Page 11 of Canyon of Deceit
TEN
BLANE
Therese excused herself to pack for the trip, and I stared out my office window as though the busy street had the answers about whether to trust God or live life my way.
Therese’s faith explained why she’d walked away from a possible relationship between us months ago.
My straw-thin hold on God got me into trouble once, and I refused to bridle that horse again.
No lies. No phony faith. No manipulation.
No good woman losing her life because of my selfishness. Only regret.
God had put two single women in my path who claimed He took top billing in their lives.
I wrestled with my feelings for Therese, Wendy’s death, and where I stood with the God-thing.
Rather wrestle a bear. Sergio said I had a mule streak when it came to God, and one day I’d see the truth—if it wasn’t too late.
Shaking off my emotions branded with rejection, I turned my attention to the mission.
I had extra time before Sergio arrived for Nick Peterson’s interview, and I dug deeper into Jurg Falin’s background.
He’d arrived in Houston to work at an accounting firm almost five years ago, not long after Rurik Ivanov and his family arrived.
Nothing in his background raised a red flag.
Outstanding work record. Well-liked. Single. Paid his bills.
My office phone buzzed. Nick Peterson had arrived and waited with Sergio. I closed my laptop and hurried to his office.
Peterson sat across from Sergio, fidgeting.
Wild-colored hair in purple and orange hung to his shoulders.
This morning the security cams showed his hair in a man-bun and under a baseball cap.
His teeth held more spaces than my grandmother’s picket fence, but he practiced the value of a timely appointment.
Unless he complied immediately out of fear.
I kept my gaze on Peterson, who refused to meet Sergio’s eyes. I bit my lip to hide a grin.
“Mr. Peterson,” Sergio said, “your image was videoed this morning at 6:17 at the drive-through window of The Breakfast Brew restaurant on I-45 North. You were seen talking to a man through your passenger window who gave you an envelope.”
Peterson inhaled, choked, and coughed for several seconds.
“Yes, sir. I was waiting in line when this guy tapped on my window. I powered it down to hear him out. He said he’d just received an emergency call from his wife and would I make sure Professor Ivanov inside the restaurant received an envelope.
He stuck out a white, legal-size envelope with Professor Ivanov’s name typed on it.
All I had to do was give it to the person at the food-delivery window. ”
“And you agreed, no questions asked?”
“Not at first. Told him I needed to get to work. He received a text and said his son had fallen, and his wife had called an ambulance. I’m a good guy and took the envelope.”
“Weren’t you concerned about the contents?”
“No. Wasn’t fat like it had a bomb inside.”
Sergio ran his fingers through his jet-black hair. “Then what happened?”
“The man dashed across the parking lot and behind the restaurant out of sight. At the drive-through window, I asked the kid to deliver the envelope. He refused. Left me no choice but to park my car and deliver it myself. I gave it to a server.” He blew out a huff.
“Later someone from your office called me at work, and here I am.”
Sergio gave me a chin lift to take over.
“Mr. Peterson, we appreciate your coming in to help us identify a possible criminal. We respect good citizens. Can you describe the man who gave you the envelope?”
“Not really.”
“Why is that?”
Peterson’s gaze darted from me to Sergio. “I’d been smoking to calm my nerves. Takes the edge off at work. Stress rattles me.”
“I understand. Our jobs are often demanding. What were you smoking?”
“Uh, medical marijuana.”
Wonderful. “Can you describe the man? The sound of his voice? Anything will help.”
“Medium build. Black hoodie pulled down over his eyes. Mustache and trimmed beard.”
A lot of info for a man who claimed he didn’t notice much. “What about his age?”
“I’d say early to late thirties.”
“Nationality or accent?”
Peterson shook his head. “Nothing unusual there.”
“Had you ever met or seen the man?”
“I’ve told you everything. I didn’t see his car or anyone with him.”
I scrolled through my phone for a pic of Jurg Falin. “Do you recognize this man?”
Peterson peered into the screen. “No.” He hesitated.
“Got a memory flash? I get it, buddy. When we’re upset or in panic mode, we have problems firing straight.” I used my best tone to show I held no grudges, only caring.
“Uh. He gave me a hundred-dollar bill and said not to tell anyone.”
“Do you have the money with you?”
“I spent it at lunch.”
“Must have been an expensive restaurant. Where did you go?”
“I said I spent it at lunch.”
I guessed what the hundred dollars had bought and questioned the validity of Peterson’s statement.