Page 53 of The Grave Artist
After she’d left, Jake gave one last look at the uncooperative murder board and sat down at his workstation. Sanchez’s comment brought to mind the phone call that made him swap tasks with the detective in the park north of Cedar Hills Cemetery—the call that had saved Jake from a vicious stabbing and maybe death.
The buzzing of his cell phone pulled his mind from dark thoughts. He glanced at the caller ID, smiled and tapped the screen.
“Uncle Jake!”
His niece’s cheerful voice always lifted his spirits. “Hey. I got your message.”
Julia Heron—his brother Rudy’s daughter—was presently in his apartment in the Bay Area. He was letting her stay there, as he had relocated temporarily to Southern California to take on the assignment with I-squared.
“I’m glad you called back,” she said.
He looked at his phone’s screen, taking in the miniature image of a slender woman in her twenties, with freckled cheeks. Julia was on the other end of FaceTime—only it wasn’t FaceTime because Jake would never ever conduct a conversation on a commercial app. Madness. He used a video comm app of his own making.
With pixie-cut blonde hair (the opposite of Jake’s and Rudy’s—shades could apparently skip generations), intense blue eyes and gray, logo-free hoodie, she looked every inch the earnest, no-nonsense grad student. In truth, those days were behind her, having graduated early from Stanford with degrees in computer science and electrical engineering and—because why not?—fine arts.
Her message, which had derailed his trip back to the cemetery to interview Sylvie, was both simple and earth-shattering—to Jake, at least.
Your mom came here to your apartment. I wasn’t home. She left a security cam message. Wants to talk to you.
His mother.
Returning as if from the dead.
“Did she contact your dad?” Jake asked. His brother was currently in Africa on business.
Julia shook her head. “I asked him, but he hadn’t heard from her. I think it’s only you she wants to see.”
“Play it.”
His niece was sitting at his desk, dominated by several large monitors. Behind, unseen from this angle, was a beautiful view of the bay, with Alcatraz as the focal point. Jake rarely looked that way. Scenery didn’t interest him.
Julia entered a few commands on the keyboard and the security cam video appeared on the biggest screen. She turned her camera lens toward it.
Jake was taken aback by the sight of his mother. Lydia Heron appeared gaunt, pale and somber, and the high-definition video revealed her to be makeup-free. She was in a floral dress, the sort of garment he associated with Amish teachers, though he had never seen one in person. The burgundy-and-black frock had a high collar and was accessorized with several prominent necklaces. Her head was covered in a dark-brown ski cap, which unsettled him. Mothers should not wear such things unless they were skiing.
Her voice was both familiar and eerily alien. “Jacoby ... Jake, it’s me.” A pause. “It’s been so long ... I know. Life has been so crazy. In so many ways ... but I want to see you. It’s important.” Then peering closer into the lens: “Are you there, Jake?”
She hit the door buzzer button again.
A moment later she did something curious. As he watched, she looked around, slowly pivoting in a 360-degree circle, then going back for a second glance up the street in both directions.
Her body language and her face, when she returned to the camera, radiated fear. Was she being followed? Was she in danger?
One more press of the button. “Jake, please ...”
A huge interval passed, though the time stamp revealed it was a mere ten seconds. “I’ll come back, Jacoby. I love you.”
Then she was gone.
Julia said, “I didn’t recognize her at first. I haven’t seen her since I was little.”
His parents, Lydia and Gary Heron, had not been fixtures in the extended family for ages.
His niece’s brow furrowed. “How do you think she found your address? You told me it was super secret.”
The ownership of his apartment was hidden in layers of corporations and trusts, which Jake himself owned. Completely legal.
And not a foolproof way to disappear.
