by Kathy Reichs
“Why aren’t you at work?”
He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close, as if imparting secure information. “Rendezvous with the plumber.”
I didn’t want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It would call in an expert.
“I came for Birdie.”
“I think he’s free.” Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my great-aunt’s chandelier.
“How about a drink?”
I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.
“You know what I mean.”
“A diet Coke would be nice.”
While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.
Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms, reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We’d nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I’d watch the honeysuckle come and go through the window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and attainable.
Pete reappeared, transformed from attorney-chic to yuppie-casual. The jacket and vest were gone, the tie loosened, the shirtsleeves rolled to below the elbows. He looked good.
“Where’s Bird?” I asked.
“He’s been keeping to the upper decks since Boyd checked in.”
He handed me a mug with Uz to mums atkal jaiedzer! scrolled around the glass. “To that we must drink again!” in Latvian.
“Boyd’s the dog?”
A nod.
“Yours?”
“Interesting point. Have a seat and I’ll share with you the saga of Boyd.”
Pete got pretzels from the kitchen and joined me on the couch.
“Boyd belongs to one Harvey Alexander Dineen, a gentleman recently in need of pro bono defense. Completely surprised by his arrest, and lacking family, Harvey requested that I look after his dog until the misunderstanding with the state was cleared up.”
“And you agreed?”
“I appreciated his confidence in me.”
Pete licked salt from a pretzel, bit off the large loop, and washed it down with beer.
“And?”
“Boyd’s on his own for a minimum of ten and a maximum of twenty. I figured he’d get hungry.”
“What is he?”
“He thinks of himself as an entrepreneur. The judge called him a con man and career criminal.”
“I meant the dog.”
“Boyd’s a chow. Or at least most of him is. We’d need DNA testing to clarify the rest.”
He ate the other half of the pretzel.
“Been out with any good corpses lately?”
“Very funny.” My face must have suggested that it was not.
“Sorry. Must be grim up there.”
“We’re getting through it.”
We made small talk for a while, then Pete invited me for dinner. Our usual routine. He asked, I refused. Today I thought of Larke’s allegations, Anne and Ted’s London adventure, and my empty condo.
“What are you serving?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Linguini con sauce vongole.”
A Pete specialty. Canned clams on overcooked pasta.
“Why don’t I pick up steaks while you deal with the plumber. When the pipes are flowing, we can grill the meat.”
“It’s an upstairs toilet.”
“Whatever.”
“It will be good for Bird to see that we’re friends. I think he still blames himself.”
Pure Pete.
* * *
Boyd joined us at dinner, sitting beside the table, eyes glued to the New York strips, now and then pawing a knee to remind us of his presence.
Pete and I talked about Katy, about old friends, and about old times. He discussed some current litigation, and I described one of my recent cases, a student found hanging in his grandmother’s barn nine months after his disappearance. I was pleased that we’d reached a comfort level at which normal conversation was possible. Time flew, and Larke and his complaint receded from my thoughts.
After a dessert of strawberries on vanilla ice cream, we took coffee to the den and switched on the news. The Air TransSouth crash was the lead story.
A grim-faced woman stood at the overlook, the Great Smoky Mountains rolling behind her, and talked of a meet in which thirty-four athletes would never compete. She reported that the cause of the crash was still unclear, although a midair explosion was now almost certain. To date forty-seven victims had been identified, and the investigation was continuing around the clock.
“It’s smart they’re giving you time off,” Pete said.
I didn’t answer.
“Or did they send you down here on a secret mission?”
I felt a tremor in my chest and kept my eyes on my Doc Martens.
Pete slid close and raised my chin with an index finger.
“Hey, babe, I’m only kidding. Are you OK?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“You don’t look too OK.”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I must have, for the words poured out. I told him about the days of gore, about the coyotes and my attempts to pinpoint the foot’s origin, about the anonymous complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me intently.
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The schoolhouse clock ticked loudly from the den wall, and I wondered idly who kept it wound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Well, this has been fun,” I said, unwinding my legs.
Pete took my hand, his eyes still steady on my face.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do?” I said irritably, pulling free. I was already embarrassed by my outpouring and dreaded what I knew was coming. Pete always gave the same advice when aggravated by others. “Fuck ’em.”
He surprised me.
“Your DMORT commander will clear up the issue of entering the site. The foot is central to the rest. Was anyone around when you picked the thing up?”
“There was a cop nearby.” I focused on the pillow.
“Local?”
I shook my head.
“Did he see the coyotes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Oh yes.
I nodded.
“That should settle that. Have this cop contact Tyrell and describe the situation.” He leaned back. “The trespass is going to be tougher.”
“I wasn’t trespassing,” I said hotly.
“How strongly do you feel about this foot?”
“I don’t think it fits with anyone on the passenger list. That’s why I was snooping around.”
“Because of the age.”
“Largely. It also looked more decomposed.”
“Can you prove the age?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you absolutely certain the foot donor was that old?”
“No.”
“Is there any other test that can more firmly establish your age estimate?” Pete, the lawyer.
“I’ll check the histology once the samples are processed.”
“When is that?”
“Slide preparation is taking forev—”
“Go there tomorrow. Get your slides bumped. Don’t quit until you know the guy’s collar size and the name of his bookie.”
“I could try.”
“Do it.”
Pete was right. I was being a pansy.
“Then ID Foot Man and shove it up Tyrell’s ass.”
“How do I do that?”
; “If your foot didn’t come from the plane, it must be local.”
I waited.
“Start by finding out who owns that property.”
“How do I do that?”
“Has the FBI checked the place out?”
“They’re involved in the crash investigation, but until there’s proof of sabotage, the Bureau isn’t officially in charge. Besides, given my current status, I doubt they’re going to share their thoughts with me.”
“Then find out on your own.”
“How?”
“Check the title to the property and the tax rolls at the county courthouse.”
“Can you walk me through that?”
I took notes as he talked. By the time he finished, my resolve was back. No more whining and self-pity. I’d probe that foot until I knew every detail of its owner’s life. Then I’d find out where it came from, nail an ID, and paste it to Larke Tyrell’s forehead.
“Thank you so much, Pete.”
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Without hesitating, he drew me in. Before I could pull back, he returned my cheek kiss, then another, then his lips slid to my neck, my ear, my mouth. I smelled the familiar mix of sweat and Aramis, and a million images burst in my brain. I felt the arms and chest I’d known for two decades, that had once held only me.
I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Illinois, to the later years, when it became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as well as the curves of my own body. Making love with Pete was all-encompassing. It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed the familiar and comforting, the shattering of my consciousness, the stopping of time.
I thought of my silent apartment. I thought of Larke and his “powerful people,” of Ryan and the unknown Danielle, of separation and distance. Then Pete’s hand slid to my breast.
“Fuck ’em,” I thought.
Then I thought of nothing else.
9
I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF A PHONE. PETE HAD DRAWN the shades, and the room was so dim I needed several rings to locate it.
“Meet me at Providence Road Sundries tonight and I’ll buy you a burger.”
“Pete, I—”
“You drive a hard bargain. Meet me at Bijoux.”
“It’s not the restaurant.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I don’t think so.”
The line hummed.
“Remember when I wrecked the Volkswagen and insisted we push on?”
“Georgia to Illinois with no headlights.”
“You didn’t speak to me for six hundred miles.”
“It’s not like that, Pete.”
“Didn’t you enjoy last night?”
I loved last night.
“It’s not that.”
I heard voices in the background and looked at the clock. Eight-ten.
“Are you at work?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why are you phoning?”
“You asked me to wake you.”
“Oh.” An old routine. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“And thanks for keeping Birdie.”
“Has he made an appearance?”
“Briefly. He looked edgy.”
“The old Bird has become set in his ways.”
“Birdie never liked dogs.”
“Or change.”
“Or change.”
“Some change is good.”
“Yes.”
“I have changed.”
I’d heard that from Pete. He’d said it after his tryst with a court reporter three years earlier, again following a Realtor episode. I hadn’t waited for the trifecta.
“That was a bad time for me,” he went on.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
I hung up and took a long shower, reflecting on our failings. Pete was where I’d always turned for advice, comfort, support. He’d been my safety net, the calm I’d seek after a day of tempest. The breakup had been devastating, but it had also brought out strength I’d never known I had.
Or ever used.
When I’d toweled off and wrapped my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.
Question: What was I thinking last night?
Answer: I wasn’t. I was angry, hurt, vulnerable, and alone. And I hadn’t had sex in a very long time.
Question: Would it happen again?
Answer: No.
Question: Why not?
Why not? I still loved Pete. I had since first laying eyes on him, barefoot and bare-chested on the steps of the law school library. I’d loved him as he lied about Judy, then Ellen. I’d loved him as I packed and left two years ago.
And I obviously still found him sexy as hell.
My sister, Harry, has a Texas expression. Flat ass stupid. Though I love Pete, and find him sexy, I am not flat ass stupid. That’s why it would not happen again.
I wiped steam from the glass, remembering the old me looking back from that same mirror. My hair was blond when we first moved in, long and straight to my shoulders. It’s short now, and I’ve abandoned the golden surfer look. But gray hairs are sneaking in, and I’ll soon be checking out the Clairol browns. The lines have increased and deepened around my eyes, but my jawline is firm and my upper lids have stayed put.
Pete always said my butt was my best feature. That, too, has remained in place, though effort is now required. But, unlike many of my contemporaries, I own no spandex and have never hired a personal trainer. I possess no treadmill, step machine, or stationary bike. I do not enroll in aerobics or kickboxing classes, and have not run in an organized race in over five years. I go to the gym in T-shirts and FBI shorts, tied at the waist with a drawstring. I jog or swim, lift, then leave. When the weather is nice, I run outside.
I’ve also tried to tighten up on what I eat. Daily vitamins. Red meat no more than three times a week. Junk food no more than five.
I was positioning my panties when my cell phone rang. Racing to the bedroom, I upended my purse, retrieved the phone, and hit the button.
“Where have you disappeared to?”
Ryan’s voice was completely unexpected. I hesitated, panties in one hand, phone in the other, unable to think of a thing to say.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“Here where?”
“I’m in Charlotte.”
There was a pause. Ryan broke it.
“This whole thing is a crock of sh—”
“Have you talked to Tyrell?”
“Briefly.”
“Did you describe the coyote scene?”
“Vividly.”
“And he said?”
“Thank ya, sir.” Ryan mimicked the ME’s drawl.
“This isn’t Tyrell’s idea.”
“There’s something off-center about the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s off-center?”
“Tyrell was jumpy. I’ve only known him a week, but jumpy is not normal demeanor for him. Something is making him squirm. He knows you didn’t tamper with remains, and he knows Earl Bliss ordered you up here last week.”
“So who’s behind the complaint?”
“I don’t know, but I sure as hell intend to find out.”
“It’s not your problem, Ryan.”
“No.”
“Any developments in the investigation?” I switched the subject.
I heard a match flare, then a deep inhalation.
“Simington is starting to look like a good choice.”
“The guy with the heavily insured wife?”
“It’s better than that. The new widower owns a company that does highway construction.”
“So?”
“Easy access to plastic X.”
“Plastic X?”
“Plastic explosive. The stuff was used in Vietnam, but now it’s sold to private industry
for construction, mining, demolition. Hell, farmers can get it to blast out tree stumps.”
“Aren’t explosives tightly controlled?”
“Yes and no. The regs for transport are tighter than those for storage and use. If a highway is under construction, for example, you need a special truck with escorts and a prescribed route bypassing congested areas. But once the stuff is on-site it’s usually stored in a mobile vault in the middle of a field with the word explosive written on it in large letters.
“The company hires some old geezer as guard and pays him minimum wage, mainly to meet insurance requirements. Vaults can be burgled, misplaced, or simply disappear.”
Ryan drew on his cigarette, exhaled.
“The military is supposed to account for every ounce of plastic explosive, but construction crews don’t have to ledger up that precisely. Say a blaster gets ten sticks, uses three quarters of each, and pockets the rest. No one’s the wiser. All the guy needs is a detonator and he’s in business. Or he can sell the stuff black market. Explosives are always in demand.”
“Assuming Simington filched explosives, could he have gotten them on board?”
“Apparently it’s not all that hard. Terrorists used to take plastique, flatten it to the thickness of a wad of bills, and put it in their wallets. How many security guards check the bills in your wallet? And you can get an electrical detonator the size of a watchcase these days. The Libyan terrorists who blew up Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie slipped the stuff on in a cassette case. Simington could have found a way.”
“Jesus.”
“I’ve also had news from la belle province. Earlier this week a group of homeowners got suspicious about a Ferrari parked on their street. It seems sports cars costing over a hundred thousand dollars don’t commonly overnight in that part of Montreal. Turned out to be a good call. Police found the owner, one Alain ‘the Fox’ Barboli, stuffed in the trunk with two bullets in his head. Barboli was a member of the Rock Machine and had ties to the Sicilian Mafia. Carcajou’s got it.”
Opération Carcajou was a multiagency task force devoted to the investigation of outlaw bikers in Quebec province. I’d worked with them on a number of murders.
“Does Carcajou think Barboli was revenge for Petricelli?”
“Or Barboli was involved in the Petricelli hit and the big boys are sanitizing the witness list. If there was a hit.”