The Black Minute-A John Santana Novel by Christopher Valen

Author:Christopher Valen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, crime, action, vietnam war, terrorism plot, hmong, political plot
Publisher: Christopher Valen

Chapter 21

Santana took an old freight elevator with a manually operated wooden door up three floors to Grace Chandler’s artist loft in a warehouse in downtown St. Paul. He was tired from the long day. But when Grace had called and asked to see him, he couldn’t turn her down.

Easels, canvases, and frames were scattered throughout the large room, which smelled of paint and was broken up by wooden pillars. Concrete covered the floor, and metal pipes split the open spaces between the exposed beams in the eleven-foot ceiling. A brown foldout couch and two worn overstuffed chairs circled a throw rug and a square glass-topped coffee table in the middle of the room.

Grace gave him a hug and kiss, but both seemed obligatory. “Would you like a glass of red wine or a beer? I’m baking a pepperoni pizza.”

“I’ll take a beer.”

Santana sat down in an overstuffed chair. She brought him a cold bottle of Sam Adams.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“The night we had dinner at the Strip Club. You mentioned you usually drank Sam Adams.”

“I’m impressed.”

She sat on the couch opposite him and gave him a tight smile. He didn’t need to be a detective to see something was bothering her.

“What’s wrong, Grace?”

“Nothing.”

She averted her eyes, looking down at her paint-splattered denim blue shirt and jeans. Then she lifted her chin, inhaled deeply and released a frustrated breath. “Okay. I can’t hide anything from you. I’m upset because you spoke with my father the other day and didn’t tell me.”

“You talked with him?”

“He called.”

“I didn’t tell you, Grace, because I figured you might react this way. I didn’t want to spoil the evening.”

Her shoulders and facial muscles relaxed slightly. She started to smile and then held back. “Keeping secrets is no way to start a relationship.” Her voice was softer now, less accusatory.

“If it helps, I came here to tell you I’d met with him.”

She nodded slowly and looked into his eyes, as if the truth would be revealed there. “What did my father tell you when you spoke to him?”

Santana had no desire to hurt her. But he had no desire to be dishonest either. Then he wondered if she already knew what her father had told him and if this was some sort of test. “Your father told me you had some difficulties. He didn’t elaborate.”

She shook her head in resignation. “My father never wants me to have an opinion contrary to his.”

“And you resent that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Santana had no way of answering the question since both his parents had died by the time he was sixteen. “Your father has done well.”

“He inherited a substantial fortune from my grandparents. That helped.”

“Do you see him often?”

“We don’t have much in common.”

“Different political leanings?”

“My father wasn’t around much when I was young. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven the country for pulling out of Vietnam and losing the war. When he was elected senator, he asked the press not to interview me. He convinced them I had,” she paused and made quotation mark gestures, “emotional issues.

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