didn’t sound right.

“Hi, Jessica?” he said. She’d answered her phone before he even heard a ring.

“Is this Ethan Dart?”

“It is.”

“My name’s Jessica Winslow. I’m a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I was hoping to ask you some questions.”

“Okay.” Ethan sat back down on the sofa.

“Have you received a letter recently, one with a list of names?”

“I got it yesterday. Your name’s on it, too.”

A slight pause, then she said, “Yeah, it is. You remembered that?”

“Sure. I mean, I just got the list yesterday.”

“Did it mean anything to you, the list? Do you know who it came from, or any of the other names?”