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“Not if you want to stay sane,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
“I said, sometimes it overtaxes my brain.”
Cyn giggled again. “Overtax your brain? Oh, c’mon now. You’re a genius.” She wrinkled her nose and scrunched her eyelids. “You’re such a kidder.”
I smiled. “That’s me. Jessica the Joker.”
“Have you seen Fred?”
It seemed like an odd change of subject. “I’ve been trying to reach him. I keep getting his voice mail.”
“Me, too. Strange.” She appeared put out. “Fred was supposed to come to Sherry’s party this past weekend?” Cyn had this way of making statements into questions. Drove me nuts. “He didn’t show. Not like him. Fred’s so social? So I called him and emailed. He hasn’t answered.” She pouted. “What’s up with that?”
“I dunno, Cyn. I don’t handle his social calendar.” I glanced at my watch, closed out the word processing program, and prepared to leave. Time to move on.
Cyn recoiled. “No need to get bitchy, okay? Just asking . . . .”
I paused before saying anything more. After counting to five (ten would have taken too long), I said, “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Cyn. But, really. I don’t know what’s going on with Fred.”
“Of course.” She nodded, looking contrite.
“Frankly, I’m a bit worried.”
Cyn nodded again. “Yes.” She looked up at me. “He has been acting . . . strange?”
I peered at her. “So you’ve noticed a difference in his behavior, too?”
“He seems depressed, withdrawn. When was the last time you spoke to him?”
I thought back. “I guess it’s been two or three weeks.”
Cyn’s brow furrowed. “That’s when I noticed the change in him, too.”
“Do you have any clue what it might be?”
Cyn opened and shut her mouth, then spoke. “I can’t be sure, but I think it has something to do with you.”
“Me?” What the fuck?
Cyn stared me in the eyes. “You need to talk to him, Jess. I think you need to get the story straight from him.” She tossed her scarf over her shoulder again.
I exchanged the bare minimum of chitchat with Cyn, before I made my farewells. I then gathered my things and bundled them into the car. From there, I dialed Fred on my cell phone. Got his voice mail again. Instead of leaving a message, I headed straight for his place, which wasn’t far from school. Time to face whatever was going on with the guy.
On the way, I tried to picture what could be wrong. We hadn’t argued or had any kind of disagreement. If anything, Fred had bent over backward to help me get inside information that was proving useful in writing the book. He had lots of friends and connections—people who knew about political dissident groups and various anti-government crazies who might want to use Daniel’s research for nefarious reasons. The kind of information you can’t pick up at the library or even in a Google search.
My car chugged up the hill in the old tree-lined neighborhood, and I eased it up to the curb by Fred’s apartment building. From the street, I could see his beat-up green Volvo in the lot. I called his number again. Voice mail. Don’t know why I even tried.
I set the handbrake and turned the wheels toward the curb, a habit I picked up while learning to drive in the mountainous sections of Colorado. I got out and approached the white stucco building. The wind blew, and the fan-shaped leaves in the aspen trees trembled and whispered.
I stepped into the foyer and climbed the steps to the third floor, pausing before knocking. Could Fred be really depressed? Could he have become dangerously unhinged? I stood there, spinning out all sorts of nightmare scenarios. The product of too much TV (and, of course, reading too many suspense novels). Suddenly, I felt stupid. Fred wouldn’t hurt me. Maybe the guy needs help. I owe him that much after all he’s done for me.
I rapped on the door. No answer. I tried again. Nothing. On impulse, I tried the knob. Unlocked, but that wasn’t unusual. Many Boulder residents don’t bother locking their doors during the day. I started inside, calling Fred’s name, but stopped short when a horrible stench overwhelmed me. Then I saw the wreckage. Someone had fucked the place up good. My jaw dropped involuntarily. I stood there until I spotted bare feet extending out from the kitchen.
I charged in without thinking. Fred was on the floor face up. His skin was waxy, his brown eyes vacant. Head resting in a pool of blood, his smooth brow was marred only by a small hole. Bending over, I felt bile rise in my throat.
CHAPTER NINE
