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“Well . . . I didn’t do the search myself, but that’s what Jasmine told me.”
“I think we need to talk with your Jasmine and go over this. Something’s fishy.”
The rest of the meal passed with conversation more similar to a first date than crimes and conspiracies. It later occurred to Greta that the last hour was the closest to a real date she’d had in longer than she wanted to remember. With that thought came a reflexive grimace.
They agreed to meet at the Tillamook City office the next day at 10 a.m.
She woke up feeling good, so much so that it puzzled her. Why should she feel good? Another lead in the Toompas case was in the toilet.
She was peeling a couple of kiwis when her personal cell phone rang.
“Greta, it’s Robert Simpson. Looks like getting together today will have to wait. I’ve been called away on business until next week sometime.”
“No problem. Just call me when you get back, and we can do it then.”
“Sure thing. I’ll call.”
Later that morning, she looked up the phone numbers of Simpson’s two references and compared them with the ones he’d given her. They both matched. More than a little nervous now, she made the calls. The head of the Marshal Service was definitely annoyed but confirmed Simpson was one of their own. The head of the Oregon State Police was friendlier, likewise saying he had been contacted by the Feds to urge Greta to lay off.
Okay, so it appears Simpson is who he says he is, she thought. Now . . . what do I tell Wallace? She mulled it over for most of an hour and finally decided to wait until Wallace brought it up himself. She’d wing it from there. Fortunately, she hadn’t thought to hold her breath waiting for Wallace’s questions. He never mentioned it again.
A week later, Simpson called her house and left a phone number and a message that he was back. She returned the call as soon as she got home.
“Robert Simpson, or whoever you are, this is Greta Havorsford.”
“Deputy Havorsford, I’m back and would like to pursue that topic we discussed. You know, meeting at your Tillamook office and running those fingerprints again. Are you still interested?”
“Definitely. Any day is fine for me.”
“How about tomorrow around eleven a.m.? I can meet you there.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you at eleven. We’ll make you a visiting relative or friend, not anybody in law enforcement.”
“Sure enough. See you then.”
The next morning, she met Bruce Penderman for breakfast. She had called to wish him a merry Christmas while she was in Missouri, and they had agreed to get together when she got back. She had let it slide to the middle of January but had called the previous night and arranged the breakfast. She knew she would meet Simpson later that day and wanted some feedback from Bruce. Her problem was, how much could she tell him? As much as she wanted to talk this over with another person, she couldn’t say too much about Simpson.
In the end, she said nothing. They talked of their respective Christmases and the usual inconsequentials. It was frustrating. On the way to Tillamook City, she made a stop at the Salt Lake Park to check whether the squatters she had told to move had done so. About half of them had, and she told the others the next time she caught them squatting at the park, she’d come with a tow truck, and they could kiss their cars and trailers goodbye.
After that, it was up to Tillamook City to check in, work on some backlogged paperwork, and wait for Simpson. At exactly 11 a.m., he walked in the main door. She liked someone who was on time. She hustled up to the reception desk before he could ask for her.
“Hello, Mr. Simpson. Thank you for coming. If you would sign in with Rose and get a visitor’s badge, we can meet in one of the conference rooms.”
Rose Mertins signed him in without a word and went back to whatever else she normally did.
“So, we’re undercover, are we?” Simpson said in an exaggerated conspiratorial tone.
“Just trying to keep your cover. No point in raising suspicions.”
They walked down the hall to the records department. Jasmine and Barb were working at terminals. Jasmine noticed their reflection in her side-by-side wide-screen monitors as they came up behind her.
“Hey there, Greta. What’s cookin’?”
Greta froze. What could she tell Jasmine about why this strange man wanted to see some fingerprints run? The question hadn’t occurred to her until this very second. She couldn’t tell her he was a “U.S. marshal in the Witness Protection Program waiting to testify against major drug criminals.” Jasmine probably wouldn’t believe he was a secret agent here on direct orders of the president, either, and that she should forget she ever saw him.
“Hi, Jasmine. I’d like to watch you run those fingerprints again that you ran for me a few weeks ago. You know, the ones that got you the odd return.” Maybe Greta could get away with ignoring any questions about her visitor.
“No problem, girl. Who’s the gentleman?”
