Free Unknown Remains by Peter Leonard

She parked in the driveway, went inside, and watched Lloyd, in his blue uniform, come up the front walk. She opened the glass storm door and greeted him.
    Lloyd was a good guy but he was a talker. One time she asked him how many miles he walked in a day, and he gave her a fifteen-minute answer. The moral of the story: never ask a mailman a question.
    â€œHow’re you doing, Diane? I’m sorry to hear about Jack. I hope you got my card.”
    â€œI did, thanks.” He’d been calling them by their first names since they moved into the house a year ago. Diane thought it was odd. Lloyd delivered their mail and probably thought he knew them.
    â€œHere you go.” He handed her a pile of magazines and envelopes.
    â€œLloyd, let me ask you something. Have you noticed anything unusual in the past couple weeks?”
    He glanced at her and shrugged. “Not sure what you mean.”
    She wasn’t, either.
    â€œThere have been a lot of funerals.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œI saw these two guys sitting in a car out front a couple times.”
    â€œWhat were they doing?”
    â€œFirst time, I thought they were looking for an address, stopping by to pay their respects. But then I saw them again a couple days later.”
    â€œWhat do they look like?”
    â€œOne was clean-cut and fair, wore a shirt and tie. The other one was dark, not a black man, but ethnic and mean-looking.”
    The descriptions fit Cobb and the Heavy. Why would they be together? It didn’t make sense, couldn’t be right. “What kind of car?”
    â€œA dark sedan, a Toyota maybe, or a Honda.”
    â€œIf you see them again, let me know, will you?”
    She stood at the kitchen counter and called the corporate headquarters of Sterns & Morrison in San Francisco and asked for Susan Howe.
    â€œMrs. McCann, I hope you’re doing well. How can I help you?”
    â€œI’m surprised that someone from your office didn’t call or e-mail to say a grief counselor would be contacting me.”
    â€œI’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. You think Sterns and Morrison hired a grief counselor for you? We didn’t.”
    â€œHe said he was hired by the company.”
    Susan said, “What’s his name?”
    â€œDuane Cobb.”
    â€œI’ve never heard of him, and I can assure you we did not hire Mr. Cobb.” Susan paused. “If this man contacts you again, I’d suggest you call the police. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
    Another surprise. If Cobb wasn’t a grief counselor, what did he want? Diane would have to wait for him to show up. She’d decide what to do. One thing was clear: she was on her own. There was no one she could go to for help.

TEN
    Cobb studied Jack McCann’s cell phone bill again from the comfort of his room at the Holiday Inn. There were two calls made on the morning of 9/11. One had been recorded at 9:14 AM , from New Jersey. He didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t the girlfriend’s. He dialed and listened to it ring several times before a man’s voice said, “Hello.”
    â€œIs Jack there?”
    â€œYou’ve got the wrong number.” Flat midwestern accent.
    â€œWho’s this?”
    Guy disconnected, cut Cobb off. He’d have to find out whose number it was and where he lived. Jack had called the number about half an hour after the first plane hit. Jack was in the middle of an emergency, a life-and-death situation, and made a phone call to someone.
    The second call was to his wife’s cell phone at 9:23 AM . Cobb’s guess, either McCann didn’t think he was going make it out of the tower and called her, or when the plane hit, he saw a solution to his problems, came up with an exit strategy, called, and told her the situation looked hopeless. The call lasted one minute and thirty-seven seconds, awfully short for a final