“I don’t know why. She was supposed to be back in Denver by now. What does this have to do with Lana?”
“Can’t say right now. I also need a list of current employees who worked at the shop.”
“Of course. Darren and I will try to get a flight out tonight, but I might not get back until Monday. You know how the flights can be on a holiday.”
“I understand.”
The call ended, and a second later, he had a lengthy text including a list of the other salon employees. He went down the list of employees and left messages with two of them and spoke to three others. He heard a mixture of shock over the fire, complaints about where some would work next, and pledges to get in touch with Jessica Halpern. All knew of Lana, but none had spent any real time with her.
Joan stepped over the debris and stripped off her gloves as she approached him. “I want to see Elijah.”
“What makes you think Elijah will even talk to you?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Nine years ago, I wrote to him. And he responded. We’ve been corresponding ever since.”
“You’re shitting me!” he said, louder than he intended. “Why would you reach out to him?”
She shrugged but did not look away. “I wanted to know why he wanted to burn me alive.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask. Did he tell you anything that was of value?”
“No.”
“What a surprise.”
“I thought a look inside the mind of someone like him would be informative. He started following my cases. He also offered a few interesting insights that helped me solve a couple of cases.”
It was a kick in the balls to know she had reached out to Elijah and not him. “So you two are best pals?”
“Hardly. When the parole board asked me three years ago if he should be released, I said no in as many ways as I could think of. But he has now served his full term.” She ran her hand through her short hair. “You remember the scorpion and the frog fable?”
“Trusting a predator never ends well.”
“Exactly.”
“Just make sure you don’t forget that.”
She rubbed her fingertips over the ribbed white scar on her palm. “I never do.”
They got into his car and he started the engine. They drove in silence for a half dozen blocks before he pulled up in front of the boardinghouse.
“It is within walking distance to the fire,” Joan remarked.
“Yes, it is.”
The two got out of the car and walked up the cracked, freshly scrubbed sidewalk to the front porch. All the faded traces of the graffiti were gone. He rang the bell, and Mr. Pickett answered it. His eyes were bloodshot, but he had shaved, and his shirt looked to be clean. The monthly six-pack appeared to have left him a little hungover.
“Mr. Pickett, could I speak with Elijah?” Gideon asked.
“He’s in the kitchen. He’s offered to cook up lunch. Making a tomato sauce. And for the record, he was here when that fire started.”
“Are you sure?” Gideon asked.
“Very,” Mr. Pickett said emphatically.
The scents of oregano and garlic reached out to him as he and Joan moved toward the kitchen. The aroma had a warm, comforting effect, and it surprised him that Elijah could cook.
“He’s a great cook,” Joan said, as if reading his thoughts again. “He worked in the prison kitchen and decided to improve the culinary standard. He even organized the prisoners to grow herbs in a greenhouse.”
“Quite the Renaissance man.”
“He can’t stand boredom in any shape or form.”
They found Elijah at the stove, wearing a yellow apron covered in bouquets of pink bitterroot flowers bound together with twine. He was holding a spoon dripping with red sauce up to the mouth of an older, thinner man.
The man opened his mouth to taste, but when he saw Gideon, he closed his mouth and nodded for Elijah to look. Elijah slurped up the sauce on his spoon. “Can I get you to try my sauce, Detective? The recipe came from a dear friend.”
“No, thank you.”
Joan stepped around him. Elijah’s expression turned quizzical, and then his lips split into a wide grin. He set the spoon down and opened his arms wide. “Joan! God, how I have missed seeing you.”
Gideon expected her to retreat. She had been too shaken all those years ago to even talk to him about Elijah or the fire. But instead of fear, her expression softened. It was a far cry from the cool, awkward