May
Jo
I’ve misjudged the hill, so I’m trying to control my breathing and surreptitiously wipe my hands on my dress before anyone sees me. Google Maps showed me which house I’m looking for, and I keep an eye out for the brick one with the little patio, except nobody’s out front. Maybe this’ll be a bust, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
The driveway’s on the far side, and when I turn down it—yes—there’s a man sitting on the back porch next to a smoker. He’s got a book in one hand and a can with a koozie in the other, so I can’t tell if he’s drinking before noon, but he looks up and gives me a sort of guarded, toothless smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not selling any today,” he tells me before I can even take a full breath, so at least I’m not the first stranger to catch him back here.
“No, I …” He’s thrown me, and I fumble in my pocket for my card and hold it out. It’s awkward because he has to close his book and set his drink on a little table to take it, and the deck is up a couple of steps. “I was hoping I could ask you some questions about Milwaukee.” At least that came out at a decent tempo, even if my voice betrays my heartbeat.
Jamie Whittaker considers the card. “Professional researcher,” he muses, which means he’s dismissed my name. He looks up, and this time his smile is lopsided, and there might be a dimple hiding under the goatee. “Milwaukee, huh? Say, around the millennium?”
Great. “I’m not the first one?” I tuck my thumbs through my backpack straps but stop myself from trying to blow the hair off my sweaty forehead.
This gets me an actual laugh and he tilts his head toward the other chair. “I haven’t lived there in ages. Which I’m assuming you know.” He raises one challenging eyebrow, but I’m not sure if that’s because I haven’t come up yet or what.
I almost stumble on the steps and I have to pass behind him to get to the chair, which at least looks more comfortable than an Adirondak, and take off my backpack, and sit down semi-gracefully. My skirt’s hemmed below the knee, but we’re still outside and the wind tries to grab it. “I was the initial researcher for the Not Forgotten podcast.”
“Whoa, really?” His eyebrows go up and I get another half-grin. “My mom was addicted. She had me program an alert into her phone so she knows how Davis’s case is going.”
Okay, at least I don’t have to start from the absolute beginning. “You’ve been on the website and seen all the documents and stuff, then?” I don’t really want to call it evidence.
“Oh, yeah.” He shakes his head a little and checks his watch, something large but not a Rolex, except it doesn’t seem like I’m wasting his time. His body language is too easy. “Mom’s mastered the internet, mostly, so she followed along with all the pieces like a proper Sherlock Holmes.”
Sure, because ever since Serial, that’s kind of expected. “Okay, so you’ve seen something like this.” I unzip my backpack and tease a page out of a manila folder.
He sets his book aside, too, but it’s on top of another book on the little table between us, which is weird, and takes the paper. “Yeah, sure,” Jamie Whittaker says immediately, and has he not introduced himself because he figures I have to know who he is if I know when he lived in Milwaukee? “Geographical profile, right? Someone feeds the data in and it’s supposed to pinpoint where the killer lives.” He starts to hand it back.
“Notice anything about the epicenter?” These things are hard to read, so it’s not surprising he didn’t really try. There’s one online, of course, to tie in with the first episode, but it’s not this one.
“Uh.” He frowns, and the depth of the line between his eyebrows tells me that Jamie Whittaker is a man who frowns often.
I can wait. It’s rather nice out here, even though it’s still the end of May and we’re in the Upper Peninsula and we’re both in hoodies. Whittaker’s is over jeans and a T-shirt. His hoodie’s black and doesn’t have anything written on it, but the T-shirt looks like the same cobalt blue as his food truck, a few shades deeper than his eyes. There’s a breeze, and every so often it blows smoke in our direction, but the backyard’s big enough that I guess neighbors can’t complain.
Whittaker lowers the paper and looks over at me. “I’d say you’re here to try to get me to confess to the murders, but they’ve already got the guy.”
It’s my turn to smile tightly. “How much time do you have?”
Chapter Two – coming October 2
