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“A Mr. Walker and Ms. Sutcliff would like to see you. They don’t have an appointment.”
The notes…and Glenn’s death…
“Send ’em up,” The Third said.
Becca and Hudson rode in the Grassle Building’s glass elevator in one of two cubicles that shot upward and
offered a dizzying view of downtown Portland and the Willamette River. It gave Becca a disembodied feeling that she could have done without, and she was glad to step onto the dark gray carpeting of the twenty-fourth floor.
The Third had a corner office, and his desk faced away from windows that gazed toward another building farther west whose windows stared back like a row of unblinking eyes. The whole room was made of glass and chrome and black leather, a far cry from the wood-paneled offices of the firm Becca worked for. It wasn’t a surprise that The Third’s law firm was as slick as he was.
The Third himself was dressed in a navy blue suit and crimson tie, and as they entered he waved them toward a set of black and chrome director’s chairs on the other side of his desk. Neither Becca nor Hudson took a seat, preferring to stand.
“I’m guessing you want to see the note,” The Third said. He slid open a drawer, pulled out a card, and handed it to Hudson, who held it for Becca to see. Christopher was written in an uneven hand on one side of the white card and the same nursery rhyme was on the other.
“Just like mine,” Hudson said.
Becca felt a chill slide down her spine. “Did Jessie call you Christopher instead of The Third?”
“Beats me.” He shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“I got one. You got one. And you said Jarrett got one?” Hudson turned the card over and examined Christopher’s name more closely.
“Yep. And Glenn. And Mitch.”
“You sound certain,” Hudson said.
“Well, that’s what McNally told me.”
“McNally? You talked to him?”
“Just got off the phone with him.” He pointed to both of them. “Expect calls. He’ll probably want to talk to everyone. He said Mitch got a note, and Scott told him Glenn got one.”
Hudson took a moment to absorb that news. “How about Scott?”
“I didn’t ask. I just assumed.”
“Zeke hasn’t gotten one yet,” Hudson said.
“Maybe today.” The Third sounded almost bored, but then they realized it was more grief than apathy when he said softly, “Damn, I just can’t believe Stafford’s gone.” He drew a long breath and eased himself farther into his desk chair, which made protesting noises. “God, what a weird world.”
“Got any idea who would send these notes?” Hudson asked him.
“God knows. Not Jessie, though.” When neither Hudson nor Becca responded, he skewered them with a look. “You can’t think she’s still alive.”
“No.” Hudson was positive.
“She was a tease, though,” The Third said. “She loved this kind of stuff.”
“Maybe someone knows that.”
The Third gave him a hard look. “And is pulling this shit for their own reasons.”
“Maybe.”
“Why?” Becca asked. “Who?”
“To make us think she’s alive?” The Third proposed. “To send the hounds in another direction?”
