His eyes had gone round. “Matilda Townshend? Here in Gallup? What are you doing here?”
A dry voice cut across the hush in the room. “All right Jim, you can put your eyeballs back in your head. I guess you’ve met our visitor somewhere before?”
He nodded, his expression still radiating wonder and something else. “Met her at my cousin’s wedding back in Illinois. Last summer, remember I took that time off after the Wendover case?”
Matilda’s heart beat pitter-pat and she knew she was blushing. He was the one that had got away, and several weeks of repeated phone calls to friends had turned up no clues. He’d been a relative of the bride, she was the groom’s friend from college. She’d been just about to get his phone number and e-mail when he’d been called away by the bride’s father on some matter, and in the interim she’d been bundled into a friend’s car who’d been impatient to return to the hotel.
After a few weeks she’d given up, half-figuring that if he wanted to find her, he would. By the time the newlyweds returned from an Asian honeymoon, Matilda had gone on to other matters. She allowed herself a penetrating look at him. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, and athletically slender; she remembered him saying he worked out a lot. His face was a bit more than handsome, with long curved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and a high forehead topped by reddish-blonde hair. Classic Irish looks, and like Enditto, he needed a haircut. Just to have something to say, and not sit there gasping like a fish out of water, she offered, “I thought all you FBI agents wore crewcuts?”
Enditto laughed while Jim Mulligan still looked pole-axed. “Too many television shows, Miss Townshend. Besides, this here is Gallup. All the good stylists work in Grants.” Then, taking pity on his colleague, he added, “Jim, shut the door and sit down. Our visitor has had a run in with good old Avery Grayson.”
Mulligan swore, not too quietly, closed the door, and slid into a spare chair on the left side of Enditto’s desk. “Want me to pick him up, Emory?”
“Well,” the fed drawled, “I’m thinking that if we could prevail on Miss Townshend here to cooperate, we might be able to bag ole Avery in the act. Greedy Boots wants to sell her a couple more things.”
Mulligan’s eyes had never left her face. “Do you think you could do that for us, Matilda? This guy is a dirty dish we’ve been aching to nab for quite some time now.”
The panic was back in her chest. Townshends didn’t do such things, they didn’t act as decoys or accomplices, or whatever. Her grandfather had been a judge, people brought criminals to him. What would people say back home? Jim Mulligan’s eyes, nice green orbs, glinted at her and she felt his sympathy. His unwavering stare brought her back to herself. She’d let herself get into this mess — why not do something to make things right. Grandpa Ben would approve … wouldn’t he?
She gulped and said, “What do I have to do?”
Twenty minutes later, the three of them were drinking bad coffee in a little room reserved for that dubious privilege. Matilda had been briefed, and she’d placed a call to Pete in Window Rock. Now they were waiting. Matilda was doing a lot of looking at Jim and he was gazing at her. Enditto seemed to be enjoying himself, cracking jokes that might have made Matilda grin if she wasn’t so wrapped in wonder.
(Continued next week)
