"Did you hear about that?" Susan Pemberton asked Cesar Gutierrez, sitting across from her in the hotel bar, as she poured sugar into her latte. She was gesturing toward a TV from which an anchorman was reading news above a local phone number.
Escapee Hotline.
"Wouldn't it be Escaper?" Gutierrez asked.
Susan blinked. "I don't know."
The businessman continued, "I didn't mean to be light about it. It's terrible. He killed two people, I heard." The handsome Latino sprinkled cinnamon into his cappuccino, then sipped, spilling a bit of spice on his slacks. "Oh, look at that. I'm such a klutz." He laughed. "You can't take me anywhere."
He wiped at the stain, which only made it worse. "Oh, well."
This was a business meeting. Susan, who worked for an event-planning company, was going to put together an anniversary party for his parents--but, being currently single, the thirty-nine-year-old woman automatically sized him up from a personal perspective, noting he was only a few years older than she and wore no wedding ring.
They'd disposed of the details of the party--cash bar, chicken and fish, open wine, fifteen minutes to exchange new vows and then dancing to a DJ. And now they were chatting over coffee before she went back to the office to work up an estimate.
"You'd think they would've got him by now." Then Gutierrez glanced outside, frowning.
"Something wrong?" Susan asked.
"It sounds funny, I know. But just as I was getting here I saw this car pull up. And somebody who looked a little like him, Pell, got out." He nodded at the TV.
"Who? The killer?"
He nodded. "And there was a woman driving."
The TV announcer had just repeated that his accomplice was a young woman.
"Where did he go?"
"I wasn't paying attention. I think toward the parking garage by the bank."
She looked toward the place.
Then the businessman gave a smile. "But that's crazy. He's not going to be here." He nodded past where they were looking. "What's that banner? I saw it before."
"Oh, the concert on Friday. Part of a John Steinbeck celebration. You read him?"
The businessman said, "Oh, sure. East of Eden. The Long Valley. You ever been to King City? I love it there. Steinbeck's grandfather had a ranch."
She touched her palm reverently to her chest. "Grapes of Wrath . . . the best book ever written."
"And there's a concert on Friday, you were saying? What kind of music?"
"Jazz. You know, because of the Monterey Jazz Festival. It's my favorite."
"I love it too," Gutierrez said. "I go to the festival whenever I can."
"Really?" Susan resisted an urge to touch his arm.
"Maybe we'll run into each other at the next one."
Susan said, "I worry . . . Well, I just wish more people would listen to music like that. Real music. I don't think kids are interested."
"Here's to that." Gutierrez tapped his cup to hers. "My ex . . . she lets our son listen to rap. Some of those lyrics? Disgusting. And he's only twelve years old."
"It's not music," Susan announced. Thinking: So. He has an ex. Good. She'd vowed never to date anyone over forty who hadn't been married.
He hesitated and asked, "You think you might be there? At the concert?"