He had his strategy for the evening mapped out, mostly because he’d employed it before, on other players in other stories. He’d ask his lovely companion a few token questions about the Gaines murder case, less to get her answers than to pave the way for future disclosures. He’d gain her trust. He’d seduce her, not physically but psychologically, so that when he really needed inside info down the road, she’d give it to him.
Some might call it cynical. Milo called it good reporting. And who did it hurt? His viewers got better stories and his sources enjoyed his assiduous protection. Win-win, as far as he was concerned.
Minutes later, when Alicia Maldonado walked into the bar and brought to a halt every last murmur of conversation, Milo realized it was a good thing she was his companion for the evening. For if he had been with any other woman, he would have had trouble keeping his eyes from straying to the dark-haired, olive-skinned beauty who now stood before him.
She could not be described as glamorous. Or fashionable. Her navy-blue suit clearly had seen better days, and the same could be said for the wheat-colored overcoat topping it. Yet something about her confident stride, the intelligent light in her brown eyes, the careless toss of that long wavy hair over her shoulder, made her arresting, vibrant. As he’d found at the press conference it was hard not to stare at her, hard not to become mesmerized by the thoughts rapidly playing out on the expressive planes of her face.
“You didn’t have any trouble finding the place?” she asked.
He rose, both out of politeness and to help her shed her coat. “None at all. Actually, my hotel’s not far away.”
“Oh?” They both sat, setting off a clatter of wooden chair legs on the hardwood floor. “Where are you staying?”
“The Cypress Inn.”
“Doris Day’s place? I’m surprised.” Again the offhand toss of the hair. “It’s a great little hotel, but I would think reporters would stay with everybody else who’s here on business. Like at the Monterey Plaza Hotel.”
“I just like the Cypress Inn.” He paused, slightly chagrined. He felt odd making this admission. “There’s always a dog or two in the lobby.” The actress was famous for her love of animals, particularly of the canine variety, and ran one of the few hostelries that catered to travelers and their pets.
Alicia smiled. “You like dogs?”
“Love ‘em. Grew up with Labs, big golden Labs who drooled all over and knocked things off low tables when they swished their tails. Paris and Helen.” He shook his head, remembering those sloppy, adorable members of the family. “I wish I could own a dog now, but my travel schedule doesn’t permit it. So I have to get my fix other ways.”
She nodded, with a wise look in her eyes that said she understood a crazy work life. The waitress sidled over. Alicia glanced at Milo’s Dos Equis. “I’ll have the same, please,” she said, which made Milo smile.
“What’s so funny?”
“I can’t remember the last time I was with a woman who ordered a beer. It’s either wine or whatever is the cocktail of the moment. Usually something in a martini glass, with grenadine in it to make it pink. To mask the fact that it’s made with three kinds of vodka.”
She laughed, a pretty sound. “Where do you live that you meet all these vodka-drinking women?”
“D.C. Though—”
“You’re hardly ever there.”
“Right.”
Alicia’s Dos Equis arrived. They were silent while the waitress filled Alicia’s chilled glass, took Milo’s order for a second, and glided away.
“So,” Milo said. Time to get the ball rolling. “I know it’s not politically correct to say so, but you must be enjoying the Gaines case. A high-profile murder prosecution is the sort of thing careers are built on.”
“You’re right.” Her tone was light. “It’s not politically correct to say so.”
“How did you come to be involved?”
She hesitated. He had the idea she was deciding whether to tell him the truth or make something up. Then, “I was the first D.A. at the scene.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
“Good luck, I guess.”
He doubted that. “More likely good timing.” He thought for a moment. “I know you’ve prosecuted homicides before. That must make you a rarity in the Monterey County D.A.’s office.”
She shrugged. “There are a few of us.”
“But still, you got selected to be the D.A.’s number two on the big case.”
“As I say, I got there first.”
“Penrose must have a lot of faith in you.”
She said nothing.
“Have you worked with him for a long time?”
“Since he became D.A. Three years ago.”
“Not before?”
She shook her head.
“Still, you must be one of his favorites.”
Again she smiled that enigmatic smile, but was silent. It was a bit like having a drink with Mona Lisa. “So.” He thought back to what he knew of the murder. “Daniel Gaines was killed on Saturday. How—”
“His body was discovered on Saturday,” she cut in, then abruptly stopped.
“Aha!” Jokingly Milo pointed a finger at her. “Finally I learn something! So you have evidence it actually happened on Friday?”
She sipped her beer, her eyes averted. Milo waited. Still nothing. “It must have been difficult to be at the scene,” he offered several seconds later. “Such a violent killing.”
“There’s no such thing as a nonviolent killing.”
“Hm. Guess not.” Closed-mouthed little minx, wasn’t she? It was clear he wasn’t going to get a damn thing out of her. Admirable, actually. “So,” he said, “why did you decide to become a prosecutor?”
That line of questioning she didn’t seem to mind. “Sometimes I’m surprised I did.” She squinted, as though casting her mind back in time. “I don’t remember what I thought I’d do when I was in law school. I had vague notions of practicing law for a while, then running for office. Then a friend of mine suggested I interview with the Monterey County D.A.”
“Which went well, apparently.”
“I remember going into it thinking they would all be a bunch of Nazis. They sort of were. In my first round of interviews I had three older white guys, all with buzz cuts, like they’d all been in the military. Not that I have anything against the military, but you know what I mean.”
He nodded.
“But we actually had a conversation. A real give and take. I couldn’t believe it for a while, but eventually I realized that I agreed with them about a lot of things. Then they invited me back for round two, then round three, then...” She stopped.
“The rest is history.”
“As they say.” She sipped her beer. He sensed she’d had enough of talking about herself, so wasn’t surprised when she turned the tables. “Where did you grow up?”
“I was born in Bogota but then we moved to Germany. Then Paris, then Washington when I was ten, Washington all through prep school.” He paused. He should have said “high” rather than “prep” school. Suddenly he found himself reluctant to provide copious details on his background.
She cocked her head, her eyes curious. “Pappas is a Greek name, right?”
“That’s right. I have dual Greek and U.S. citizenship.”
“What did your father do that you moved around so much?”
He hesitated. Then, “He was in the diplomatic corps.”
“What did he do in Washington?”
No way around it. “He was ambassador.”
She fell silent and looked down at her lap. Milo shifted in his chair. She thinks her background’s so different from mine. And she’s embarrassed about it, though she needn’t be. For a moment he saw a vulnerability in the hard-boiled prosecutor and found himself touched. How surprised she would be to learn the truth about his family history. Alicia Maldonado had more in common with Milo Pappas than she realized. “What did your father do?” he asked, su
ddenly curious.
She raised her eyes. “He was a long-haul trucker.”
“So he was away from home a lot?”
“Yes.”
“Just like mine.”
She gave him a look that said, No, different from yours. “Did you grow up in California?” he asked.
“Yes. Not far from here.”
“Have you lived here all your life?”
Again she dropped her eyes. “Sure have.”
He watched a flush rise on her cheeks. “You’re lucky,” he said, then added, “It’s a beautiful part of the world.”
“Well, I guess I have to take your word for that. You’ve seen a lot of the world, so you would know.” Then she raised her head again, and it pained him to see both the sadness and the hint of defiance in those lovely dark eyes.
He leaned closer to her across the table. “You’ll travel, Alicia. You’ll see the world.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I’m just stating a fact.”
“You can see into the future?”
“Yes.” Then he laughed, and that got her to smile. “Yes, I can.”
They stared at each other. At that moment Milo could actually imagine showing this woman his favorite places. Bangkok, where crossing the street without getting hit by a three-wheeled tuk-tuk taxi was a daredevil exercise. Maui, for the sunset, where the sky glowed pink and purple and you could swear you’d glimpsed heaven. Even his favorite Upper West Side cafe with the endless Sunday brunch lines, where snow or sun you’d stand outside waiting for a table because the prospect of buttermilk pancakes and the New York Times was just too good to pass up.
Some of the football watchers let out a cheer, dragging Alicia’s eyes away from his. “Game’s over, apparently,” she said.
“Judging from the reaction, I guess the good guys won.”
“I wish it was always that easy.”
“Come on.” He smiled at her. “Is that Alicia Maldonado talking? Or the cynical prosecutor?”
“They’re one and the same.”
“Somehow I don’t believe that.”
She rolled her eyes. Milo realized he was enjoying himself more than he’d expected to. He didn’t know quite what to make of this woman. She didn’t fit into any of the usual categories. “I’m glad,” he said, idly trailing a finger through the condensation on his beer bottle, “that you’ve realized I’m not the enemy.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You thought you were?”
“Well, you gave me kind of a hard time at the press conference.”
“No, I didn’t. I just treated you like any other reporter. That’s what you didn’t like.”
He laughed so loudly some of the football watchers looked over. “You’re right! You’re absolutely right.” He lowered his voice. “I was hoping you might give me special treatment.”
“You flatter yourself.”
“That’s a lot easier than waiting for somebody else to do it.”
Then it was her turn to laugh, and he watched, pleased to have been the cause. They were silent for a while, sipping their beers, then he spoke up. “Well, I suppose I should ask you at least a few probing questions about Daniel Gaines’ murder.”
“Aren’t you done with that yet?”
“Not yet.” He shook his head. “I have to stick to my game plan even though I don’t much feel like it. I’m having too good a time.”
“Well, that’s too bad. For you, anyway. Because I could tell you a thing or two.”
He was surprised. Apparently he had succeeded in warming her up a bit. He forced himself to climb out of the pleasant stupor created by beer, repartee with a beautiful woman, and a roaring fire. He decided to ask a stupid, leading question, which occasionally elicited a valuable, explanatory response. “So isn’t this about the most boring case in the world? I mean, apart from the fact that the victim was a candidate for governor of California, isn’t it just so obvious who did it?”
She sighed. “You know the first people the police look to in a murder?”
“Tell me.”
“Spouse. Family. Friends. Almost always it’s somebody close to the victim.”
He’d known that. “But that’s not true here.”
She frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Well...” He laughed. “Spouse? You think Joan Gaines would shoot her husband with an arrow?”
“Why not? Is she somehow less likely than other spouses?”
“Well, frankly, yes.” He hesitated, then, “People like Joan Gaines don’t go around murdering their husbands.”
He watched Alicia narrow her eyes at him. The fire in the grate roared as fiercely as ever, yet all at once the air seemed to chill. “You mean because she’s from a wealthy family? Because she’s the daughter of a governor?”
That was pretty much what he’d meant, but he hesitated to spell it out. While he was debating what to say, Alicia resumed speaking.
“You know, murderers come from all walks of life. It’s not just the poor who kill.”
“I’m not suggesting it is. I’m merely pointing out that Joan Gaines is a good woman from a good family and she would never—”
“How do you know she’s a good woman?”
Damn. This was the last thing he wanted to get into.
“Do you know her?” she demanded. Milo had a sudden understanding of what it would be like to be cross-examined by Deputy D.A. Maldonado.
He thought fast. He didn’t want to lie. Nor was it advisable, since his history with Joan was hardly secret. “I know her,” he allowed. “More to the point, I know the family. And when I compare Joan Gaines to Treebeard it looks to me to be pretty cut and dried who’s the more likely suspect.”
Silence. When Alicia finally spoke, her voice was cold. “It surprises me that you’re not even willing to consider the possibility that this case might not be all sewn up. I thought reporters were supposed to keep an open mind. Naive of me. But then again, what do I know? I’ve never been off the peninsula.”
She glanced at her watch then abruptly stood up, reached into her purse, and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “I have to go. Good night.” She grabbed her overcoat and headed for the door.
Damn. “Alicia …”
But she was already gone. He grabbed his own overcoat and pulled out his billfold, extracting a twenty. The cold air when he exited the bar hit him like a slap.
He followed her across the parking lot at a half run, then reached for her arm when she stopped at a car. She shook him off, digging into her purse, apparently for her key. Her breath rose like a soft white cloud in the chill air.
“I’m sorry if I offended you. I certainly didn’t mean to. And let me pay for our drinks. Here ...” and he tried to hand her the twenty.
“Forget it.” She ignored the outstretched bill. “And you didn’t offend me. I’m just surprised you have such a rosy view of the rich and famous.” She found her key and poked it into the lock. “Though I shouldn’t be, since you’re one of them.”
“Hey, now, wait a minute.” He stepped between her and her car, its door still closed. “That’s not fair. You talk about me having a closed mind?” He reached out and made a brushing motion on her right shoulder, as if he were trying to get something off.
They were standing so close together, her breath puffed in his face. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to knock that chip off your shoulder.”
She pushed back hard against his chest, her eyes angry. “You’ve got a lot of nerve!”
There was no thought on the path from impulse to action. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her body toward his own, swiftly capturing her mouth. Her lips resisted at first, then parted, and he felt her body meld into his own. Not soften; it was far too passionate a motion for that. Vaguely he wondered what had possessed him to do what he was now doing, and with such enjoyment. Admiration, attraction, sheer curiosity had pooled to form a crazy, mixed-up brew that had gotten t
he better of his common sense, yet he couldn’t say he was sorry. His hands were in her hair, he realized, as he twisted her head this way and that to get his fill of her. He had the fleeting idea that would not happen soon.
All at once she pulled back and stared at him, her eyes flaring and her mouth almost swollen from the ferocity of their kiss. She held up a warning finger and opened that delicious mouth as if about to say something, but then abruptly shut it again. Words failed her, apparently. They failed him, too.
He stepped back to allow her room to get into her car. She turned the ignition and revved the engine, backing out soon and driving away just as fast. He watched her, unable to look away until at long last her taillights disappeared into the fog.
Chapter 6
“This is a hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve, Alicia.” Louella Wilkes sat in the passenger seat of Alicia’s silver VW bug, staring out the window and complaining. “This is pointless. Carmel PD already did this interview. What do you expect to get that they didn’t?”
“It’ll only take a few hours. I’ll get you back to the office by three.”
“Does Penrose know about this?”
“Of course not.” Penrose would have a cow if he thought Alicia was spending one second on ground already covered, particularly such sacred ground as Joan Gaines’ alibi for the night her husband was murdered. Alicia pushed her foot down hard on the accelerator and the VW surged forward. “Anyway, I completely disagree that it’s a bad idea. Carmel PD isn’t exactly experienced when it comes to homicide investigations. Besides, don’t you think it’s weird that Joan Gaines went shopping two days after her husband died?”
“She needed something for the funeral.”
“And got her hair dyed? And her nails done? In San Francisco, no less, because that’s the nearest Neiman Marcus? It’s not her wedding day coming up, Louella—it’s her husband’s funeral.”
The scenery whizzed past. Their destination of Santa Cruz lay about forty-five miles north of Carmel on Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, a narrow thoroughfare that twisted along California’s shoreline. Much of the scenery was gorgeous. Twenty miles south, around Big Sur, it was spectacular. But this stretch of PCH wound inland toward Watsonville, known as the strawberry capital of the world. As an agricultural outpost, it was less than scenic and less than fragrant. Kind of like Salinas.
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