Around lunchtime, Wyatt returned with a white sack containing two barbecue sandwiches, and with two soft drinks hooked in his fingers. He moved me out of his chair-I don't know what it is about him and his chairs, that he can't share-and looked over my list of clues and my doodles while we ate lunch. He didn't seem impressed by my progress. He did like where I'd written his name, then drawn a heart around it and an arrow through the heart. He scowled, though, when he found his new list of transgressions.
After we had eaten he said, "The lab guys say that the black hairs are original, not dyed. And that they're Asian, which is a big break. How many Asians do you know?"
Now I was really puzzled. There aren't many Asians in this part of the country, and though I'd had some Asian friends in college, we hadn't kept in touch. "None since college, that I remember."
"Remember, Native Americans are of Asian heritage."
That put a whole new light on things, because this close to the Eastern Cherokee Reservation, there were a lot of Cherokees around. I knew a lot of people with Cherokee heritage, but I couldn't think of one who might want to kill me.
"I'll have to think about this," I said. "I'll make a list."
After he left, I did make a list of all the Native Americans I knew, but even as I was writing the names, I knew this was a waste of time. None of them had any reason to kill me.
I went back to my clues. I wrote down: Asian hair. Wasn't that what all good-quality human-hair wigs were made of? Asian hair was heavy and straight and glossy; anything could be done to it, in terms of color and curl. I wrote down wig, then circled the word.
If the person trying to kill me had been smart enough to wear a wig, then we shouldn't be paying any attention to the color of the hair. This threw the field of suspects wide open again. A wild idea struck me and I wrote down a name, with a question mark beside it. This was taking jealousy to the extreme, but I wanted to think about this person some more.
Around two o'clock, Wyatt stuck his head in the door. "Stay here," he said brusquely. "We have a call about a murder/suicide. Turn your cell phone on and I'll call you when I can."
If my cell phone is with me, it's always on. The big question was, when would he be back? I'd seen how long it takes to work crime scenes; he might not be back to fetch me until midnight. There is no good that comes of not having your own wheels.
The constant noise in the big room outside Wyatt's office had lessened considerably; when I went to the door, I saw that almost everyone had left. They were all probably going to the scene of the murder/suicide. If I'd been given the choice, I would have gone, too.
To my right, the elevator dinged, signaling someone's arrival. I looked around just as the person stepped out, and I froze in shock as Jason, of all people, came into view. Well, not shock; that's too strong a reaction. More like surprise. And I wasn't frozen, either, if you want to get literal about things.
I thought about ducking back into Wyatt's office, but Jason had already seen me. A big smile lit his face and he came toward me with long steps. "Blair. Did you get my message?"
"Hello," I said with a lot less than enthusiasm, and didn't bother answering his question. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Chief Gray. Same question back atcha."
"There were some details to clear up," I said vaguely. This was the first time I'd spoken to him in five years, and I felt uneasy about speaking at all. He was so firmly out of my life I could barely remember anything about our time together.
He was still handsome, but his looks didn't speak to me at all. The state legislature wasn't in session, but now that he was a state representative, he did things like play golf with the chief of police, and even when he was casually dressed, as now, he went for a higher fashion statement than he had before. Though he was wearing jeans and docksiders-no socks, of course-he also had on an oatmeal-colored linen jacket. Some linen blends now don't wrinkle so horrifically; he hadn't been smart enough to find one. His jacket looked as if he'd slept in it for a week even though he'd probably put it on fresh just that morning.
"I haven't seen the chief since this morning," I said, stepping back so I could terminate the conversation by closing the office door. "Good luck."
Instead of going on his way, he stepped forward into the office doorway. "Is there something like a break room where he'd go for coffee, or anything?"
"He's the chief," I said drily. "He probably has his own coffeemaker. And someone to pour it for him."
"Why don't you walk with me while I look for him? We could catch up on old times."
"No, thanks. I have paperwork to do." I gestured toward Wyatt's desk, where the paperwork was all his except for my notebook, but of course I'd gone through all his paperwork again, so in a way it was mine.
"Aw, come on," Jason cajoled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a snub-nosed pistol. "Walk with me. We have a lot to talk about."
Chapter Twenty-eight
Obviously I would never have gone with him if he hadn't had that pistol jammed in my side, but he did, so I did. I was sort of in shock, trying to wrap my mind around what was happening. Thinking about something else until my subconscious felt ready to face this obviously wasn't going to work this time. By the time I realized he wouldn't have shot me in front of witnesses-and there had been a couple of other people still in the department-it was too late; I was already in his car with him.
He made me drive, while he kept the pistol trained on me. I thought about driving him into a telephone pole or something, but I flinched at the idea of being in yet another car accident. My poor body was just now recovering from the last one. I didn't want to get hit in the face by another air bag, either. Yeah, I know, a bruise is temporary but a bullet can be forever, so maybe I didn't make the best choice. Just in case I had to drive into a telephone pole, though, as a last resort, I glanced down at the steering wheel to make certain there was an air bag there. The car was a late model Chevrolet, so of course it had one, but after the week I'd had, I wanted to double-check.