Chapter 2

Jarrod spent the next morning doing some unpacking and organizing at his home. The place had never really seemed like a home – more like a glorified hotel room – because it held so few of the things that really were him. Books he loved, the baskets he'd been given by Modoc and Shoshone people he'd come to know, non-city casual clothing that he'd wear around the ranch and other things that he'd kept at home.

Well, this was home now, and once he began unpacking things that said he was home, it began to feel like home. That was actually a very good feeling, to be in this group of rooms that used to feel more like temporary housing, but now felt like home.

He wondered how he'd feel when he visited back at the ranch. "Visited." That's how he'd feel. This really was home now.

It took until mid-morning, but he finally washed his mind of the serious thoughts with a deep sigh and went to his favorite place to get a good cup of coffee. In a sort of reverie he went in, took a seat and accepted a cup from his favorite waitress. A beautiful woman only a few years younger than he was. A widow, she told him once. No children. Margaret, her name was. She preferred Maggie.

"Another, Mr. Barkley?" she asked after he had finished his first rather quickly.

"Yes, Maggie," he said, smiling. "I think so."

She poured again, with a lovely smile.

She would be a wonderful woman to fall in love with, Jarrod thought. Another time.

She went off. He wanted to go after her, but he didn't.

He finished his coffee, left enough money to pay for it and for a tip, and left.

XXXXX

Jarrod spent the rest of the day getting settled into his office. He unpacked boxes and reviewed correspondence until his eyes were miserable from the dust and the reading. There were two cases he had to pay attention to right away, so he had his secretary contact the clients by messenger to arrange meetings with them at the end of the week. The others he dictated letters on, and on one case he put together a filing with the court.

Then, at the end of the day, his secretary Angie brought in a telegram – the response to the wire he'd sent the evening before.

It was brief and to the point. In San Francisco – stop – your place eight pm tonight - stop.

Jarrod figured he would never get any faster service than that. He pocketed the telegram and looked at his watch. It was nearly six. That gave him enough time to stop at the café for dinner and get home.

He was at Maggie's table again in less than half an hour. She had that great smile for him. "Got good meatloaf and mashed potatoes tonight, Mr. Barkley," she said.

"Sold," he said, "and some coffee."

"Vegetables?"

"Surprise me with what's good tonight."

She brought him coffee in less than a minute and his dinner within three minutes more. "We've still got a slice of apple pie left, too," Maggie said as she put his plate down in front of him.

"Save it for me," Jarrod said, considering adding salt to the meatloaf but then changing his mind. "I'm a hungry man tonight."

"You got it," she said.

Smiling, Jarrod watched her leave. He liked her – a lot.

XXXXXXXX

Jarrod was home by 7:45. He lit the lamps, took off his jacket, unbuttoned his vest and loosened his tie. Flopping into the chair by the fireplace with a scotch, he reminded himself again to get his housekeeper back and then gave himself some long minutes with no thoughts at all, just the taste of his favorite scotch and the comfort of his favorite chair.

Until the clock in the dining room chimed eight times, and only a minute or so later, a knock came on the front door.

Weary, Jarrod got up and went to the door. He opened it. The man standing there had a quiet smile. Jarrod nodded to him and said, "Come on in, Agent Macklin."

The face from two years past came in as Jarrod closed the door. "It was lucky you caught me while I was in San Francisco," Macklin said. "I'm taking a bit of a holiday before I have to go back to Washington."

"Well, I'm about to ask you to give up your holiday for me," Jarrod said, ushering him into the living room. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"You're having scotch?"

"Yes, would you like one?"

"Yes, thank you."

Macklin sat down on the sofa, and Jarrod brought him a glass of scotch. He tasted it and gave a happy "Hmm…"

Jarrod sat down in his chair again. "Thanks for coming."

Macklin nodded. "When someone I owe a favor calls it in, I answer fast. I don't take things like that for granted."

"I'll get to the point," Jarrod said. "Over the past few years, both of my brothers and I have been targets of contract killers. I've had Pinkerton on it, and we've done some investigating ourselves, but we've only gotten so far before we hit brick walls, past and present."

"What do you have?"

"A name, Agatha Cromwell, which she didn't begin using until 1872. She married, husband died in 1876, drowned at the waterfront here. His name was Alexander Carpenter. They were married from June 1873 to June 1876. She went back to Cromwell until 1877. Then she disappeared as Cromwell and hasn't resurfaced as anyone else."

"Gone?" Macklin said.

"Gone. Liquidated the assets her husband left her when he died. Must have changed her name again lately. Pinkerton can't find any assets they can trace to her, can't find any name she might be using now, can't find a photo of any kind. She was somebody else before October 1872 and she's somebody else now."

"And that's all you have?"

"That's it, except that she hired a contract killer named Melanie Palmer two years ago to kill Nick. We caught her before she could do the job. She's been in Quentin ever since."

"Life?"

"Until we got her sentence commuted to 25 years for giving us Agatha Cromwell's name."

"You think there's any chance this Melanie Palmer just lied to you?"

Jarrod sighed. "I don't know. I don't think so – I can have that commutation reversed if we catch her in a lie, so I don't think she had any reason to lie and every reason to tell the truth."

"Well, let's just assume she told you the truth then."

"I need to find this Agatha Cromwell. As far as I know, my family hasn't had any dealings with her, but since I don't know what name she used prior to 1872, I can't be sure. I need to you pull some strings and get to some information Pinkerton couldn't reach. I have to put this woman out of business so my family can breathe again."

Macklin nodded. "I can look a little deeper than Pinkerton could. How is your family, otherwise?"

"Fine," Jarrod said, "although I should mention that I don't live at the ranch in Stockton anymore. I'm here, full time."

Macklin's eyes darkened. "I hope I don't have anything to do with that."

"To be honest," Jarrod said, "a little. You cost me a bit of trust with that Alderson mess."

"I know, and I regret it more than you know, but Alderson is in prison, where he belongs, and we couldn't have put him there without you."

Jarrod nodded. "I don't regret helping you. Now I really need you to help me."

Macklin put his empty glass down on the coffee table and got up. "I'll do my best and touch base with you every evening, here, sooner if I get anything. I think it's best we not be seen together in public. Look for me at seven tomorrow."

Jarrod stood and offered his hand, which Macklin took. "I hope you can help me put this to rest. My family's safety is the most important thing in my life right now."

Macklin nodded. "I understand. Believe it or not, I have a family, too – wife and two children back in Washington and my parents in Maryland. I don't get to be with them as much as I would like, but their safety is paramount to me, too."

Jarrod walked him to the door. "Thanks for your help, John."

Macklin nodded as he went out the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jarrod."