CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Haddie walked back from the kitchen, a glass of strong hot tea melting ice cubes in a curious mix of heat and cold against her palm. A strong earthy aroma with a hint of citrus rose from her drink.

Toby looked up as she passed and nodded. The afternoon had passed with Josh’s return and three new banker boxes for him to scan.

“I can hear Josh from here. That’s gotta be fun.” Toby smirked.

He’d been singing since he arrived. Quietly, after Grace had talked to him.

Haddie chuckled. “It’s better than him talking.”

The chime for the door rang, and they both looked up to see a tall, pale man with blue eyes step in. He wore a tan three-piece suit, a red tie with thin, blue, diagonal stripes, red socks, and light brown leather dress shoes. He had curly black hair well-styled over the ears. He swaggered as if he carried more weight than he did.

“Good evening, ladies.” He had a southern, perhaps Texan, accent.

Toby sat straighter. “Good — afternoon. Can I help you?”

The man stared at Haddie, somehow pinning her there with tea cooling in her hand. “I’m certain you can. First, I’d like to schedule an appointment with Andrea Simmons, a consultation. My name is Bruce Palmer.”

His eyes seemed to pierce, and his tone commanded in a way that made Haddie want to help.

Toby cleared her throat. “Ms. Simmons has a case that is tying up a lot of her time. I’ll have to call you —”

Bruce kept his eyes on Haddie as he produced a card from his palm and handed it to Toby between two fingers. “Second, I would have your names.”

“I’m Toby.” She took the card and held it with both hands.

Bruce waited, unwavering. He had a presence like her dad, confident and ready, but he might have been forty.

She swallowed, pushing any thought of age, or Dad, aside. “Haddie Dawson.” She made an exaggerated gesture to the back office, as if that might break the lock of his gaze. “And, I’ve got to get back to work. Pleased to meet you Mr. Palmer.”

He nodded. “A pleasure. I look forward to seeing you again, Haddie Dawson.”

For no apparent reason, she shifted her drink to her other hand and squirmed uncomfortably before actually walking. Awkwardly, she moved down the hall listening as he talked with Toby. She could still imagine his eyes. A light blue that worked with the tan of his jacket.

Grace swore as she hung up her phone. “Third call today and still the DA is blowing me off.”

“Damn,” Haddie tested a sip of her tea as she eased back into her chair. Some client had sent Andrea a bag of Darjeeling Bergamot which immediately got gifted to the kitchen. Lighter than Earl Grey, it made a great iced tea, or her version of the drink. She’d picked up the habit her first year in college. Cindy, her first roommate, would make sweetened tea by pouring the hot tea over sugar, and then adding ice. Haddie had copied the technique for her own unsweetened version, and now she preferred it over tea chilled in the fridge. The flavor popped more, if you made it strong enough when it was steeping. Something about being fresh brewed seemed to add to the flavor.

Mark Colman’s finances had run as dry as she could get. She had a list of people and places to investigate. First, she wanted to look up the address in Portland that she’d wasted time on that morning. Worst would be if it led to her finding the actual address; it was possible that the street or number had been recorded wrong with the Secretary of State.

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Curious, she typed the address on the state website. A second business, Larrin Imports, Inc., came up under the registration of a Marino Zannetti. The business had lasted six years and ended three years ago after they failed to file. She hardly considered it coincidence that another import company registered at the same fake address with less than a year between the two. Maybe Marino Zannetti could answer some questions.

Her email dinged and she absently checked.

Dad’s email. Haddie swallowed and blinked. The past few emails she’d checked in dread, now, when she wasn’t thinking of him, it came in. She opened the message.

Three urls waited alone without any other text. She couldn’t not check them out; she couldn’t even wait. But apprehension soaked into her bones like ice.

The first opened a commemorative war site’s photograph. A gray picture of ten soldiers in a trench lined with what looked like pallets. They had long buttoned coats, some with rifles slung over shoulders, and one with a paper, possibly a map. Wide-brimmed helmets hung to their eyebrows, so she zoomed in until she recognized her dad’s brooding face and misshapen nose. Blood drained from her neck and face.

The second photo came from a university site where they discussed the war’s mental health impact. Her father, with short hair, lay sleeping on the side of the road with other soldiers.

The third caught him nearly smiling as he marched through a city street, bayoneted rifle on his shoulder.

Haddie shivered. If this was not her dad, it was a blood relative. With the same broken nose? How could that be possible? The photos had no attribution or names of the soldiers. Did she really believe her dad had lived centuries? And then — how could he be born in 1985? She could not accept it.

The clearest image was the second, sleeping with his head on a pack, his face clearly in focus. She took a snippet, isolating him, and cringed at the grainy quality when she zoomed in. It wasn’t possible, and she felt in shock, but her hand found her phone.

She texted Terry. “If I send you some pictures, can you do the recognition thing on the web, tell me what you come up with?” Maybe her dad had been caught in more recent pictures, unawares.

He replied instantly, “I am a blackbelt in recognition thingy-stuff.”

Haddie smiled, despite herself. “Great, look for my company email. Thanks.”

Terry still typed. “This David looks clean. Your boyfriend’s not a serial killer. Likes iguanas, which is weird.” He followed it with devil emojis.

“Not boyfriend.” Haddi smiled. She could pick a time and place now, she didn’t have to wait for Friday.

She shook her head. I can’t think about that right now. So, not a serial killer. Her finger poised over her phone. Her face flushed. She was wanting to flirt with some guy, while Mel sat alone in jail.

Still, she scrolled back up on Terry’s message and stared at the picture of her dad. She pushed the phone aside, shaking. Anyone living this long couldn’t fit into reality. But, this was Dad. Haddie took a short breath, trying to force the thoughts away. 1985. How could he think that statement fit with his other insanity? The pictures could be an elaborate hoax. That did not fit Dad, as she knew him. Obviously, she didn’t know him. He wouldn’t allow pictures. If anything, he avoided being noticed. Stop.

Opening up a new email to Terry, she mechanically pasted snippets with the urls. Don’t think.

As she sent the email, her hand trembled as it touched the glass of cooled tea. She stared for a moment and blinked. What next? Her focus blurred, the white of the screen forcing her to squint.

Zannetti. Find him. She returned to the last tab, where she had Mario Zannetti pulled up. She nodded and minimized to her desktop, then clicked a red icon. Logging in mechanically, she found a place to put the man’s name. As familiar as the process felt, the moment felt alien and detached, like she wasn’t really there.

When the data came up, her eyes flitted down the information until she came to a date, and she sighed. Zannetti was dead. Three years ago when the filing stopped. No interview. A dead end. She smiled thinking that Terry would have liked that thought.

Her face tightened and she pushed away the image of Dad standing with men who were likely long dead, or over a hundred years old themselves.

She opened up her browser again and pasted Zannetti’s name into it.

Grace’s voice caused her to jump. “Witness interview is in.”

As if Grace could see her, Haddie nodded. Swallowing with a dry mouth, she answered, “Thank you.” She’d felt alone. The voice of someone else brought some sense of normalcy — like she’d awakened from a dream. Still groggy, but awake.

A number of headlines came up with the Zannetti search, “Deadly Mugging at Picc-A-Dilly Flea Market.” Right in Eugene. It had to fit somehow.

“Damn,” Haddie muttered.

“What? Problem with the file?” Grace asked.

“No, no. Sorry. I found another owner of an import business at the same bad address in Portland. Ended just before Mark Colman opened his import business. Strange, right?” Haddie found her hands gesturing to gray cubicle wall, and stood. “I just found out that this previous owner, Marino Zannetti, died in a mugging here in Eugene. Mark Colman wasn’t mugged, but I’d like to see Zannetti’s mugging report.”

Grace shrugged. “Email me the date and name, and I’ll get it for you.”

Haddie smiled. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

Two owners of import businesses at a fake address in Portland, both killed in Eugene. Too much coincidence. She needed to tell Andrea. And then? The witness.