"I'll be tied up there all day, I'm afraid," Jake said, pseudo-apologetically, "in the production truck."
"Good." Jake heard papers flutter, like a page had been turned on a calendar. "I'm meeting the station's insurance underwriter at the park tomorrow night. I'll come by."
Double "uh-oh." Jake gave in, but not gracefully. "It would have to be well before eight," she warned. "The broadcast starts at eight-thirty and I--"
"Eight it is," Dianne Aamot said airily, and hung up.
The Internet Explorer home page came up on Jake's screen, with a beep.
Jake typed in
If lawyers and insurance agents were sniffing around, maybe it was time for Jake to protect
herself
, for a change.
She hit "Print."
*****
Pat caught his mother before she hit the floor, and sat her down on a kitchen chair. "Angela!" he yelled.
Angela came running, along with Aunt Marie and, behind her, half the female population of the family.
"Mamma, what's wrong?" Angela knelt down next to their mother's chair.
Words starting pouring out of their mother's mouth, only a few intelligible. Unfortunately, they were things like "Ray," "steal," "kill" and "blow up."
The rumble of conversation from the crowd in the doorway grew. Thank God for Aunt Marie. She herded Angela and their mother up the stairs, along with Tudy and Simon, who had just come in.
"You talk among yourselves, you understand?" Pat heard Marie instruct their guests as he followed.
Angela led them into Pat's old bedroom or the shrine, as Pat called it. The wallpaper, the picture of JFK, the twin bed, the cross that hung square over his headboard threatening to impale him if he was bad. It was all there, including the Catholic guilt. Nothing had changed since Pat was ten.
No, that wasn't quite right. His mother had added a white fuzzy bedspread. Tudy sat uneasily on it now, holding a pink ruffled pillow--another addition--like a security blanket. He looked so ridiculous, Pat was tempted to pull the GENERAL LEE pillow out from under the bedspread and give it to him instead.
Pat’s mother was sitting in the rocking chair across the room.
"Is this true, Tudy? Did your son kill my husband?" Leave it to Sadie Firenze to cut to the chase, Pat thought. She’d done it with his father more often than Pat could count. Pasquale would be waxing eloquent about something and--
"Sadie." Simon was crouching in front of the rocker. "Right now we're not sure of anything."
"But the lighter..." Pat started to say, then shut up.
"Why is he still here?" This from Angela, who stood in the middle of the room facing Tudy.
Simon pivoted to look at Angela.
"Lay off, Angela," Pat said to his sister. "Tudy--"
Simon interrupted. "Do you mean why is
Ray
still here?"
"Yes." Angela turned and held out her hands to Simon. "If he did these things, why would he stay here? If he stole money. If he tampered with my father's shell. Why is he still here? Why would he burn down your house? He has his money. Why wouldn't he just go, and leave us to live our lives?"
"I hear Ray and my husband, they argue," his mother piped in before Pat could.
"Argued about what?" Simon asked.
"It was about money, I think."
"When was this, Ma?" Pat asked.
"Last week. Maybe Wednesday, maybe Thursday." She searched the pocket of her apron and came up with her handkerchief.
"Do you remember anything else about it?" Simon asked, standing up. "Where were they?"
"In the office. My husband, he was sitting at the desk by the computer. Ray was standing above him." His mother’s face crumpled, and she blew her nose loudly into the cloth. "Maybe he was threatening Pasquale. Maybe I should have said something."
Pat glanced over at Tudy. The little man had gotten even smaller. He was kneading the silly pink pillow like dough.
"No, Mamma," said Angela, going to their mother. "You didn't know."
Sadie tucked the handkerchief back into her apron and looked up at Angela. "Your father, he saw me. He tells me everything's okay, and to close the door." She shook her head. "I didn't know...I didn't know..."
His sister put her arms around their mother. "Ray was very angry at Lake Days. He was angry at my father. And he was angry at my brother, and angry at me," Angela said to Simon.
That was news to Pat, though it fit perfectly with Ray being a thief and a murderer. Especially, if--
"Do you know why?" Simon asked.
Angela shook her head.
Pat spoke up. "My father caught on to him. That's why."
His mother looked at him sharply. "Do you think Ray is still angry?" She asked, crossing herself.
Pat thought of the show tomorrow, and the thousands of people who would be there. But it was Simon who said what they all were thinking:
"God, I hope not."
*****
Well, that had gone well, Simon thought on the way back to the town. Granted, he'd picked up some good information, but the whole experience had felt out of control. Like being on a freight train you couldn’t steer or stop. And forget about changing tracks.
Simon had decided against staying for the fireworks show the Firenzes were going to stage in Pasquale's honor, but before he left, he sounded the family out about Pasquale’s health. To a person, they’d sworn the old man was in good health. Meaning either it was true or Pasquale was hiding his condition.
Or, the Firenzes were very good liars.
Simon had also asked where Ray might hide. No one had any ideas, though everyone agreed it wouldn‘t be with family. There really wasn’t any. Ray had no siblings, and Tudy was an only child, too. Tudy's wife had just one sister, living in Michigan.
Simon would check with her there, but he thought Ray was closer to home, possibly even on the factory grounds. Simon would need people to search.
Meanwhile, he'd best get hold of Longenecker and call off the Coast Guard search for Ray's body. He pulled out his cell phone, thinking of Tudy.
When Simon had voiced his suspicions of Ray, Tudy had seemed more angry than shocked.
It made Simon wonder how much Tudy knew.
Or Ray, for that matter.
Jake put the color printout of the homepage for LB's Hot Video--or was it LB
Shot
Video?--on Luis's desk.
She didn't sign it. She figured she didn't have to.
She was right.
Jake had finished with the Five and Six and was packing up to go home when Luis knocked on the door of the editing suite.
The polite knock was the first sign that he was treading carefully. "Hi Jake, can I come in?"
"Sure--what's that you have with you?" Jake leaned back in her chair and stretched. It was kind of nice having the upper hand. Not that she knew what she was going to do with it.
Luis put the sheet on the console in front of her. "C'mon Jake, you know what it is. You put it on my desk."
He pulled over another chair and sat down heavily. He didn't even swivel it around and sit backwards on it. The kid really was feeling down. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I should give it to Gwen."
"She'll fire me." His chin was buried so deep in his chest she barely heard him.
"She should." Jake said it calmly, like she didn't care. And maybe she didn't. She was tired of protecting people. Or just plain tired.
Luis's head jerked up. Mom Jake hadn't answered the way he'd expected. "Listen, Jake, this job doesn't pay squat and--"
"Then you shouldn't have taken it." Amazing how easy it was to be logical when you didn't give a rat's butt. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Just the last few months, I--"
"Don't lie to me, Luis."
He sat and fidgeted in his chair like a little boy.
"
A little over two years.
"
"Good. Now I want you to tell me one more thing," Jake said. "I want you to tell me if you had anything to do with the Lake Days' explosion."
Jake didn't want to ask it, didn't even want to think it, but the question had been rattling around her subconscious since Saturday morning, and her conscious since yesterday.
Luis stared at her, trying to figure out what she was talking about. When it finally clicked, he jumped out of his chair. "No way, Jake. No
way
. Okay, I admit I wanted to shoot some freelance stuff out there. You know how much stock footage goes for. Lots of guys freelance."
It was an open secret in the industry that camera operators--who took cameras home with them so they could go right out if they got a call--sometimes freelanced using station equipment. It drove the true freelancers, the ones who were paying for their own equipment, crazy.
"Freelancing with the station's equipment and tapes is bad enough," Jake said, "but you were doing it on company time, too."
"It wasn't like I wasn't doing my job out there..." He let it trail off. He looked like he was going to cry. "But, Jake, you can't believe that I would hurt someone, that I would go that far to get good footage. My God."
He started to sob into his hands.
And calm, disinterested Jake cried right along with him.
*****
Simon was ready to make dinner whenever Jake walked in.
Boxed pasta to boil, jarred sauce to microwave, bakery bread to slice, and bagged salad to dress. The bottled wine was already opened, and he was drinking it. He set down his glass when he heard the Jaguar pull into the driveway and met Jake at the door.
They hugged and stayed that way for awhile. Finally Simon pulled back and kissed her on the forehead. "I had a shitty day."
"I was going to say the same thing," Jake said, looking up at him.
"Except you wouldn't say 'shitty,' would you? Did anyone ever tell you, you swear like a five-year-old?"
She laughed. "It's a part of a deal I struck with God awhile back. Though I have to say, today I might have gone as far as 'stinky,' and taken my chances with divine retribution."
"Then," Simon said, "you
are
upset. Let me get you some wine, and you can tell me all about it."
"Sounds good." She curled up on the couch as he poured. "Assuming you'll also tell me about yours."
Simon sat down and clinked glasses with her. "Deal. But first, I have a confession. I answered your phone a few minutes ago by reflex. I'm sorry."
A shadow crossed Jake's face. "Who was it?"
Simon held up his hands. "Don't worry, it wasn't your mom or anything. Just a hang-up, like last night. You get a lot of them?"
"More lately," Jake admitted. "Though sometimes I prefer those to the ones who
don't
hang up." She chewed the inside of her cheek, then caught a glimpse of his face and grinned. "You have your cop face on. So tell me about your day."
Simon smiled back, wondering what she wasn't telling him. "You go first."
"You want it chronologically, or by order of importance?" Jake asked.
"Chronologically," Simon said. "Importance can only be judged in retrospect."
"Ahh," Jake said, "a thought worthy of Confucius."
"And likely stolen from him, or from someone else. So let's see, chronologically. You swam first thing, right?"
"Yeah, and that was fine, except..." She set down her glass. "There's this guy who has been giving me the creeps."
"Why?" Simon asked, thinking this might be what was bothering her. "What's he doing?"
"He stares at me."
Simon kissed her on the nose. "Can't blame him for that."
"No, I mean all the time. And remember, I'm not exactly Pamela Anderson in a swimsuit."
"Only boob-wise. So how does he stare at you?"
"Like," Jake hesitated, "like he's thinking. He's staring at me, but he's thinking while he's staring. I don't know how else to explain it."
Simon thought she was doing a pretty good job. "Has he tried to talk to you? Does he talk to anyone else?"
"No. Just walks in and gets into the lane next to me, if it's open. The thing that really spooked me is that yesterday I saw him leave as I was coming in. Then the next thing I know, he's swimming next to me."
Simon didn't like the sound of that. "He came
back
? Are you sure it was him leaving?"
"I have to admit, I didn't recognize him myself. Somebody else--another swimmer who was in the lobby--pointed him out." Jake seemed embarrassed. "I usually see him wet. I mean, swimming, so I didn't even know the color of his hair. I could probably identify his feet better than I could his face.
"
"Actually," Simon said, "a walk is one trait that's tough for most people to disguise."