Craig Winters had been a researcher at Bracken Tech, a college in the suburbs. He and his team had contacted aliens, and were using children—including his own daughter—to try and crack their language. I'd accidentally been beamed up to an alien ship, and I still had nightmares about it.
"You again?" I could hear his scowl over the phone. I'd called him a few years ago about another case involving aliens—hey, they were better than vampires—and he'd been angry then. "No, I haven't been in contact with the aliens again! I only just got a new job at the planetarium! And I get to see my daughter now! Can you just stop bothering me?"
I felt bad. A little. But he'd been using kids. "Do you know a man named James Greenhill? Ever heard that name?"
"No. Let me think . . . Who is he?"
I hesitated. Should I trust him? Would he trust me? "He apparently has some way of transporting himself—somewhere—through a beam in the sky. And he's got a kid with him."
"What kid?"
"I don't know. A boy, He says it's his nephew, staying with him for a few days."
I waited. Maybe this was a mistake.
"Did you see it happen?"
I hesitated. But he was the only expert on aliens that I knew. And I wanted him to trust me, if he could help. "I have a video."
"Okay." He sounded doubtful too, but he gave me his email address.
"That guy from Bracken?" Rachel looked over her shoulder from her computer. "You're working with him?"
"Just trying to cover all the bases." I sent him Nessa Brigani's video. The one I'd taken would be longer than he probably wanted to watch. Maybe.
A few minutes later my phone buzzed. "Tom Jurgen? This is Lieutenant Steely at the Wilmette Police Department."
"Thanks for calling." I put it on speaker. "I've got my assistant Rachel Dunn here. What can you tell me?"
She sighed. "We sent two officers to talk to him this morning. He denied being, uh, beamed up or whatever. We talked to the boy, who confirmed that he's Mr. Greenhill's nephew, Will. He also said he didn't know anything about—what you saw."
"Did you show Greenhill the video?"
"He said it was a fake."
Of course. "You could have it analyzed. Rachel did, and didn't think it was a fake."
"At this point I'm not sure we have evidence of any kind of crime. The kid seems fine. I'm not saying I believe any of this, but I guess there's actually there's no law against beaming up to an alien ship in your backyard in the middle of the night."
"What if there's a kid involved?"
"Again, the kid seems fine. I don't any have any credible evidence of any crime."
I wanted to ask if she'd mentioned my name to Greenhill, but I didn't want to tip her off to my next move. So I said, "Well, thank you for calling. Have a good day."
We hung up. Rachel snorted. "So what's our next move?"
I finished my coffee. "Back to Wilmette. To check out the kid."
She groaned. "Let me get a little work done? Please?"
"Take your time." I stood up. "Let me make more coffee."
I rang Greenhill's doorbell.
Midafternoon. No naps—or other things. Lots of coffee. We'd both gotten a little work done at home.
Now we waited outside until Greenhill opened the door. He wore jeans and a blue buttoned-down shirt. "Can I help you? Oh—it's you again."
"Tom Jurgen." I handed him my card. "This is my associate, Rachel. We were next door last night when Ms. Brigani passed away."
He peered at my card, then shoved it into his back pocket. "Is there a problem? Like I said, I didn't know her very well. I only moved in last month or so. But I'm sorry for your—what happened."
I nodded. "Look, Mr. Greenhill, I know the police were here earlier today, and I know they showed you a video—"
"That's a fake!" He shook his head. "It never happened. Not last night, not any night since I've lived here. I'm sorry, maybe Ms.—Brigani? Had dementia or something."
For someone with dementia, she made a good eggplant parmesan. But that wasn't going to be the winning argument. "Maybe. Can I ask you a few questions, though?"
I expected him to slam the door. Instead he held it open. "I suppose."
Inside a living room he gestured at a sofa. "Coffee? Soda?"
"Maybe a Coke." I'd learned long ago that it was a good idea to accept any offer from a source. Doing a favor builds rapport.
The living room was bare. Bookshelves empty except for one or two volumes, a few generic posters by French impressionists tacked to the walls. A big-screen TV sat on the floor.
Greenhill came back with two cans of Coke and a bottle of water. He slouched down in a chair. "What do you want?"
"Thanks." I popped the can. "So you were asleep last night at 2 a.m.?"
"No, I told you, I have insomnia most nights." He sipped his water. "I was watching a movie."
"What movie?" Rachel made it sound as if she was just looking for recommendations.
"Uh, Butch Cassidy. And the Sundance Kid." He shrugged. "I might have dozed off here and there. I remember them jumping off the waterfall."
Rachel giggled. "It's one of my favorite movies."
I leaned forward. "You can't see your backyard from here?"
"No." He turned his head toward a hallway. Then he looked back at us. "I was sitting right there on the sofa. Can you see the back door?"
I leaned around. "No."
"I don't remember anything until I heard the sirens and the flashing lights out on the street. That's when I came out—"
Before I could ask Greenhill about not remembering anything, a young boy, about 10 years old, came down the hall. "Jim? Can I have a snack?"
He had blonde hair and wore an Iron Man T-shirt and shorts. He gazed at Rachel and me for a minute, then looked at the kitchen. "Please?"
"Sure, Will." Greenhill stood up. "Just a minute."
Greenhill came back a minute later. "That's my nephew, William. He's staying for me a few days while his parents are out of the country."
"Could we talk to him?" I tried to keep my voice neutral.
Greenhill scowled. "Just for a minute. Will?"
The boy came back into the living room. "Yeah?"
"This is Mr. Jurgen and, uh, Rachel." He looked uncomfortable. "They'd just like to ask you a few questions."
Will blinked. "Am I in trouble?"
I shook my head. "Nobody's in trouble, Will. We just work for the lady next door. Worked. Anyway, where are you from, Will?"
"Pittsburgh." He stayed near Greenhill.
"How long are you here for?"
"Two weeks. My mom's sick. I just got here yesterday."
"I hope she gets better," Rachel said. "You must miss her."
Will nodded.
"Will, last night, did you happen to see a bright light in the backyard?"
He shook his head. "I was asleep."
"All right, Is that it?" Greenhill glared at me.
One more thing. "What's your last name, Will?"
"Uh, Baldinger."
"And your mother?"
"Marion. Why?"
"Just curious." I nodded. "Thanks, Will."
Rachel stood up and offered a hand. Awkwardly, Will stepped forward and shook it, then disappeared down the hall.
I stood up too. "Is your sister Marion okay?"
He sighed. "Ovarian cancer.
Damn it. "I'm very sorry. Thanks for your time, Mr. Greenhill. Sorry to bother you."
He stood up and shrugged. "Like I said, I'm sorry about Ms. Brigani. She seemed nice."
We all shook hands at the door. I hesitated. "By the way, Mr. Greenhill, what do you do?"
"I'm a copywriter. Freelance, so I work at home a lot. It's—convenient."
"I'm sure. Well, thanks again."
Out in the car I took Rachel's hand. "So?"
She snatched it away, "It's not Greenhill. It's Will. He's the alien."
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