“—and now he’s riding high and figures he can take me out!”
“You got it.”
“Sam! Whether I stay or go is your decision, not the Attorney General’s!”
“You’re right, but she boxed me in.”
“How?”
“She also got a call from our favorite judge.”
27
The next day, just before five o’clock in the afternoon, I slipped the key Marc had given me into the lock of his apartment door. I opened the door and walked in.
Music was playing. It was an old song—“Broken Hearted Me.”
I shut the door quietly.
Marc was stretched out on the couch. As I approached, I saw that his eyes were closed. For a horrible second, I thought something was badly wrong. Then I saw the tear on his cheek. I felt a lump rise in my throat.
My shadow rippled across Marc’s face. His eyes opened.
“Anne Murray,” I said. “I haven’t heard that in years.”
“Number one on the charts in November ’79.” He sat up and wiped his cheek without any sign of embarrassment. “The same month you were born.”
“I don’t recall telling you when I was born.”
He responded with an ironic look and I flashed on an earlier discussion in this room: my affair with a law school professor … a bottle of ’83 Margaux …
I nodded in defeat. “Research.”
“Right.” He picked up a remote and killed the music. “I’ve been waiting.”
“They’re calling it an ‘administrative suspension.’”
“It was on the news.”
“There’s a Channel 20 news crew camped outside my town house.”
“I made up the spare room.”
“Thanks.” I sat down. “Barlow has filed two formal complaints against me—one with the Attorney General and another with the State Bar.”
Marc reached for my hand. “It’s just bluster, Claire.”
“Sam’s doing his best to protect me. He knows the press will try to crucify him, but he seems more worried about me. He’s insisting on handling the appeal himself.”
“I’m sorry. I knew better than to go in there. But I just…” He went quiet.
“C’mon! You would have gone there no matter what I said! All I had to do was stay home! Sam would have given you immunity on the burglary, Barlow could never have gotten away with ruling you were a State agent, and your evidence would have gone in.” I could feel the tears coming as I spit out my next words. “All we needed was a decent, thoughtful judge, but instead we got stuck with that woman-hating egomaniac!”
The tears flowed. Marc slid an arm around me, and I collapsed against him.
For a long, warm minute, with my face pressed to his chest, it felt like I belonged there.
At least, until the defensive part of my brain pointed out that he was stroking my hair.
I sat up and straightened my top. “I need a drink.”
“Beer? Wine? Scotch?”
“Anything.”
He rose and padded into the kitchen. I heard a cupboard open, glasses and ice clinking. “Something to eat?” he called.
“Not hungry.”
He reappeared with three tumblers enclosed in the clasp of both hands. One was filled with ice cubes, with a spoon standing in the ice. He lowered the three glasses to the table and then passed one to me. It was half-filled with scotch.
He grinned at me. “Last time you weren’t hungry, you yelled at me and stormed off.”
“How did you get home that night?”
“Took a cab.” He sat next to me and spooned an ice cube into his drink.
I looked at him. “How can you be so calm? A serial killer just walked!”
He shrugged. “I said you would solve this case, and you did. The killer has been identified. And after all these years, any other suspects are finally eliminated.”
“Other suspects?”
“You read the files upstairs.”
“Okay, but…”
“The world now knows who and what Tribe is … including his neighbors. Take a look at O. J. Simpson’s life after his acquittal.”
“Simpson was a celebrity! The world knows him on sight. Tribe could move to another state—hell, he’d only have to move to Miami—and no one would know him from Adam!” I took a swallow of whisky. “I screwed up and I can’t fix it!”
Marc wiped a tear off my cheek with his knuckle. “Dear, dear Claire. Maybe you already have.”
“What?”
“Fixed it.”
“Please, no more of your riddles!”
“The Chinese have a saying.…”
I groaned. “And what do the Chinese say?”
He answered, looking straight into my eyes. “Only the future is certain. The past is always changing.”
I had no idea what that meant, and I was too upset to ask.
* * *
When I eventually fell asleep, with my head on a cushion and my bare feet on Marc’s lap, my third glass of scotch was sitting untouched on the coffee table, right beside the half-eaten remains of a pizza we had ordered. I have a wispy memory of Marc gathering me into his arms and carrying me across the apartment.
After that … nothing.
When I woke up, the sun was high and I couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. I was lying on my back, under covers. I had one of those invidious headaches that hurts only when you move your head. A roll to the left ramped up the pain in my skull, but confirmed that I was alone in the bed. It was only then that I realized I was in my underwear. I did a quick check to make sure I wasn’t wearing a thong. I wasn’t, which was something of a relief, but still …
I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. My jeans and top were on separate hangers on the back of the door. A glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol sat waiting on the bedside table, along with a neatly folded terry bathrobe on an adjacent chair.
I swung my legs out of bed, shook two Tylenols out of the bottle, and gulped them down with a swallow of water. I stood up and pulled on the robe. I hadn’t decided yet whether to be peeved or not about Marc’s undressing me.
While I was making up my mind, things got suddenly strange.
There was a tap on the door, and Marc’s voice called out: “Cat? Breakfast is ready!”
It took me a few seconds of shock to digest what I had just heard. By the time I opened the door, Marc, wearing oven mitts, was carrying plates from the kitchen to the adjoining dining area.
He set one plate down, circled the table, and then spotted me standing in the bedroom doorway. He must have noticed the expression on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“‘Cat’?” I asked sharply.
“Oh … uh … your initials. Just popped into my head, I guess.”
I marched toward him, my bare heels thumping on the hardwood floor. “Only my mother calls me that! Have you been talking to her?”
He stood stock-still. “No.”
I studied the plate on my side of the table … eggs, sunny-side up, weird-looking bacon, fried tomatoes, and wheat toast … cut into narrow strips.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing.
“Dippers. For your eggs.”
He was still holding his own plate. I stared at his toast. It was unsliced.
I was spooked. My head was pounding, which made the tone of my next question sound more harsh than I had intended.
“How the hell did you know I like to dip my eggs?”
He set his plate down. “I guess … I guess I know quite a few things about you.”
“More ‘research’?” I glared at him. “And just why this burning interest in my personal preferences, Mr. Hastings?”
There was an uneasy moment, and then he said it.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
I blinked at him. I remember that blink because it wasn’t a spontaneous blink. It was an act, because he had just admitted what I already knew. I had been ready for it, but I pretend
ed that I wasn’t. I pretended I was surprised.
But pretense is hard to sustain. What do you say next when you’re totally at sea and confused about your own feelings? I couldn’t think of a damned thing that wouldn’t sound lame, so I sidestepped.
“Oh, hell!”
“Oh, hell … what?”
“Oh, hell … I’m hungry and it looks good!”
I sat down and so did he. For a few minutes, we ate in silence.
“What kind of bacon is this?” I asked. It was spicy and delicious.
“Pancetta. It’s Italian.”
“Hmm. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
By the end of the meal, my headache was gone.
28
Situational awareness.
Good cops have it, and if they want to stay alive, they keep it switched on all day, every day, on duty or off.
Most often, situational awareness just means seeing something that others miss: clothing or body language that doesn’t fit; a light in the wrong window; an out-of-place sound. But sometimes it means the reverse. Sometimes, especially in police work, it means the well-honed skill of ensuring that other people don’t see something.
For example: making sure that those other people don’t see you.
After our breakfast together, and after a quiet discussion over coffee, I showered, dressed, and took my leave from Marc. I drove home. Thankfully, the news crew was gone.
But they’d been replaced.
A blue VW Jetta was parked in a visitor space three units up from mine. A man was sitting behind the wheel. When I noticed him, his head was down, his face obscured behind the peak of a ball cap.
But his window was open, and his left arm was resting in plain view. Even from sixty feet away, I instantly deduced his identity.
I entered my town house and bolted the door behind me. I waited ten minutes, then used my landline to call Marc’s cell.
When he answered, I announced, “I’ll be back in three hours.”
“Okay.”
“Just so you know.”
“Okay.”
“I’m being tested.”
“I understand.”
I disconnected, wondering if he had really got my message. Then I relaxed. Based on past performance, I was pretty certain he had.
I ran up the stairs to my bedroom. I stood a few feet back from the balcony window and watched the parking lot.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the man in the Volkswagen took a call on a cell phone. Seconds later, he drove away.
I started packing a suitcase.
* * *
I parked on the street near the entrance to Marc’s building. It took about three seconds to confirm my earlier impression. Either my stalkers’ situational awareness skills were severely deficient, or they had an extremely low opinion of mine.
The car was parked on the opposite side of the street, halfway up the next block. This time they were using a full-sized American sedan, but they hadn’t had the sense to tuck the nose of their car tight against the vehicle parked in front of it. With the setting sun dipping low behind me, the wigwag emergency lights mounted behind the car’s front grille glowed like neon.
I left my suitcase in the car. Feigning oblivious confidence, I walked directly to the front entrance of Marc’s building. I pushed the button on the console. Marc answered.
“I think you should come down to the lobby,” I said.
“On my way,” he replied, and buzzed me in.
Sixty seconds later, he was standing in front of me. “Let’s go,” he said, taking my hand.
“Where?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
He led me out through the rear door into the alley. We walked two blocks east and then took a jog back to the main street. We crossed to the opposite sidewalk and strolled west, approaching the vehicle from behind. When we were one car length back, Marc stepped quickly into the street and strode toward the driver’s door.
The man sitting behind the wheel must have spotted Marc in his side-view mirror. He opened his door, but before he could step out, Marc had him by the jacket. With the same strength and speed I’d seen him use on my assailant outside Sam’s apartment building, he hauled Ted Lipinski out of the car and slammed him facedown on the asphalt.
Geiger was in the passenger seat. He was taken by surprise. He spilled coffee down his shirt, yelled with pain, and immediately tried to open his door. I kicked it shut. He gaped at me in shock and went for his gun.
I stared at him, daring him to pull it.
He seemed to shrink. His hand reappeared from under his jacket, empty.
Marc jerked the now-dazed Lipinski to his feet, disarmed him, and yelled at Geiger. “Give Claire your gun!”
“What the fuck! Are you both crazy?”
“Shut up! Lower your window and give her your gun!”
Geiger slowly removed his weapon from its holster. The window slid down. He passed his gun out to me.
Marc maneuvered Lipinski into position and shoved him headlong back into the car. His face landed on Geiger’s crotch. The old cop scrambled to right himself. “Aggravated assault on the police!” he spluttered. “I’ll have your ass, Hastings!” He swung his head to glare at me. “And yours, too, you bitch!”
“We’ll welcome the charges, Lipinski! Not only will they give us a chance to expose your utter incompetence, but we look forward to hearing you explain to the feds what part of your lawful duties required you to stalk Claire Talbot and illegally tap her phone!”
“And,” I added, yelling at the two red-faced cops, “you can expect a civil complaint against both of you for malfeasance! Get ready to lose your houses, your cars, and”—I stabbed a finger at the TAG Heuer on Geiger’s wrist that had given him away—“your fancy watches!”
I straightened, heaved Geiger’s gun over a chain-link fence into the empty lot next to the sidewalk, and walked away. Marc joined me, still carrying Lipinski’s weapon. After a few steps, he dropped it into a storm drain.
“He’ll have fun explaining that,” I said.
He chuckled. “Nice performance.”
“You, too.”
“Are you really going to sue them?”
“Maybe,” I replied. After a few seconds, I said, “Probably not.”
“That’s good. I don’t think you’ll have time. I’m planning on keeping you pretty busy.”
“Oh, you are, are you?”
“Yes. I am.” He studied my face, and broke into a grin.
At that moment, I realized that I had grinned first.
I took his arm, and we walked to his building.
When we reached the front door, I said, “I brought some clothes.”
“I thought you might.”
“Presumptuous of you.”
“I figured you’d want to get away from the newshounds.”
“Or idiot cops?”
He nodded and looked up the street. I followed his gaze. Lipinski and Geiger were down on their knees in the gutter. They had the storm grate pulled vertical. Lipinski was holding it while Geiger had one arm shoulder-deep in the drain.
“Get your suitcase.” Marc instructed. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
The expression on his face sent me hurrying to my car.
As I rolled my suitcase back to the building, I spotted Lipinski walking determinedly toward me from the opposite direction. Geiger was trailing several feet behind him, walking slowly. Marc opened the lobby door. I entered and headed for the elevator. He put a hand on my arm. “No. We walk.”
“The front door won’t stop them! They’ll get someone to open it!”
“Don’t worry.” He hefted my bag and led me up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
As we passed the last landing, I panted, “Are you doing this just to show off?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “But not in the way you think.” I was about to blurt some caustic remark when an alarm bell sounded.
Marc
smiled at my confusion. “The elevator,” he explained. “It jams between first and second floors.”
“Since when?”
“Since three minutes ago.”
I gaped at him. “How did you do that?”
“I know things.”
“I’ve already gathered that! But how—?”
“Preplanning.” He grinned and started up the last flight of steps. “Coming?”
29
Four hours later, we were sitting at Marc’s dining room table, nursing the last drops of a very fine Montrachet. Empty plates and dishes were all that remained of a two-course dinner Marc had calmly prepared while the sounds of the elevator alarm and, later, the commotion caused by the fire department’s rescue efforts, drifted up from floors below. Eventually, we’d watched from the dining room window as Lipinski and Geiger plodded away from the building in the direction of the police car.
“How did you know they wouldn’t keep coming, pound on your door, and arrest us for assault?”
“Geiger isn’t the smartest cop around, but he has a bit of common sense. I figured an hour or two in an elevator would give him enough time to convince Lipinski that he was playing with fire.”
I was long past hiding my skepticism. I gave him a narrow look. “You’re very good at guessing everybody’s next move, aren’t you?”
As usual, he didn’t answer. He sipped his wine, waiting for me to change the subject.
And, as usual, I did.
“Who taught you to cook like that?” The main course Marc had prepared—salmon poached in a wine and blueberry sauce, served with a dish that he called Persian jeweled rice—had been exquisitely delicious.
“A beautiful young woman.”
“Was she also intriguing?”
“Oh yes. Definitely.”
“Did you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
His eyes were suddenly damp. “It’s a long story.”
I sighed. “They always are.” I drained my glass.
“One day you’ll understand.”
Damn!
I already knew I was in love with this enigmatic man, but all this evasiveness about his past was pissing me off.
“For God’s sake, Marc! How many years between us?”
“Too many.”
Time of Departure Page 15
