Without Warning by David Rosenfelt Page A

a pub restaurant nearby.
    “Someplace more private,” I said. If we were to be seen together at Callahan’s, it would be the talk of the town in a nanosecond. “I’ll pick you up in front of your office.”
    “This is for you to look at pictures?” she asked.
    “And for us to talk.”

 
     
    The planning was nothing short of brilliant. He knew that he was assessing it accurately, without ego, even though he was the one who had done the planning. But he didn’t think of himself as “The Planner”; that wasn’t the name he would have given himself. And “The Genius” seemed a tad immodest.
    Ironically, he almost revealed his preferred name to the world by putting it in the capsule. He even considered doing so again after the capsule had been opened. He thought about establishing a connection between himself and the cop, Jake Robbins, perhaps through e-mail, or hand-written letters, or some other form of communication. Had he done so, he would have signed the messages, “The Predictor.”
    But there were a bunch of reasons he didn’t do so. First, and maybe most important, it wasn’t part of the original plan. And with things going so perfectly, there seemed no reason to deviate.
    A personal connection would be dramatic, no question about that, and it would make it a more interesting media story. But it would also increase the chance of making a mistake, of exposing himself to danger, and the Predictor was not about to do that.
    Of course the plan was not carved in stone; it wasn’t designed to be. It was proactive, but also allowed for varying adjustments, based on the actions of the authorities. But whatever they did, he would be ready.
    And he would be in control.
    And eventually, the walls would come tumbling down.
    But for now there was no sense looking that far ahead. The Predictor had too much to do; he had to turn up the heat.
    There was only one way to do that, and the plan covered that very clearly.
    Someone else was going to have to die.

 
     
    King Eider’s is a restaurant-pub in a town called Damariscotta. It had a few things going for it as a place to take Katie for dinner and meaningful conversation. For one thing, it had crab cakes worth committing a felony for, and the best lobsters in the state. For another, it had what seemed like four million kinds of great local beer.
    Lastly, and in this case most importantly, it was forty-five minutes from Wilton. We could sit in relative anonymity, which is exactly what I wanted.
    We did very little talking on the way there, and nothing of consequence was mentioned. Katie was always a big Red Sox fan, so she commented on the three-game losing streak they were on at the time.
    “That breaks my heart,” I said.
    “Oh, right, I forgot. You’re a Yankee fan.”
    I grew up in Bridgeport, Connecticut, an area where one is forced to choose allegiance to either the Yankees or the Red Sox upon exiting the womb. “Right. One of my most endearing qualities.”
    She smiled. “Hard to keep track of them all.”
    “I sometimes find it helpful to make a list.”
    Another smile. “I’ve got one somewhere.”
    As was the case with every woman I ever met, I had no idea whatsoever what Katie was thinking. Somehow in her case, though, that always took on added importance.
    When we got to the restaurant, we asked for and requested an upstairs booth in the corner. After we ordered, Katie asked, “Look first, or talk?”
    “Look.”
    She opened a manila envelope she had brought with her and took out what seemed to be about thirty photographs. They were shots taken by the paper’s photographer, Jimmy Osborne, the day the capsule was buried in the ground. It was mostly posed stuff, town dignitaries holding a shovel or just standing next to the capsule. I’m sure very few made the paper, and very few should have.
    Most of the pictures had spectators in the background, and it was them that I was most interested in. I knew who most of the people were, but not all.