“What did you think of Molly Bracewell?”
He thought for a moment. “Smart. Capable. Extremely ambitious. Bit of a snake.”
“What does she think of Joan?”
“Her opinion isn’t high. She thinks Joan is too stupid to have framed Treebeard for Daniel’s murder.” He sipped his wine. He wasn’t sure he agreed with Bracewell on that one. “Your turn.”
Alicia seemed to weigh her words carefully. Then, “Bracewell’s alibi is watertight. She couldn’t have been physically present at the murder.” She paused. “I don’t think she had anything to do with it.”
“I never thought she did.” He narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Alicia’s gaze slid away. Their appetizer, a cheese souffle, arrived. Milo directed the waiter to set it in the center of the table, then urged Alicia to try it.
Her eyes closed as she chewed. “It’s fabulous. It tastes like cheesy air.”
They ate for a while, then he repeated his question. “What aren’t you telling me about Bracewell?”
They were getting down to brass tacks. Clearly she was mulling over whether to confide in him or not. Then, finally, she told him something he didn’t know.
“Treebeard said that the day before the murder he received a letter on Gaines campaign stationery asking him to the Gaines house the next night to try to hash out their differences.”
That was interesting. “If that letter really exists, obviously it was sent by the person who framed Treebeard for Gaines’ murder.”
Alicia nodded.
“Where is it now?”
“Treebeard says he lost it. But he described the letterhead perfectly.”
“Who does he say signed it?”
“Molly Bracewell.”
Milo watched her. “You believe him.”
She said nothing.
“But you don’t believe Bracewell had anything to do with it.” Could Joan have sent such a letter? Clearly Alicia thought there was a good chance she had.
Alicia was silent for some time. The souffle was cleared; salads were placed before them. Both left them untouched.
“There’s a lot that’s very ugly about Treebeard,” she said eventually. “It’s easy to believe he’s guilty of this murder, given not only the evidence but his character. But it’s people like Treebeard who made me become a prosecutor.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Where I grew up, I saw a lot of people get victimized and not know how to do anything about it. They got robbed or they got assaulted and they just ate it. They didn’t know how to file charges, or they didn’t speak English, and the cops didn’t always explain things. I don’t only blame the cops, though, because they had way more than they could handle.” She paused. “It was just a lot of unfair stuff. People got screwed every day. They got screwed by life.”
“You think that’s what’s happening to Treebeard?”
“He’s an easy mark.” She shrugged. “All I can say is, I hear his story and something in me believes him.” She raised her eyes to Milo’s. “And I’m not exactly easy to convince.”
His mind was working. He had to be careful here. “So you see that as part of your job? Trying to make sure people don’t get screwed by the system?”
“You make me sound like an idealistic fool.”
“Not a fool. But—”
She cut in. “Idealistic? I probably am. Given all the shit I see I’m amazed I can be.” Abruptly she picked up her fork and dug into her salad. He took her cue and for a time they ate in silence. Just as abruptly she started speaking again. “I probably lost my elections for that reason.”
“You ran for office?” This was another revelation. “What did you run for?”
“Judge. Twice.”
So she’d lost twice. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. She could be unyielding and politics was a dance of compromise. She also had that enormous chip on her shoulder when it came to the wealthy and powerful, who often had a lot to say about who won elections. “Why did you lose?”
“Because I don’t suck up. I get in people’s faces. I think it’s more important to do the work than to network.”
He smiled at her. “You’re not very cooperative, either.”
The look she gave him was far less withering than it might have been a few weeks before. “You’re suggesting I’d go farther if I were?”
He spread his hands as if in innocence. “Hey, you can practice on me.”
Then her eyes turned playful. “I already am.”
By the time they finished their entrees—grilled lamb chops for him and a tenderloin of beef for her—their truce had solidified into a straightforward give and take. Milo had divulged everything he learned from Molly Bracewell and in turn been rewarded with several tidbits from Alicia’s conversation with Franklin Houser and more details on her jail-house interview of Treebeard.
It was win-win, as he had known it would be. He was invigorated, as he had expected.
Their vanilla bean brulee arrived. Like the souffle it was set in the center of the table for them to share. Milo laughed watching Alicia dig into its hard caramelized surface. “You’re a beer drinker, a meat eater, and a dessert lover.”
“What can I tell you? I believe in real food.”
This was one refreshing woman. Where was the hard-boiled prosecutor? he wondered. Where was the closed-faced attorney?
She looked up from the brulee. “So why did you tell me before that you need a killer story?” She set down her spoon and leaned her elbows on the table, her eyes curious. “Aren’t you way too big a star to have to be a good reporter?”
This was not a subject he cared to delve into. “Let’s just say my star isn’t quite as high as it used to be.”
Her brows arched in clear surprise. “You’re having trouble with your higher-ups? I would think you’d be a master schmoozer.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I mean it as a compliment. I was even thinking you could, I don’t know ...” Her voice trailed off. She retrieved her spoon and took another bite of the dessert. He had the sense she was deliberately avoiding his eyes. “Maybe give me a little advice.”
He was immensely flattered. “You’re asking me for advice?”
She raised her eyes then. “Don’t make this harder for me than it already is, Milo.”
“All right.” He thought for a moment. It occurred to him that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been asked for his counsel. “I would say there’s a difference between being true to yourself and being stupid. Pardon the choice of word,” he added, as she opened her mouth to object. “What I mean is, you can make strategic compromises. It doesn’t mean you’re selling out. That’s what I believe the most effective politicians do.”
She nodded. Clearly she was listening intently, which he found very satisfying. He realized that few people paid him this much attention.
“There’s something else,” he said. “Life is a series of small steps forward. It’s trite but it’s true. Success works the same way. Take it one small step, one small challenge at a time.”
“Now this I’m having trouble buying.” The spoon went back down beside the nearly empty brulee. She leaned her elbows on the table. “You’re not exactly an expert in the slow rise, Milo. You had a huge boost by being born your father’s son.”
“Maybe less of one than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“True, my father was in the diplomatic corps, and at the end of his career he held a prime post, ambassador to Washington. But he was not a wealthy man.”
She clearly had trouble buying that. “But don’t you pretty much have to be wealthy to be an ambassador? I mean, that’s the way it works in this country.”
“My family has a distinguished history, that’s true. We’re aristocrats, I guess you’d say. But the bulk of the family money was gone before my father’s time. He had to work for a living. Because of the family, h
e had a lot of friends who created opportunities for him, which he made the most of.”
She was very still. “What about you?”
He leaned forward. “You and I have that in common, Alicia. I have to work for a living, too.”
She spoke softly. “I’ll be damned.”
He raised his hands. “Hey, don’t get too comfortable. I’m still a member of the despised ruling class.”
She tossed her napkin at him across the table. He caught it. “Shall we order a nightcap? Maybe a glass of port?” They’d been dining for over three hours but he didn’t want the evening to end. It was a weeknight and he had an early flight the next day, but at the moment he didn’t care.
“Sure.” So she didn’t, either. He ordered; their glasses arrived; again they raised them to toast. “My turn,” she said, then clinked her glass against his. “To strategic compromises.”
He smiled, and sipped. Around them the restaurant was emptying. It was late. It was time for rock-bottom truths. “So, Alicia.”
She gazed at him over her port, a wary look in her eyes. “What?”
“Why’d you always give me such a hard time?”
She arched her brow. “Milo Pappas, you don’t know what a hard time is.”
“No, seriously.” He kept his tone light but he really wanted to know. “From the first day I met you, you were always a little distrustful of me, a little suspicious. Why is that?”
She eyed him. He could tell she was deciding whether this was a time for truth or for fiction. Finally she spoke. “You were a little too slick. A little too good-looking. A little too sure of yourself.”
“That works for most people.”
She said nothing.
“Not for you, apparently.”
She shook her head. “No, not for me.”
“And now?”
Their eyes met. The couple at the table nearest theirs rose and headed out. Their section of the restaurant was empty.
“I guess,” she said, “I know now there’s someone real under all that gloss.”
He had to laugh. “There sure is.”
“It’s funny.” She cocked her head, swilling the port in her glass, rich and crimson. “My father would be thrilled I was having dinner with someone like you. A big TV news star. An ambassador’s son.” She shook her head and raised her eyes to his. “He’d think he’d done his job well.”
Milo watched her. Clearly her father had. “He would have so many reasons to be proud of you, Alicia.”
She said nothing. Milo had the sudden impression that she was struggling not to cry. “He died at age thirty-six.” Her voice was so soft he had to lean in close to hear her, even in the empty room. “He didn’t live long enough to see me become a lawyer.”
“Somehow I bet he knows you did.”
“Sometimes I feel like I failed him. By losing those two elections.”
“You didn’t fail him, Alicia.”
“He always wanted me to be a politician, a big Latina politician.” She kept speaking, almost as if to herself. “He had a shitty life. And he was only one year older than I am now when he died.”
“He couldn’t have had a shitty life.” Milo had no knowledge of Alicia’s father yet felt perfectly confident making this pronouncement. “He had you for a daughter.”
She raised her eyes to his then, and they were brimming. Milo felt a jolt pierce his own soul. “That’s what he said to me once. He said I was the great joy of his life.”
That was so easy to imagine. To his astonishment, Milo felt his own eyes tear, partly for Alicia, partly for the father he wasn’t so sure was proud of him. Wordlessly Alicia grasped his hand across the small table. For a time they both just held on. Their waiter moved past, not stopping.
A second later Milo squeezed her hand. “I hope he doesn’t think we’re crying over the food.”
She smiled, a weak but dazzling smile he could look at for a long, long time. “I should go fix my makeup.”
“There’s no need. You’re beautiful.” That wasn’t a line, he realized, not an exercise of his easy charm. That was truth.
She squeezed his hand back. There was truth in that, too. And promise.
*
Alicia thought later how odd it was that she and Milo behaved like strangers in the cab back to the hotel. They maintained a public decorum, even an indifference, never talking, never touching, erecting a facade of placid companionability that belied what surged beneath.
When they arrived back at the hotel, she followed him wordlessly. He did not ask; she did not answer. She was beyond such mundane arrangements. If he was using her, then she was using him. It was a trade she was willing to make. Choosing his room gave her the power to retreat, should she feel the need. Escape she could well imagine, a midnight flight down the carpeted corridors back to her own room, if the abandonment of her good sense suddenly became too much for her. Or if he did.
Once alone, they faced each other. His kiss was a marvelous thing, delicate and learned, excruciating in its subtlety. Demanding, too, and ultimately frustrating, like an overlong first act to a play so ripe with promise. There was greater reward when more than mouths were involved, when her sweater was pulled over her head and her bra unclasped and tossed aside, when his fingers found her breasts, then guided his tongue there, to wreak havoc with her memories of what past men had done to her, as if they were mere amateurs and here she had found a master player.
They were standing, though unsteady on their feet. Perhaps the unreliable tectonic plates beneath Nob Hill were choosing that reckless hour to shift and resettle. They collapsed onto the bed, feathery beneath them. She would not allow only her own skin to be exposed to the night air; she was curious, too; his clothing was a hindrance she had no interest in accommodating. Off it came, exposing a body she had pictured in her mind’s eye yet whose details captivated her. He was as beautiful as she had imagined, his rampant desire for her more than enticing.
He was hard to control, though. He was not satisfied with a half-dressed woman; that he quickly made clear. He wanted her naked; this was not a man satisfied with half measures. She could not hide her distension, the moisture he had called up in her. It was his to play with and heighten. His tongue was a wanton invader in her private places, a teaser that lapped and lunged and titillated all while she both urged him on and tried to corral him, her hands clenched in his dark curly hair.
That game had to stop, too. Neither wanted to play it to its obvious conclusion. There was too tempting an alternative.
She forced him onto his back, which startled him at first. Yet judging from the glint in his dark eyes, she knew he would play the game her way, at least for a time. Their need was so great, or perhaps it was because they fit so well, that they forged together with exquisite ease. She rode him teasingly at first, then with more purpose, her head thrown back, his hands on her breasts, then on her hips, forcing her to pummel him with greater urgency.
She had guessed right; he would not let her finish what they’d started. He claimed that as a man’s right. He toppled her onto her back. She responded by twisting her legs around his torso. He answered that move by pinning her arms against the pillows.
Maybe they would have reached even greater heights had they been able to control themselves. Such a delirious game sometimes ended too soon, especially the first time it was played. But they were spent when it was over, and entwined, and soon asleep, damp and comfortable. Until the next wave assaulted them, just before the dawn.
Chapter 21
“More coffee?”
Milo poised the silver pot over Alicia’s cup, as empty as the Ritz’s Terrace restaurant. It was so early it was still dark outside the windows, which overlooked a sizable redbrick courtyard. He could hear the hiss of the sprinkler system dampening the shrubbery that rimmed the perimeter, and farther away the clang of a cable car as it climbed California Street.
“Please.” She smiled, and nudged her cup and saucer closer.
He refreshed his own. “Thanks for getting up so early.”
“What time’s your flight?”
“Nine.” Down to LAX, for a follow-up piece in Pasadena on the New Year’s Eve terrorist bombing four weeks before.
Alicia rose from her chair. “I’m going to get more eggs from the buffet. Do you want something else?”
He was still hungry. “I’ll take another blueberry muffin.”
“You’re going to single-handedly clean the place out.”
He patted his abdomen, as flat as it had been at age twenty. “I’m trying for a gut like Aristotle Onassis.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’ll help your TV career.”
His TV career was the last thing on his mind at the moment. His far greater worry, as Alicia strolled toward the buffet, was what in the world was he going to do about this woman.
So much for his hiatus from those of the female persuasion. It had been as short-lived as one of Joan’s “projects.” Yet he knew this was much more than a dalliance. He was well beyond intrigued when it came to Alicia Maldonado. In fact, he was loath to leave her to fly to L.A. for his story. He’d begun to plot and plan when he might see her again. He was stunned to find himself trying to concoct a way around their bicoastal lives, and tossed around the idea of suggesting she apply for a job in D.C.’s district attorney’s office.
This was not Milo-like behavior, particularly for a woman who blew to smithereens his usual ideal of blond, willowy, and pampered. Moreover, he had no idea how she felt about him, which put him at a highly unusual disadvantage. She made no declarations of love, asked no questions about the future.
She returned to the table bearing his muffin and cocked her head at the window as she sat back down. “Too bad it’s too cold and dark to eat outside.”
“It’s sort of like a garden in here.” The restaurant was a riot of prints and stripes, all green and yellow, every inch of surface covered with fabric or wallpaper or carpeting. “You should stick around the hotel this morning. Get some more sleep. Checkout’s not till noon.” He had an irrational desire for her to return to the bed they had shared, as if somehow that would keep her close for a while longer.
To Catch the Moon Page 30