Fatal Voyage (11 page)

 “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 Trans South 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 O. K.?”

 I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

 “You don’t look too O. K.”

 “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 ‘.”

 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 forever.”

 “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 ‘,” I thought.

 Then I thought of nothing else.

 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 kick boxing 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.”