Viking (6 page)

Rafa shrugged. “I guess that’s as good a name as any. Don’t know if I’d call them
interesting
, though.”

Anyway, shall we go over the schedule? We’ve got a lot to do before the next
shift starts.

The knock sounded terse and hollow and strangely loud against the counterpoint of
the twins’ happy chatter—the way it always sounded in Julie’s dream. Rafa glanced at
his wife, his expression maddeningly calm, and rolled smoothly to his feet when he saw
that she was up to her wrists in cookie dough.

“I’ll go,” he said, dumping pumpkin guts into the kitchen incinerator and scooping
Kyrie onto his back. Lauren looked up from her own half-finished jack-o-lantern and
giggled as Rafa pretended to flick seeds on her. In the dream, that giggle was
hauntingly carefree and innocent. It broke Julie’s heart to remember it, made her
desperate to wake up. But the dream always swept her relentlessly along.

“Rafael Orosco?” It was an unfamiliar voice, deep and businesslike.

“Yes.”

“I’m Agent Tearle from the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Gregory. We’re
investigating the death of Samantha Oberling. Could we ask you some questions?”

Julie wanted to scream at Rafa to shut the door, to run for his life and hers. But
instead she froze, lonely dread settling like the mists of the chilly October fog
outside. Rafa had told her about the grisly car accident he’d seen the night before.
But a cold foreboding told her the FBI didn’t get involved with traffic problems. And
she’d noticed earlier that his bloodstained sweats were no longer crumpled on top of a
basket in the laundry room. She hadn’t washed them...

She couldn’t think of any neighbors or acquaintances by the name they’d mentioned.
Did Rafa know the victim from the university? What connection could her little family
possibly have to a murder?

From the front of the house there was a pregnant silence. When her husband spoke, he
sounded clipped and hostile.

“Can I see your ID?”

A moment later Julie heard a murmur and heavy footsteps sounding in the entryway.
She washed her hands and slid the cookie sheet into the oven, then followed a very
curious Lauren into the living room. Rafa was sitting with Kyrie on his lap, facing the
two officers. He was holding a pen and an official-looking form as if he were about to
sign something. He didn’t acknowledge her reassuring smile when she caught his eye, and
Julie felt resentment wash over her.

Rafa knew something, was hiding something. He was getting ready to lie to the
officers, to her, to his children. In retrospect she could see it. Cruel to be
kind.

One of the visitors was seated on the piano bench. Young and intense, he only nodded
curtly as Julie came into the room. The other stood and offered his hand. He was short
and muscular, with streaks of silver at his temples and a receding hairline. The heavy
jacket he was wearing bulged in several places.

“Hello, ma’am. Are you Julie?”

“Yes.” How did they know her name?

“I’m Ray Gregory. We’d like to talk to you as well, when we’re finished with your
husband. Could you wait upstairs?”

Julie tasted the rudeness of the dismissal, resented it as she had that night, but
was glad she had the sense to take the girls to their room and get them occupied with
some coloring books and crayons. At least it had deferred their confusion and
heartache. When they were busy she went into the den and curled up in Rafa’s favorite
leather easy chair under an old quilt. The vent in the corner carried the sound of the
men’s voices from below with gratifying clarity.

The younger agent—Tearle—was asking the questions. Did Rafa use any illegal drugs,
he wanted to know.

“No. Nothing. Not even tanners.”

“Joak? Vust?” Tearle didn’t sound satisfied with a flat denial.

“No. You’re welcome to test me.”

“Know anybody who does?”

“Plenty. Doesn’t everyone these days?”

“Close friends?”

“Mostly students at the university.”

“Do you have any sources of income other than your salary?”

“No. Why?”

“Ever been audited?”

“No.”

“Own any property other than your home?”

“Just a skimmer, furniture, stuff like that.”

“Do you hire someone to do your taxes?”

“No. Julie’s a financial whiz.”

“Do you have an investment broker?”

“I have some mutual funds and a retirement plan through the university, but I don’t
remember who the guy is that the university hires to work with us.”

“But you don’t have any private business of that sort independent of the
university?”

“No.”

“Do you have any private-key or ensure-anon bank accounts?”

“Are you kidding? If I had that kind of money I wouldn’t be working fifty hours a
week as a cross country coach.”

“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”

“No, as a matter of fact. Have you?” Rafa’s tone was heavily laced with sarcasm, and
in her dream Julie stirred restlessly. Had her husband told the truth about anything
that night?

“We’re here to ask questions, Mr. Orosco. We didn’t mean to offend you. But we have
to know what the facts are.”

“Well, would you mind explaining how on earth my marriage is related to your
investigation?”

 “Where were you Thursday afternoon and evening?”

“At a cross country meet.”

“What time did the meet finish?”

“Around 6 p.m.”

“You left then?”

“Well, no. After the meet I went on a cool-down run with the team, like I usually
do. Then I went to talk with our exercise physiologist about one of the runners who
seems to get shin splints all the time. And after that I had to grade some papers and
wade through a bunch of computer work to post mid-term progress reports. I probably
didn’t leave till around 9:30.”

And on and on the questions went. What other faculty members had been working late
in their offices that evening? Had he ever visited such and such an address? Did he
often travel? Where did the team go on their cool-down run? Where did he meet with the
exercise physiologist? Which member of the team had shin splints? What time did he get
home? Did he stop anywhere on the way?

It was a tense one-sided conversation that became more surreal with every passing
minute. The agents never explained who the victim was, what exactly had happened in the
crime, or, more importantly for Julie, why on earth they seemed to connect Rafa with
the affair. Their questions shifted from topic to topic without warning.

“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” Tearle asked.

“No.”

“Mind if we scan your fingerprints?”

“No. Go ahead.”

Julie heard a short sequence of beeps as the forensic computer recorded the patterns
on his fingertips and uplinked with a central database.

“They’re a matter of public record for all university employees.” Rafa said. One of
the men grunted, probably reading the information on his computer screen.

“Do you own a gun?” Agent Gregory wanted to know.

 “Yes.”

“Plasma or traditional?”

“Traditional.”

“What kind?”

“A 9 mm Beretta.”

“Where’d you buy it?”

Rafa’s answer came after a protracted pause. “It was a gift from a friend.”

“Who?”

Rafa did not respond. He’d had that gun for as long as Julie could remember, though
he never used it or took it out of the safe. It had some kind of sentimental value that
she didn’t understand. She glanced at her watch and realized with annoyance that if she
didn’t act quickly the kitchen would be filled with smoke from burning cookies. Sliding
out from under the quilt, she padded stocking-footed across the thick carpet and down
the stairs. As she walked into the kitchen both Rafa and the FBI agents glanced up. The
hardness in her husband’s eyes was vivid and unmistakable.

“I’m just getting the cookies out,” she said apologetically.

The detectives swiveled back to face Rafa.

“I think that question is not relevant,” Rafa finally said.

The officers eyed him thoughtfully.

“Are you acquainted with Samantha Oberling?” Tearle asked. He was studying Rafa’s
face intently.

Rafa’s eyes didn’t move much, but he pursed his lips as if considering. Then he
appeared to change his mind about something. He leaned forward and smiled thinly.

“Sorry, your question quota is all used up. Good luck in your investigation.” And
without another word he rose from the couch and went upstairs.

The two agents looked at one another wordlessly. Tearle stood as if to follow Rafa,
but Gregory motioned him back. He glanced at Julie, who had finished taking cookies off
the pan and was wishing she could go to Rafa. Oh, how she longed to run after him in
her dream. She wept, ached for it. But instead she watched him walk away.

“Mrs. Orosco, can we talk to you now?”

Julie nodded and went in to the couch. The spot she chose was still warm from Rafa’s
body. It was the only part of the dream that Julie liked—that cozy imprint she had
nestled into so instinctively.

Now the younger agent was far friendlier. Thank you for talking to us, Julie.
Investigating a murder is a terrible business, Julie. We’re sorry we upset your
husband, Julie. Please apologize for us. He used her first name like an old friend, and
it seemed phony and awkward to her. But she smiled politely.

Agent Gregory gave her a copy of the Miranda form that Rafa had signed earlier. Just
a formality, he explained. At this early stage they didn’t know enough to rule out
anyone as a suspect, so they needed to remind everyone they interviewed that answering
their questions was not a requirement unless or until they were served a subpoena, and
even then the full protection of the fifth amendment was in force. And so on. Would she
sign saying that she understood these rights and that any statements she made were
completely voluntary?

She would.

The questions began. How long had she been married? Did Rafa often work late? Did
she have any reason to believe that her husband was involved in anything illegal? Did
she know the victim? Had she ever heard Rafa mention her name? What did she know about
the gun Rafa had described? Did Rafa use any drugs? What was the state of their
finances? Did Rafa have any drinking buddies? How often did he come home late from
work? Did Rafa know how to use a gun? How well? What time did Rafa get home last night?
Did he say where he’d been?

As she answered the questions Julie became increasingly angry and hostile. They
thought Rafa was neck-deep in some sort of shady business dealing and had stalked this
Oberling person, whoever she was, then killed her in cold blood! She kept her tone
neutral and her manner casual as long as possible, but when they got onto the topic of
marital fidelity again, she couldn’t resist a heartfelt rebuke. Tears trickled down her
cheeks as she dreamed it.

“Look, officers, you may think your questions are critical to this investigation,
but I can tell you you’re totally wasting your time. Everything you’ve asked is based
on the premise that my husband is a sinister man who might attack someone to cover his
tracks. But he’s not like that at all. He’s a great husband and father. And he has no
hidden life of crime to cover up. He doesn’t have any secret income. He’s not addicted
to anything. He doesn’t even have any vices except a fondness for red meat and hot
showers. I suppose you get the indignant wife speech all the time, but tonight it’s the
gospel truth.”

Agent Tearle’s expression didn’t change, but Gregory smiled in a sad sort of way and
leaned back in his chair.

“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Orosco, we do hear that sort of statement occasionally.
And let me tell you, nobody hopes it’s true more than I do. Don’t blame us if we seem a
little cynical, though. In our line of work we constantly get slapped in the face by
the nastier side of human nature. After a while we start thinking that’s the way most
people are.”

“Rafa is not most people,” Julie heard herself saying.

* * *

The quilt and sheets were a tangled nest at her feet when Julie sat up with a start.
For a moment she peered at the shadowy confines of the room, her mind permeated by the
dream, unthinkingly extending a hand to the empty portion of the bed beside her. She
hadn’t yet relearned the habit of sleeping in the center.

Awareness flooded back, and she let out her breath with a sigh. She felt
hollow inside. Empty. A perfect echo chamber for the final, forlorn statement in her
dream.
Rafa is not most people.
She had said it with confidence, almost
without thinking. Now her mind replayed it over and over, like a fragment of some
half-forgotten song that couldn’t be abandoned until the rest of the lyrics were
spoken.

How did the verse end?

Slowly she brushed fingertips across her cheek, interrupting the salty trickle that
was tickling the corner of her mouth and dripping onto her pajamas. She cleared her
throat and reached for slippers.

Hugging herself for warmth, she padded down the hall and looked in on the twins.
Kyrie was snoring softly on an old four-poster bed, streaks of cornstalk gold arrayed
in a static-induced halo around her face. She had the utterly peaceful look that only
children can achieve. Nearer the door, Lauren had burrowed under her blankets until
only her nose and eyebrows were visible. A smile flickered softly across Julie’s moody
features. It gentled her lips, relaxed the tension in her jaw, but shied away from the
damp circles under her eyes. Automatically she bent over Lauren and caressed her
cheek.

“Te quiero, Palomita,” she whispered quietly.
I love you, little dove
. It was
Rafa’s pet name—the first name their daughter had ever answered to.

The pain returned to Julie’s expression.

Pre-dawn darkness still enveloped the module as Rafa rolled out of his bunk and
staggered down the hall to the bathroom. The mental and emotional strain of the
previous few hours, even more than the nerve-wracking and prolonged journey, had
produced a fogging exhaustion. Sleep had been fitful and all too brief. But he had to
have a few minutes of privacy before the day began in earnest.