Chapter 12: On the run

I WAS WHIMPERING when Maizie woke me up. I could still hear myself as her wet sloppy kiss nearly dislodged my mustache. Tears were still running down my cheeks as I sat up in bed and tried to take stock of my situation.

Maintaining an identity

I’d been dreaming, obviously. I was still caught between that fully submerged state of subconscious synapse firings and objective awareness of my surroundings. The bed wasn’t mine but no one else was in it with me except Maizie.

Maizie. I’d spent the night in Dag’s bed. I’d fallen asleep with my face buried in his pillow begging a man who wasn’t there for help in a problem he didn’t know existed. And people who I trusted were trying to arrest me. I felt my head and, for a moment, didn’t recognize myself.

I ran to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t even recognize myself behind the disguise. My makeup was a little smeared from the tears and sweat, but a little touch-up and it was soon put to rights. I took a sponge bath.

I caught a full-length image of myself in the mirror. Unbelievable that this little bald guy with the mustache and goatee had perky little breasts and a tiny waist. And no other accoutrements. Well, nobody was going to get that close a look at me. I had to figure out what to do and where to go. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be that long before Jordan thought to look in Dag’s apartment, if he hadn’t already.

I selected my clothes from Dag’s closet where I’d integrated them. He’d shown me a couple of secret compartments in the closet when I was here over Thanksgiving weekend. He was so proud of all the little gizmos he’d built into the apartment. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t remembered anything about that day. I’d felt so intimate with him. He was sharing such secrets with me. I opened one of the hidden drawers to put my photos in and saw his car keys. That gave me an idea.

I dressed and took Maizie out. One thing Dag taught me about field work was never to leave anything behind that I couldn’t do without. I loaded my pockets with cash, slung my computer bag over my shoulder, and made sure I had all my ID. I packed one compact suitcase with wigs, makeup, and essential items of clothing. Everything else that might be evidence regarding who I was or that I was in disguise was hidden.

I stopped in the rental garage where Dag’s car was stored and dropped off my suitcase. Then Maizie dragged me down the hill toward the office and I reluctantly followed. Her goal, however, was not the office but the coffee shop on lower Queen Anne near the Seattle Center. I slipped into Tovoni’s the minute the door was unlocked. It might not be a great idea but I could really use a good cup of coffee.

The barista came around the corner of the counter and stopped short when she saw Maizie.

“Maizie?” she asked. “Is that you, girl?” Maizie obligingly waved a paw and sat up to beg for a biscuit. The barista gave her one. She took it to a corner of the coffee shop and lay down to focus on the treat. “Excuse me for asking,” the barista said, “but who are you and what are you doing with Dag’s dog?” I’d prepared for this but wasn’t that confident.

“I rented an apartment up the hill and the dog kind of moved in with me,” I said. “I figured she should be walked and she practically dragged me in here. Could I get an Americano, please?”

She nodded and went to get the drink. I sat beside Maizie and looked at the newspaper. A few minutes later the barista set a drink beside me. I thanked her and took a sip. It was a straight espresso and perhaps the best I’d ever tasted.

“Mmm. That’s good,” I said without thinking. “I mean ... I think I ordered an Americano but this is fine anyway. Thank you.”

“Funny, when you were here the other night you ordered an espresso. I must have gotten the drinks confused,” she answered.

“I’ve never been in here before,” I said.

“You’re good but I’m psychic,” she said. Not another Mrs. Prior, I hoped. “You don’t have a man’s aura about you and Maizie exudes love for you. You are the woman who told me about Dag’s funeral. And I’ve got to thank you for that. He was a good man and I miss him every morning.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I answered. “I’m James Whitcomb. I’ve never been in here before.” Rule number one: When you start a lie, stick to the story.

“Deb Riley,” she said. “That’s the name. I don’t remember people’s faces or often even their names. I remember their drinks. You walk in and order one drink and I’ve got you for life. Take Dag, for instance. He drank what he liked to call a 50/50. It was just an Americano but with the same amount of hot water as of espresso. He liked the crema on top and just used the hot water to keep it hot while he sipped it. You were a straight espresso the first time you walked in and I will always recognize you as that. Dag used to sit in that very chair for half an hour every morning. I’d look at him with his 50/50. I knew when he walked through the door. But I couldn’t tell you a single thing about what his face looked like. Don’t know what it is. There’s a word for it. Prosopagnosia. I just don’t recognize faces. I see people’s auras.”