Getting Lucky by DC Brod

Author:DC Brod [Brod, DC]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-3196-5
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 2011-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

I started what turned out to be a busy day with a visit to Carl Wellen’s office after he hadn’t return my calls. I’d tracked him down to one of the government offices on the east side of Fowler. What was it about this story? For a nonthreatening, feel-good subject, people were surprisingly reluctant to share the goodness.

Wellen was in his fifties and balding with a softness to him that, for some reason, I imagined he’d had all his life. There was something about him—maybe the way he slumped with his head thrust forward like a turtle’s—that made me think he’d had his share of bullying over the years. He also avoided making eye contact for more than a fraction of a second at a time.

“I don’t have time to talk right now,” he said, shoving some papers into a battered, brown leather briefcase.

Being a soil engineer apparently didn’t give one secretarial privileges, and I’d found my way to his small office just by asking someone I ran into by the Coke machine. There was one other desk in the office, which wasn’t occupied at the time.

“I just have a few questions.”

He had small, droopy eyes and sparse brows, furthering the whole turtle look he had going on. “I don’t know what I can possibly tell you.”

“Why don’t you let me ask you so you can find out?”

He lifted a gray windbreaker from a hook on the back of the office door. “I’m supposed to meet someone in ten minutes and it’ll take me fifteen to get there.”

“So you were late before I showed up.”

“And now I’ll be later.”

As he started to walk out the door, I slipped a copy of the photo out of my bag and thrust it in front of him. “This is what I need to ask you about.”

“What—” He stopped. His washed-out gray eyes flickered my way.

“That’s your car, isn’t it?”

“So?”

“Are you and Ed Leoni friends?”

“I—yes, we are.” He made another attempt at holding my gaze and failed.

I nodded. “I found this photo on Clair Powell’s camera. Do you know who she was?”

“Yes, I do.” He glanced down the hall one way and then the other. Lowering his voice, he said, “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

“Call me. We can meet somewhere.”

“Yes, I’ll call you.”

“If you don’t, I know where you live.” I didn’t. Not yet anyway.

From the way he sort of caved into himself, I figured he believed me.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, then turned and shuffled down the hall.

* * *

On my way to Dryden, I called Patchen again and, again, got his voicemail. I tried to stress the urgency in the message I left, but wasn’t optimistic. Lately, I’d been feeling like a pariah.

My mother was waiting for me in the lounge, wearing her coat, but she was uncharacteristically quiet as I helped her into the car. When I’d called her earlier and asked her if she wanted to go for a ride, she’d seemed eager, and why not? It was a bright, fall day and the leaves were reaching their color peak.

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