And you, McCone, have a sick sense of humor.
They say if you can't laugh, you'll cry.
Then I realized I was already crying; tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and washed over my face. My hair, blown by the wind, stuck to my wet cheeks. My shoulders and chest heaved.
What a sorry, awful mess! D’Silva was being operated on at the trauma unit in Fort Bragg, her injuries numerous but not life threatening. The Citabria would never fly again. And now it was up to me to break the news to Hy.
Except I had no clue as to his whereabouts. When I'd called RKI's headquarters an hour ago, the operator told me she thought he'd left São Paulo for San Francisco yesterday. He'd been in Argentina, I argued, not Brazil. No, she replied, she was sure Mr. Renshaw said Brazil. Was Mr. Renshaw there? Sorry, everyone had left for the weekend.
RKI, the organization that routinely put in 168-hour weeks, had chosen this, of all times, to knock off and relax.
Behind me, the airport was operating as usual. Because the Citabria had slid well off the tarmac onto the median strip between it and the taxiway, runway 29 was clear; planes landed and took off, their occupants casting cautionary looks at the wreckage. After the FAA investigators came out, it would be removed, and it would seem as if the disaster had never happened.
Except it would replay vividly in my mind for the rest of my life. And I'd never fly the little white plane again. Would never occupy the backseat while Hy piloted. With a stab of pain I remembered our first flight together, how scared I'd been. I remembered the first time he'd put the-plane into a precision spin, and how, in that moment, I'd decided to become a pilot.
How many hours had I logged in the Citabria? How many takeoffs and landings—
“Don't cry, McCone. It's only a plane.”
I whirled at the sound of his voice. “Ripinsky!”
He held out his arms to me.
I ran to him, burrowed into them. My joy and relief were short lived, extinguished by a wrenching pang of guilt. I began to cry harder.
“Sssh.” He smoothed my hair against the back of my head, pulled me closer.
“Where
were
you?” I asked, hating the plaintive note in my voice.
“Hostage negotiation in Sao Paulo. CEO of one of our big multinationals down there was snatched; fortunately I wasn't far away and could take charge quickly.”
“It turn out okay?” Hy was RKI's best man for such negotiations, but even in the most talented of hands they often go badly—for all concerned.
“Yeah, but it took a long time. Too long. Later I'll tell you all about it.”
I stepped back, wiping my eyes, and looked him over. His chin was stubbled, and weariness showed in his eyes. “Gage called me yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.” His hps twisted. “The things that must've been going through your mind when neither of us got back to you … All I wanted was to make my flight, catch some sleep, and get on home to you; Gage told me it sounded as though you'd be on the move, so I asked him to let you know when I was getting in. He got sidetracked, forgot to call you. Classic screwup.”
Or was it a deliberate lapse on Renshaw's part? Although we'd forged an uneasy truce in recent years, the relationship was a problematical one. I'd once bested him in a professional situation, and he'd never forgotten it.
“When I got back to the city,” Hy went on, “I took a cab to your house. There was a message on your answering machine from Greg Marcus—something about having information on somebody named D’Silva and being concerned because you'd flown up here alone. I tried both the cottage and your cell phone and got no answer, so I rented a 172 and was on my way within the hour.”
“My cell phone's on.” I pulled it from my bag, which one of the firemen had retrieved from the Citabria, and flipped it open. The digital display didn't light. “Oh, hell! Dead battery pack. Did you land at Touchstone?”
“No. When I tuned to Little River, I heard Sonny advising of wreckage on the median strip, so I got on to him, found out what had happened, and came directly here. Was it that woman who was hassling you?”
“Yes. Lee D’Silva. Job applicant I turned down.” I glanced at what was left of the Citabria, quickly looked away. “God, I feel terrible about the plane.”
“Don't. Frankly, Two-eight-niner was getting to be a pain in the ass. The radios've never worked right, and it's too small and uncomfortable for long trips. We're overdue for a new plane.”
“But the expense—”
“Insurance'll cover some of it, and the rest we can afford.”
“You loved the Citabria.”
“So did you, but it's not like it was a person. I can take its loss. What I couldn't face would be losing you—and for a moment when I heard about the wreckage, I thought I had.”
“And I'd been thinking I'd lost
you.
” Quickly I returned to the security of his arms.
After a bit he asked, “You know what shopping for a plane's like, McCone?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Well, be prepared for a lot of pushy salespeople who won't take no for an answer. But also be prepared to test-fly any number of aircraft before we make our decision. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking high-performance. I'm thinking comfort. I'm thinking
sexy.
”
I tipped my head back and smiled at him. “Funny,” I said, “I thought you'd been thinking sexy ever since I met you.”
I
hung up the phone and looked across the desk at Rae. Wearing a new blue sweater that matched her eyes, she seemed exceptionally cheerful; successfully managing the agency during the past week had given her confidence yet another boost.
“So what was Greg's information about D’Silva?” she asked.
“It wasn't so much information as a rumor. On Saturday evening he spoke with a former SFPD inspector who's currently on the Paradise force. The guy told him that at the time of D’Silva's mother's death there was some speculation that it had been an assisted suicide—or murder. And Lee was the only person with her the day she died.”
“They look into it?”
“Not very thoroughly; Lee had the reputation of little Ms. Perfect, and her father was highly regarded in the community. Besides, Mrs. D’Silva would've died within a matter of days anyway.”
“So maybe Lee got away with murder.”
“And maybe she thought she could get away with murdering me.”
“You really think she lured you up to Touchstone to kill you?”
“I don't know what she intended—or what she wanted from me. Maybe she doesn't know, either.” She was in the hospital in Fort Bragg, under police guard, and remained on the critical list.
Rae glanced at her watch. “Fifteen minutes till the meeting between Anne-Marie and Hank and Bud Larsen's attorney. You attending?”
“Yes. Ted, Neal, and Larsen'll be there too. As well as Glenna Stanleigh.”
“Wish
I'd
been invited.”
“No, you don't. It's likely to get ugly.”
She nodded absently. “Shar,” she said after a moment, “I need to ask you something.”
“Sure, what?”
“Well, the wedding …”
“Have you set a date?”
“Tentatively we're thinking May, but it's not firm yet. The whole thing's complicated by Ricky having some surprise in store for me that's taking time to arrange. God, I wish he'd get it settled, whatever it is! He doesn't realize that even for the small kind of ceremony we want, there's stuff I've got to get started on.”
“Such as what to wear.”
“And flowers and food. And what the best man and woman're going to wear.”
“Who are they?”
“Well, Mick for him, of course. And for me … what I want to ask is—would you?”
“Stand up for you?”
“Give me away, too, if you want. I'm sure you've been dying to do that for years.”
She phrased it lightly, but I knew my answer was important to her. I'd been both her mentor and her friend for a long time, but she was also marrying my sister's former husband and, given my past behavior, she must have been afraid I'd decline.
I got up, went around the desk, and hugged her. “I'd love to stand up, give away,
and
help with the arrangements. Just don't make me wear something pink and frilly.”
“That'd be like me wearing something white and frilly. We'll be coolly sophisticated instead.” She struck a fashion model's pose, and we both began to giggle at the concept. Sophistication was no more us than frills were.
I perched on the edge of the desk. “So what d'you suppose Ricky's surprise is?”
“I haven't a clue—and usually I can read his mind.”
“Well, it's bound to be an interesting one.”
“Yeah, it will. Between my job and Ricky, life's never boring.”
“Let me see if I have your offer straight,” Alan Symons said. He was a portly, bald man in a shiny blue suit who affected folksy mannerisms that masked a sly shrewdness. “My client gives up his job at the Plum Alley building and agrees never to come within a hundred yards of your clients, their residence, cars, or places of business?”
Anne-Marie, who had assumed a power position in the seating area of the law firm's office—a high desk chair facing the sofa where Symons and Bud Larsen sat—nodded. “That's correct. In return, Ms. Stanleigh will not use the footage of Mr. Larsen in her documentary on hate crimes.” There was no such documentary in the works, but Symons had neglected to ask for proof.
“This is coercion,” he said.
“No, counselor, it's negotiation. You viewed the footage— you know we could take it to the police. But my clients don't care to put Mr. Larsen behind bars; they simply want to put this behind them and ensure that they're left alone in the future.”
I glanced at Bud Larsen. He was slumped in the corner of the sofa; occasionally he'd glare at Ted and Neal, but mainly he stared down at his lap.
“Ms. Altman,” Symons said, “I may be dense, but—”
Hank muttered, “I'll stipulate to that.”
Anne-Marie frowned at him, while the rest of us did our best not to laugh. Symons appeared unruffled by the remark; probably he'd fielded many similar ones. “I may be dense,” he repeated, “but what you're doing is actionable. My client will file suit—”
“Fine. And we will take the footage of your client to the SFPD. Where Ms. McCone has high-level contacts.”
Symons was silent, looking at Larsen. Finally Larsen met his gaze and shrugged. “Job doesn't pay much anyway,” he said. “Be good to get away from those faggots.”
Symons sighed, a trace of a sneer tugging at his lips, and I began to think better of him. He'd been hired to strike a deal, he'd done it, but that didn't mean he had to like or approve of his client.
God, I was glad I'd never had the urge to become a lawyer! I truly didn't understand how good people like Anne-Marie and Hank could continue practicing without becoming hopelessly jaded. Or maybe I did. Maybe sessions like this were what kept them going.
They discussed an agreement, set a date and time for it to be signed by all concerned parties. Then Symons stood and motioned to his client. Larsen followed him partway to the door, but detoured at the last second and went to loom over Ted and Neal, who were seated next to each other.
He said, “Nothing's changed. You're still filthy perverts.”
They exchanged glances and, without moving, became a unit, putting up an invisible wall between themselves and his hatred. They'd been having problems, both had told me, since Neal had found out about Ted's deception, but they were determined to try to work them out. Now I knew that time and their commitment to each other would see them through.
Larsen sensed he couldn't get to them. His face reddened and he said, “I know your kind, all right. Uncle Nick, the nicest man on the block, took care of kids so their folks could get away. Always punched them on the arm and called them buddy—just like you, Osborn.”
Symons said, “All right, Bud, that's enough.”
Larsen ignored him. “Good old Uncle Nick—that wasn't all he was punching down in his basement while his wife thought the kids were helping out in his woodworking shop. And afterward he'd say they'd be sorry if they told, and then he'd act like nothing happened.”
Now we all exchanged glances. Larsen had used the impersonal plural pronoun, but obliquely he'd explained the roots of his rage.
He added, “All this crap about genetic programming and your fuckin’ rights—the hell with it. You're sick, that's what it comes down to.”
Slowly Ted stood, faced him squarely. “No, Bud,” he said, “you're wrong. Uncle Nick was sick; he preyed on children. Men like that
are
called perverts. Neal and I are healthy men who love each other.
We're
called gays.”
Larsen blinked, swallowed. Then he muttered to his attorney, “Get me out of this hole.”
We all watched them go in silence.
Half an hour later, I faced my staff in the conference room and saw the unease that I felt mirrored in their eyes.
Now was the time to address the issue that was on all our minds.
“What's happened to us?” I asked.
Headshakes. Shrugs.
“We used to be a team,” I said. “Remember last fall? When we all pulled together to solve the Seabrook case? Why weren't we together on this?”
Rae said, “Ted didn't trust us. And you didn't give us a chance either, Shar.”
“But why?”
“Maybe we're all too independent minded for our own good.”
“So what do we do about it in the future?”
Ted said, “Try harder,” and Neal nodded.
“Well, you guys ought to know about that,” I told them.
“Try harder,” Rae repeated, “and remember that there's too much … bad stuff out there for people to take things into their own hands.”
“And,” Charlotte said, “remember that we're lucky we
can
trust each other.”
“And,” Mick added, “remember that sometimes the boss can act like a horse's ass.”
“And,” I finished, “remember that at least one of our people can sometimes act like a
smart
horse's ass. Now let's adjourn to Miranda's—burgers and beer on me.”
P
ropped against the headboard of her hospital bed, Lee D’Silva looked smaller than the woman I'd interviewed for a job last month. Her honey-blond hair was stringy, both eyes were blackened, and there was a strip of adhesive tape across her nose. Her right arm was in a cast, and her doctor had told me that she'd sustained three broken ribs and substantial internal damage, including a collapsed lung and a ruptured spleen. Much of this could have been avoided had she been wearing a seat belt when she put the Citabria into the ground loop.