Free The Zero by Jess Walter Page B

preparation ( Drip with virgin olive oil ), all the way through the directions ( Let stand for five minutes, garnish with two twisted orange slices, and serve ). He stared at the recipe, then looked back up at Markham. For several seconds, there was no noise in the room.
    “A recipe,” Remy said.
    “Ah! Somebody’s got some college,” Markham said. “And where do you think we found this recipe?”
    “I…I don’t have any idea.”
    “Do you know where Crystal Beach is?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Markham looked suspicious, but he continued. “Crystal Beach is in southern Ontario, on Abino Bay, across Lake Erie, near Buffalo. Lovely place. Cold in the winter, though…cold as a sober lesbian at a frat party. As you might guess.” He waited for a laugh again, and then became serious. “We found this recipe…in the possession of a forty-six-year-old homemaker, Mrs. Linda Vendron. Mrs. Vendron claims she was at Kennedy Airport that day, after a visit with her sister, and was waiting for a commuter flight to Buffalo when she heard about the attacks. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
    “No.”
    “When the airport closed, this Mrs. Vendron wasn’t able to get a flight to Buffalo, so she returned to her sister’s house. Finally, two days later, she took a bus to Buffalo. A very crowded bus, as she says now.” Markham leaned forward. “This Mrs. Vendron claims she found the recipe wedged in the seat of the bus. She says she picked it up because… she thought it would taste good . She thought her husband would like it. He likes pecans .”
    “But you…don’t believe her?”
    Markham looked stung. “Yes, we believe her. Of course, just to be sure, we polygraphed her.” He shook his head. “But why would anyone lie about liking pecans? Who doesn’t like pecans? Especially in a good fish recipe, a tender filet? No, the pecans give it some substance, some crunch. Some weight. They’re soaked in honey. I think you could substitute corn syrup. But it specifically calls for honey. A hint of cayenne. Sea salt. You bake it for twenty minutes on low heat. Some chives. No, it’s a good little fish for a summer meal. Tasty. Light. We had the lab make it, just to be sure it was, you know…good.” Markham leaned back. “We’ll probably make it again; I’ll let you know.”
    He leaned forward again, his index finger at his mouth. “But the question is not what does this fish taste like, or even what wine should you serve with the fish—I suppose you could get away with a Gewurtzemeiner or even a buttery Chardonnay. The question, Brian, is this: Who left this recipe on that bus?”
    “Her?” Remy picked up the photo.
    “March Selios,” Markham said, gesturing with his palms as if he’d performed a magic trick. “It’s a Greek surname. Second-generation immigrant. Older sister lives here in the city, works in real estate. Younger brother lives back at home in Kansas City with the parents. Dad runs a Greek restaurant there.”
    Remy looked at the recipe again. “And what makes you think this recipe belonged to…” He looked at the girl again. “…to March?”
    “We don’t have the luxury of thinking , Brian.” He reached in his briefcase for another photo. This one showed the same girl, March, sitting at her cubicle, smiling, holding some red Mylar balloons with Happy 26th Birthday written on them in silver. Markham reached in the briefcase, returned with another detail blowup, and handed Remy ajeweler’s loupe. “Here,” Markham said, and pushed the picture over to Remy. “Look closely. Over her shoulder.”
    It was hard to make out at first, but then…yes, there was no doubt. On the wall of March Selios’s cubicle was the very same handwritten recipe for pecan encrusted sole that sat on the table between Remy and Markham.
    “Jesus, that’s amazing,” Remy said.
    “Thank you.”
    “I mean, how did you know to look for…” Remy was having trouble following all of this. “How did