by Mary McBride
Then, last but hardly least, came Angela of the red, swollen eyes and the wet, spiky lashes. Crying over Harry Hollywood, no doubt.
“I'll go get the car,” he told Doug, turning and walking out before he had to see her tearstained face up close.
The Caddy was splattered with eggs from its shattered headlights to its busted taillights.
Bobby sprinted back to the theater and told Doug, who coopted the manager's office with a flash of his badge, then propelled Daisy Riordan into it over her vehement objections. Tricia followed Doug, and that left an irritated Bobby, a tearstained Angela, and a rather befuddled professor standing in the lobby, which was quickly filling for the last showings of the night.
“Oh, dear,” Gerald Gerrard said, taking a swipe at his glasses. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Somebody vandalized Mrs. Riordan's car,” Bobby said.
“Any other cars on the lot get the same treatment?” Angela asked.
Bobby shook his head.
Doug signaled him from the office doorway. “Agent Yates and I are going to see Mrs. Riordan and Dr. Gerrard home,” he said. “I've already called in a report to the local police. They'll be here to take a look at the vehicle any minute. You and Angela talk to them, and then figure out how to get the woman's car back to her clean and in working order, will you?”
“Who's going to stay with Mrs. Riordan in the house?”
“I'm keeping her in the trailer until I can get some clarification from Washington. The president needs to know about this incident and decide just how he wants us to proceed.”
“Good luck,” Bobby said with a distinct snort. Crazy Daisy would probably take out the trailer like an F5 tornado.
Special Agent in Charge Doug Coulter replied with a beleaguered sigh. “All I know is if she were my mother, I'd have her on a plane to Washington tonight. If he doesn't want to play it that way, then so be it. Anyway, at least this way we won't blow your cover for being on the inside.”
Bobby didn't bother to tell him that Daisy Riordan already knew. The evening was bad enough without having his supervisor all over his ass about that. Goddammit. Now he was going to have to spend the next hour or so with the local cops, then get on the phone, trying to find a garage or a dealership that was open at this hour and able to make the repairs. And he was going to have to spend all that time in the company of his wife, the president of the Rod Bishop fan club. The only thing worse would have been if Doug had decided to leave Agent Yates behind.
“I'm sorry the evening turned out this way,” Angela was saying to the professor as Bobby rejoined them.
The guy looked pretty disconcerted, but then who wouldn't when his transportation had just been vandalized and his date hustled away by federal agents?
“Not to worry, my dear,” Gerrard replied. “I suppose incidents such as these are customary when a woman has as high a profile as Margaret. I'm just heartened to see that she's receiving adequate security. I really wasn't aware that we were being—what's the proper expression?—shadowed by anyone this evening.”
“They keep their distance,” Bobby said. “And they'll take you home now, Professor. They're waiting just over there.” He pointed toward the office door, where Mrs. Riordan was just emerging, looking none too happy.
“Oh. Very good. Thank you very much.” He'd been wiping his glasses, but now he put them on, stowed his handkerchief in a pocket, and reached out his hand to Bobby. “Well, good night, Agent Holland.”
“Thanks for the promotion, Professor,” Bobby said, “but I'm not on the government payroll. My wife and I just take care of things around the house for Mrs. Riordan.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I had assumed otherwise.”
“They're waiting for you, sir.” Angela gestured across the lobby.
“Oh, yes. Well, good night.”
“Good night,” both Bobby and Angela said in unison.
“Agent Holland my ass,” Bobby muttered when the man was out of hearing distance. “What's he trying to pull?”
“It was a logical mistake,” Angela said.
He glared at her. “In your opinion.”
“Fine.” She returned the glare with gusto. “In my opinion it was a logical mistake. Look. I didn't trash the car, Bobby, and I didn't choose the stupid movie, so give me a break, okay?” Her voice dwindled to a rough little growl. “We've got work to do here, and I'd really like to get home before dawn. Do you want me to go out and wait for the locals, or should I get on the phone and try to find a garage?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Okay. Then I'll go outside and take care of the police report. I could use some fresh air.” She stuck her hand out, palm up. “The keys, please.”
He slapped them in her hand. It wasn't his anger about the vandalism or his suspicions about the professor that were eating at him just then, but rather his wife's red-rimmed eyes.
“You better check your mascara, Agent Holland,” he said coldly, “before you try to hold your own with the local police.”
She stiffened. “Thanks. I'll do that.”
Far too angry to go back inside and ask Bobby where he'd parked the stupid car, Angela roamed around the parking lot, muttering to herself, until she finally found it. What a mess. There must've been five or six dozen eggs splatted on it, their slimy yellow ooze relieved every few feet by what looked like rotten tomatoes. In addition to the headlights and taillights, the rear right window was broken. Bobby hadn't mentioned that.
No. He'd mentioned her mascara. The jerk. She dug a mirror out of her handbag and angled it toward the light overhead to check out the condition of her makeup. It wasn't so bad. From what Bobby had said, you'd have thought she looked like a raccoon, for heaven's sake. Anyway, how was she supposed to look after seeing her husband reveling in the attentions of the Man-Eater?
He should have had more sense than to make such a spectacle of his libido when he was on duty. By the same token, Angela should have had more sense than to rush back to her seat and do a real number on herself with Rod up on the screen and Bobby in her heart. Rod with his emotions on display for her and the entire world to see. Bobby with his brick wall and Terrible Tricia trying her best to breach it. All Angela could think was, Thank God the movie had a sad ending, so her smudged mascara didn't look altogether inappropriate.
There was no time for repairs now, though, when she saw the police cruiser with its flashing lights turn into the parking lot. Angela swore, dropped her mirror back into her bag, and waved her arms to attract the officers’ attention. They weren't even looking, apparently. The cruiser pulled up to the front door of the theater, and one of the cops went inside, only to emerge a minute later with Bobby close behind him. The two of them jumped into the black-and-white, and then it headed in Angela's direction.
What? He didn't think she could handle this? That she couldn't find her way around the local constabulary?
When the cruiser stopped a few yards away, Bobby was the first one out. “This is my wife,” he said. “We work for Mrs. Riordan.”
Oh, so that was it. He thought she was going to blow their cover with these guys. It was a comfort to know he had so much confidence in her. And naturally, now that Bobby was here, the cops would just give the little lady a tip of their caps while they gave their undiluted attention to her supposedly better half.
The two uniformed officers got out of the car and did indeed nudge the brims of their caps in her direction. “Evening, ma'am,” the one with the sergeant stripes said.
She was furious with Bobby, even though he did do a pretty subtle job for a supposed civilian in directing the local guys to take adequate photographs and notes of the scene. They finished up in about half an hour, radioed a truck to tow the Caddy to the local dealership, then got back in their cruiser and pulled away.
Angela leaned a hip against the only dry spot on the right rear fender. “How long do you think it'll be before the tow truck gets here?”
Bobby glanced a
t his watch. “Five, maybe ten minutes.”
“You still think the professor had something to do with this?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
“So he sneaked out of the theater, made egg salad of the car, and then sneaked back in? Is that your theory?” Angela tried not to curl her lip, but didn't quite succeed.
“I don't know, Ange. You were sitting right behind him, so you tell me. Did he sneak out? Or were you so overcome by the sight of your boyfriend, Harry Hollywood, that you didn't even notice?”
Angela's mouth opened, closed, then opened again just enough for her to stammer, “You know? About… about… ?”
“You and Bishop?” he shot back. “Yeah. I know.”
“How?” The word came out as a startled little gulp.
“Some big mouth in the L.A. field office who just couldn't wait to pass along the happy tidings.”
“Oh, Bobby.” Oh, God. “I didn't think anybody knew.” Not you. “At least nobody in Washington. Hardly anybody in L.A.” She was babbling all of a sudden, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to stop saying it. Feeling guilty as hell, too, but damned if she'd apologize. Not after she'd just seen him with Tricia the Tart.
“I just… I just didn't realize you knew,” she said finally, lamely.
“Yeah. Well.” His mouth thinned with anger. Even in the erratic illumination of the parking lot, she could see the hurt in his eyes, but damned if his voice betrayed it when he said, “A year's a long time, I guess.”
Eleven months, three weeks, and three days, she was tempted to say. Every one of them long. Every one of them full of longing.
“Bobby, I didn't—”
His sad eyes sparked ominously. “Let's not talk about it, Ange.” He glared at his watch, turned away from her, and looked toward the entrance to the parking lot.
“Where the hell is that truck? It ought to be here by now.”
“We have to talk about this,” she said.
If he heard her, he ignored her, so she said it again, slowly and distinctly. “Bobby, we have to talk about this.”
He turned. There was pure murder in his eyes and a chilling calm in his voice when he said, “Angela, you talk about it all you want. You can sit out here and talk about it to every single person who walks across the lot. Be my guest.”
He stabbed a finger at the sky. “Talk to the stars, for all I care. But if you think for one minute that I'm going to stand here and listen to my wife telling me she is or is not fucking some candy-ass movie star, you better think again.” He swore for punctuation before he added, “I'm going back inside and call those bastards with the tow truck.”
Angela didn't have to think again. What was the point in saying anything to someone who didn't listen?
“How is she?” Bobby asked when he entered the surveillance trailer, where both Doug and Tricia sat gazing at monitors.
“Madder than a wet hen,” Doug said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Goddamned police department tow truck,” he said, summing up the nightmare of missed communications and mixed signals that had taken a good two hours.
After they finally arrived at the Cadillac dealership, the general manager, a Mr. Seymour, who'd apparently been rousted from his bed by a couple of overeager young cops and who still had his striped pajama top tucked into a pair of gray gabardine slacks, was hesitant about supplying a decent loaner for Mrs. Riordan based solely on the request of “her damn houseboy.”
It was well after midnight, the damn houseboy was beat, and he wasn't looking forward to sharing a bed with the president of Rod Bishop's fan club. “Where's Mrs. Riordan now?” he asked.
Doug jerked a thumb toward the rear of the trailer. “Stewing in my office. The president called her about an hour ago and told her she was supposed to take orders from me for the duration, and she didn't like that one little bit.”
“Where's Angela?” Tricia asked, smiling at Bobby as if she were hoping his reply would be either “California” or “dead.”
“She's checking out the house before we bring Mrs. Riordan back in. She'll call down with an all-clear.”
No sooner had he said that than the phone rang. Tricia picked it up, said hello, and then good-bye. “All clear,” she announced.
“I'll take Mrs. Riordan on up,” Bobby said, heading for Doug's office, donning his invisible armor in preparation for a few quick lashes of Crazy Daisy's tongue. He knocked softly on the closed door, then opened it when there was no reply.
The president's mother was fast asleep, sitting nearly straight up in Doug's swivel chair, her hands folded primly and properly atop the handbag on her lap, her head bowed, and her chin resting not so elegantly on her chest. Her even breathing was verging on a snore. She'd had a long day, Bobby thought, and a lousy end to her date. If Gerald Gerrard turned out to be anything less than he claimed to be, if he hurt this woman in any way, Bobby was going to personally kill the guy.
He walked quietly around the desk, bent his knees, and gathered Daisy Riordan up in his arms.
She stirred a little as he settled her against his chest. “You're a good boy, Robert,” she murmured sleepily.
“Thank you, ma'am. I'm sure glad somebody thinks so.”
14
The next morning, after the debacle of her date, Mrs. Riordan refused to leave her room.
“She's pissed at the president,” Bobby said when he brought her breakfast tray down.
Angela, just back from a run and in the process of stretching her calf muscles, merely sniffed and replied, “So are a couple million Democrats.”
That turned out to be the longest sentence his wife spoke to him all that day. It was just as well, though, that she confined her speech to the bare essentials—yes, no, maybe, and I don't know—because Bobby didn't want to hear what Angela had seemed so eager to discuss the night before. Namely, ol’ Rod and whether or not they were making it with each other.
He was thankful for her silence. All that day and the one that followed. But while Angela wasn't talking, the president's mother was. The woman was not only accepting calls from Gerald Gerrard but, as near as Bobby could figure, making calls to him as well. Every time he knocked on her door with a tray, he could hear her say, “Just a moment,” into the phone. Every time he picked up the phone in the kitchen to call the trailer, Mrs. Riordan would curtly announce, “This line is occupied.”
All in all, things were pretty quiet during the two days following the big date. No more threats arrived. The local police failed to turn up a single witness or a partial print that might lead them to the parking lot vandals. Tricia Yates behaved herself, and Bobby walked around more or less mute, more rather than less turned on by the proximity of his wife.
In those two days his tattoo had progressed from an ugly bruise to something resembling an actual heart. As for his own heart, it was nowhere near his sleeve as yet.
On the third day, however, things picked up considerably, beginning when Bobby was shaving after his morning shower. Someone rapped on the bathroom door.
“Bobby, are you decent?” Angela asked. “I need my eye drops.”
Two whole sentences, he thought. Practically a speech compared to her recent silence. Was he decent? He studied his lathered face in the mirror for a second, then glanced down at the towel fastened around his hips. Decent enough, he figured. “Come on in.”
She stepped into the little room tentatively, almost shyly. “Sorry to bother you,” she said.
“No problem.” He angled his chin and dragged his razor just beneath his jawline, trying to pretend he wasn't affected by her presence or fazed by the floral scent that always clung to her or the least bit aroused by the sleek satin curves of her dark blue nightgown. In the mirror, he concentrated on his wife's face rather than his own.
“Ouch. Shit.” The unwatched blade took a little bite out of his chin.
“Here.” She handed him a tissue, then nudged him aside with her hip. “Move, Bobby, so I can get in the medi
cine cabinet.”
“What do you need drops for?” he asked while he stuck a piece of tissue to his wound. “What's wrong? Are they prescription?”
“No. Nothing's wrong. It's just that my eyes get dry sometimes.”
He had to laugh. “I don't think I've ever seen you with dry eyes, Ange. I always thought it was some sort of tear-duct defect that ran in the Callifano family.”
“Very funny.”
While she perused the contents of the cabinet, Bobby took a few more strokes with the razor, then rinsed it in the sink and reached for a towel to wipe the remnants of shaving cream from his face. He was remembering other mornings when they'd had to fight for the mirror in their bathroom after they'd postponed getting out of bed to make love just once more, then had to scramble in order to report for work on time. Those were the best mornings of his life. Man, how he wanted them back. The mornings, the nights, and everything in between.
“There they are,” Angela said irritably. “They were behind your deodorant You know, if you'd just put things back in the same place where you got them, Bobby, you wouldn't have to spend so much time looking around for them.”
“Hey. You're the one who lost something. Not me.” He reached in front of her for his aftershave. “This is nice, Ange. Remember when we—”
She was staring in the mirror with a weird look on her face.
“What's the matter?” he asked. But as soon as he said the words, Bobby knew the answer. The tattoo. Shit. He'd completely forgotten about it.
“Is that a heart?” She stared at it a moment longer in the mirror before she dropped her gaze to his arm. “You had a heart tattooed on your arm?”
“Well. Yeah.” He felt like the biggest jerk in the world.
Now there was the hint of a smile on her face. “I thought, when you said you got a tattoo, that it would be more along the lines of a coiled snake or a dragon. A dagger, maybe. I dunno.” Her smile widened to an outright grin. “But a heart?”
The more she grinned, the more he battened down his lips and clenched his jaw. All that stuff he was going to tell her about wearing his heart on his sleeve suddenly sounded dopey, like something a fifteen-year-old kid would say. Angela was trying to turn his arm now to get a better look at it. Bobby pulled away.