3rd Degree (24 page)

“He lives well,” said Molinari, but that was it for small talk. “Let's you and I do the honors.”

The front door was opened by the Lance Hart Professor of Romance Languages, Roger Lemouz. He had on a terry-cloth robe, and his curly black hair was in disarray. His eyes were glassy and red, and I wondered if he had been drinking that night, if Lemouz had been celebrating.

“Madam Inspector,” he said in a throaty whisper, “you're beginning to wear out your welcome. It's four A.M. This is my home.”

I didn't bother to exchange unpleasantries with Lemouz, and neither did Molinari. “You're under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder,” he said, then pushed his way inside.

Lemouz's wife and two children appeared, entering the living room behind him, which was unfortunate. The boy was no more than twelve, the girl even younger. Molinari and I holstered our guns.

“Charles Danko is dead,” I told Lemouz. “A young woman you know named Annette Breiling has implicated you in the murder of Jill Bernhardt, all of the murders, Lemouz. She told us that you were the one who set up Stephen Hardaway's cell. You delivered Julia Marr and Robert Green into the cell. And you controlled Charles Danko - you knew how to push his buttons. His anger seethed for thirty years, but you got Danko to act on it. He was your puppet.”

Lemouz laughed in my face. “I don't know any of these people. Well, Ms. Breiling was a student of mine. She dropped out of the university, however. This is a huge mis-take and I'm calling my lawyer right now if you don't leave.”

“You're under arrest,” Joe Molinari said, making the obvi-ous official. “Want to hear your rights, Professor? I want to read them to you.”

Lemouz smiled, and it was strange and eerie. “You still don't understand, do you? Neither of you. This is why you are doomed. One day your entire country will crumble. It's already happening.”

“Why don't you explain what we're missing?” I spat the words at him.

He nodded, then Lemouz turned toward his family. “You're missing this.” His small son was holding a handgun, and it was obvious that he knew how to use it. The boy's eyes were as cold as his father's.

“I'll kill you both,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

“The army that is building against you is massive, their cause is just. Women, children, so many soldiers, Madam Inspector. Think about it. The Third World War - it's begun.”

Lemouz walked calmly to his family and took the gun from his son. He kept it aimed at us. Then he kissed his wife, his daughter, his son. The kisses were tender and heartfelt. Tears were in his wife's eyes. Lemouz whispered something to each of them.

He backed out of the living room; then we could hear running footsteps. A door slammed somewhere in the house. How could he hope to get away?

A gunshot sounded loudly inside the house.

Molinari and I ran in that direction.

We found him in the bedroom - he'd killed himself, shot one bullet into his right temple.

His wife and children had begun to wail in the other room.

So many soldiers, I was thinking. This won't stop, will it? This Third World War.

CHARLES DANKO didn't spray me with ricin. That was what the doctors were saying, hovering over me all morning at the toxicology unit at Mof?t.

And the vice president wasn't going to die. Word was that they had him two floors below me, that he had even been on the phone to his boss in Washington.

I spent several hours with a maze of tubes and wires stick-ing out of me, monitors reading my blood and chest scans. The contents of Danko's canister were identified as ricin. Enough to kill hundreds of people if he had gone undetected. Danko had ricin in his lungs, and he was going to die. I wasn't sorry to hear it.

About noon I got a phone call from the president, as in the president. They stuck a phone to my ear, and in my daze I remembered hearing the word hero about six times. The president even said he was looking forward to thanking me in person. I joked that maybe we should wait for the toxic glow to settle down.

When I opened my eyes after a snooze, Joe Molinari was sitting on the corner of my bed.

He smiled. “Hey. I thought I said `no heroes!'”

I blinked and smiled, too, a little more groggy than tri-umphant, embarrassed at the tubes and monitors.

“The good news,” he said with a wink, “is the doctors say you're fine. They're just holding you for observation a few more hours. There's an armada of press waiting for you out there.”

“The bad news?” I said, hoarsely.

“Someone's gonna have to teach you how to dress for these photo ops.”

“New fashion look.” I squeezed back a smile.

I noticed that he had a raincoat draped over his arm and was wearing the navy herringbone suit I'd seen him in the first time. It was a very nice suit, and he wore it well.

“The vice president's recuperating. I'm heading back to Washington tonight.”

All I could do was nod. “Okay...”

“No” - he shook his head, inching closer - “it's not okay. Because it's not what I want.”

“We both knew this would happen,” I said, trying to be strong. “You have a job. The interns...”

Molinari scowled. “You're brave enough to go after a man holding a canister of deadly poison, but you're not ready to stand up for something you want.”

I felt a tear creep out of the corner of my eye. “I don't know what I want, right now.”

Molinari put down his raincoat, then drew close and put a hand to my cheek, brushing away the tear. “I think you need some time. You have to decide, when things calm down, if you're prepared to let someone in. Like a relationship, Lindsay.”

He took my hand. “My name's Joe, Lindsay. Not Molinari, or Deputy Director, wink, wink. And what I'm talking about is you and me. And not trying to joke it away because you've been hurt before. Or because you lost a really close friend. I know this'll come as a disappointment, Lindsay, but you're entitled to be happy. You know what I mean. Call me old-fashioned.” He smiled.

“Old-fashioned,” I said, doing exactly what he accused me of, making jokes when I ought to be serious.

Something was stuck inside me, the way it always seemed to stick when I wanted to say what was in my heart. “So, you get out here how often?”

“Speeches, security conferences...a couple of national crises factored in...”

I laughed. “We can't help the jokes, neither of us.”

Molinari sighed. “Even you must know this by now: I'm not one of the assholes, Lindsay. It can work. The next step is yours. You have to make a move to try.”

He stood up and brushed his hand over my hair. “The doctors assured me that this is perfectly safe.” He smiled, then leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. His lips were soft, and mine, chapped and dry from the night, clung on. I was trying to show him how I felt, knowing I'd be crazy not to tell him and let him walk out that door.

Joe Molinari stood and draped the raincoat over his arm. “It's been a privilege and an honor getting to know you, Lieu-tenant Boxer.”

“Joe,” I said, a little scared to see him go.

“You know where to reach me.”

I watched him head to the door. “You never know when a girl might have a national emergency....”

“Yeah” - he turned and smiled - “I'm a national emer-gency kind of guy.”

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, my doctor came in and told me there was nothing wrong with my system that a good glass of wine or two wouldn't cure.

“There are even some people here who want to take you home,” he said.

Outside my room, I saw Claire and Cindy peeking in.

They took me home about long enough to shower, change, and give Martha a long-overdue hug. Then I had to go down to the Hall. Everyone seemed to want a piece of me. I made a date to see the girls later at Susie's. It was important that we get together now.

I did the news spots on the steps of the Hall. Tom Brokaw was patched through and interviewed me on a video link.

As I recounted the story of how we had found Danko and Hardaway, I felt a tremor snaking through me, distancing me even as I spoke. Jill was dead; Molinari was gone; I didn't feel much like a hero. The phone was going to ring, some other homicide called in, and life would slam back the way it always did. But this time I knew nothing was ever going to be the same.

It was about four-thirty when the girls came to get me. I was doing reports. Although Jacobi and Cappy were bragging they had the best LT on the force, I'd actually felt depressed. Lonely and empty. Until the girls showed up, anyway.

“Hey,” Cindy said, twirling a little Mexican cocktail flag in my face, “margaritas await.”

They took me to Susie's, the last place we had been with Jill. Actually, two years before, it was where we had welcomed her into our budding group. We took our places in our cor-ner booth and ordered a round of margaritas. I ran them through the terrifying struggle at the Palace the night before, the president's call, then today, Brokaw and the evening news.

It was sad, though, just the three of us. The conspicuous empty space next to Claire.

Our drinks came. “On the house, of course,” the waitress, Joanie, said.

We raised our glasses, each of us trying to smile, but fighting back tears. “Here's to our girl,” Claire said. “Maybe now she can start to rest in peace.”

“She'll never rest in peace,” Cindy said, laughing through tears. “Out of character.”

“I'm sure she's up there now,” I said, “sizing up the peck-ing order, looking down at us. `Hey, guys, I got it all figured out....' ”

“Then she's smiling,” Claire said.

“To Jill,” we all said. We clinked glasses. It was hard to think that this was the way it was going to be from now on. I missed her so much, and never more than that moment at our table, without her.

“So,” Claire said, clearing her throat, her gaze landing on me. “What happens now?”

“We're gonna order some ribs,” I said, “and I'm gonna have another one of these. Maybe more than one.”

“I think she was actually saying, what's with you and Deputy Dawg.” Cindy winked.

“He's heading back to Washington,” I said. “Tonight.”

“For good?” Claire asked, surprised.

“That's where the listening devices and sleek black heli-copters are.” I stirred my drink. “Bell helicopter, I believe.”

“Oh.” Claire nodded. She glanced toward Cindy. “You like this guy, don't you, Lindsay?”

“I like him,” I said. I flagged Joanie, ordered another round of drinks.

“I don't mean like him, honey. I mean you really like him.”

“Whad'ya want me to do, Claire? Break out in a chorus of `Don't he make my brown eyes blue'?”

“No,” Claire said, glancing at Cindy, then back to me, “what we want you to do, Lindsay, is put aside whatever it is that's getting in the way of you doing the right thing for your-self, before you let that guy get on his plane.”

I arched my back against the booth. I swallowed uneasily. “It's Jill....”

“Jill?”

I took a breath, a sharp rush of tears biting at my eyes. “I wasn't there for her, Claire. The night she threw Steve out.”

“What're you talking about?” Claire said. “You were up in Portland.”

“I was with Molinari,” I said. “When I got back it was after one. Jill sounded mixed up. I said I'd come over, but I didn't press it. You know why? Because I was all dreamy-eyed over Joe. She had just thrown Steve out.”

“She said she was okay,” Cindy said. “You told us.”

“And that was Jill, right? You ever heard her ask for help? Bottom line, I wasn't there for her. And whether it's right or wrong, I can't look at Joe now without seeing her, hear-ing her needing me, thinking if I had, maybe she'd still be here.”

Neither of them said anything. Not a word. I sat there, my jaw tight, pressing back tears.

“I'll tell you what I think,” Claire said, her fingers creep-ing across the table and taking a hold of my hand. “I think you're way too smart, honey, to really think that your enjoy-ing yourself for once in your life made any difference in what happened to Jill. You know she'd be the first one who'd want you to be happy, too.”

“I know that, Claire.” I nodded. “I just can't put it away....”

“Well, you better put it away,” Claire said, squeezing my hand, “'cause all it is, is you just trying to hurt yourself. Everyone's entitled to be happy, Lindsay. Even you.”

I dabbed at a tear with the cocktail napkin. “I already heard that once today,” I said, and couldn't hold back a smile.

“Yeah, well, here's to Lindsay Boxer,” Claire announced, and raised her glass. “And here's to hoping that for once in her life she hears it loud and clear.”

A shout interrupted us from the bar area. Everyone was pointing to the TV. Instead of some dumb ball game, there was my face on the screen. Tom Brokaw was asking me ques-tions. Whistles and cheering broke out.

There I was on the evening news.

JOE MOLINARI TOOK A SIP of the vodka the flight atten-dant had brought him, then eased back in his seat aboard the government jet. With any luck he'd sleep all the way to Washington. He hoped so. No, he'd sleep for sure, soundly. For the first time in days.

He'd be fresh to make a report in front of the director of homeland security in the morning. This one was put to bed, he could definitively say. Eldridge Neal would heal. There were reports to write. There might be a congressional sub-committee to go before. There was an anger out there they'd have to keep an eye on. This time the terror hadn't come from abroad.

Molinari leaned back in the plush seat. The scope of the whole remarkable chain of events was becoming clear in his eyes. From the moment that Sunday he was informed of the bombing in San Francisco to taking out Danko as he wrestled with Lindsay Boxer at the G-8 reception last night. He knew what to write: the names and details, the sequence of events, the outcome. He knew how to explain everything, he thought. Except one thing.

Her. Molinari shut his eyes and felt incredibly melancholy.