“It’s okay,” I tell him. “My hands’re a lot dirtier than yours. You were trying to do the right thing.”
He gathers himself. “All right. So let’s get back to my question: who else knew the pictures existed?”
I think about Maureen. She’d guessed where I’d hidden them, but she didn’t know for sure. That she could have been involved in my mother’s death is too terrible to contemplate. “No one. But Roach had to have assumed it. He’s the logical contender, Buster. Particularly after what I witnessed last night.”
I take the manila folder that contains the black and white pictures out of my backpack, fan them out across his desk. He looks at them.
“You took these?”
I nod.
“Roach’s property?”
“On his runway and inside his house. Last night.”
He literally jerks, hearing that. “Last night?” There’s terror in his voice now, it’s unmistakable. “You’re insane, man.”
“I know. It was scary as hell.”
If he knew about last night, he’d give it away now; I’d be able to tell, I know him too well for him to deceive me. But he doesn’t know, I can see it in his blank eyes.
He picks up the photographs. His hands are shaking. “Who are these men?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me find out.”
He drops the prints on his desk like they’ve scalded him. “Like how?”
“You’re the only connected person I know besides Roach, and I don’t think I can go to him for this information.”
“Very funny, Fritz,” he says darkly.
“You know the players. It’s a tight network, which I don’t have access to, like you do.”
He rocks in his chair. “I don’t know, Fritz. This makes me nervous as hell.”
“My mother’s dead, damn it,” I say, leaning on him hard. “I need to know who killed her. I think finding out who these men are will help.” I exhale wearily. “We’ve been friends over half our lives, Buster, since we were weeny little freshmen. I’m calling in the big one. I don’t know anyone else who can help me,” I plead.
He sighs. “I can’t fight that. Okay.” He points to the pictures. “Can I keep these?”
“That’s why I brought them.” I scoop them up in a pile, hand them to him.
“I’ll do what I can,” he promises. He’s dubious about getting in this deep, but he’s stuck.
“That’s great, Buster. I really appreciate it.”
He gruffly waves off my gratitude. “What happened to your mother pushes this over the line. That makes it family. You’d do the same for me if the situation were reversed.” He slides the pictures into the envelope. “What other bombs do you have to drop on me today?”
“Aren’t these enough?”
A tight nod. “More than enough.”
I get up, stretch. It’s a long drive from my place to Washington. My back is stiff. “Actually, though, there is more. And everything keeps leading back to Roach. I think the gun that killed the diplomat was the same weapon used on Wallace.”
Buster looks at me in alarm. “Shit, man. This is getting worse and worse.” He cocks a questioning finger at me. “How do you know all this, anyway?”
“I’ve got my spies out working for me,” I say evasively. “I’ll tell you something else: the Baltimore cops, the detectives who are working on the counselor’s murder from their end, since that’s where the body was found, think there could have been linkage between him and an illegal arms-dealing ring, syndicate, however you call it. And James Roach, in case you didn’t know, was almost indicted for arms-dealing twenty years ago. So there’s synergy there.” I lean forward on his desk, resting my weight on my hands. “All roads lead to Roach, Buster.”
He shakes his head like a dog trying to shake off a passel of fleas. “This is brutal,” he moans. “This is so fucking brutal.”
“People are getting killed, Buster. Somebody has to stop this.”
“You’re trying pretty damn hard.”
“He killed my mother. You damn straight I’m trying hard.”
He gets up from his desk, walks me to the door. “Take the back elevator. I don’t want anyone seeing you here.”
“You’re a good man, Buster.”
“So’re you, Fritz. Fucked up, but good.”
“I’ll take that.”
“Be careful,” he cautions me yet again. “I mean, be really careful now.”
Since I can’t promise I will be, I say nothing.
“I’ll call you as soon as I find anything out,” he promises me. “And I really, truly am sorry about your mother. She was the best.” He clenches and unclenches his fist. “We only have one mother,” he says, the Irish Catholic in him rising. “You have to take care of your mother.”
It’s all distilled down to that now. “Or her memory.”
• • •
Twilight. I should turn some lights on, but I like sitting in the darkness. It matches my mood, how I feel.
I hear a car drive up. It’s Maureen. She’d called earlier, said she couldn’t not be with me anymore.
I go outside to meet her. She jumps into my arms, holding on to me for dear life.
We fuck our brains out like animals. “Oh, yes!” she cries out, spasming and digging her fingernails into my hair. “I needed that bad.” She pulls me to her, the length of her body matching mine, head to toe. Lying with her is not snuggling the way I’ve known it, she isn’t the cuddly type, she’s too long and lean. And incredibly sexy, feminine, gorgeous, wonderful.
She runs a fingernail along my chest. “I don’t want to be away from you anymore, Fritz. We have so little time left before I have to go back to Cambridge. Let’s not waste any more of it.”
“How much do we have?” I feel an ache starting in my chest.
“Less than two weeks.”
“Ouch.”
“I know.” She runs her finger around my nipple. “You could come with me, you know?”
“Up there?”
“Why not? We’ve gone over this before, Fritz. There’s nothing keeping you here anymore.”
She’s right. All the reasons I had for being here are gone now—except for Ollie, and he won’t be here much longer, either. Thinking of Ollie reminds me that I need to start preparing seriously for his future. I can’t put that off any longer.
She rolls over on her side, looks at me. “Either we’re going to have a life together, or we aren’t.”
“I . . . shit, Maureen. I . . .”
She shushes me. “You don’t have to talk. Let me talk. I have to say this fast, before I chicken out. I’m not a kid anymore, you know? I’m thirty-five years old. I’m not too old yet for having babies, but I’m not that young, either. When I was younger my mother used to tell me, the days go slow, but the years go fast. I didn’t know what she meant then. Now I do. I don’t want to wake up on my fortieth birthday never having had a child. Especially now that you’ve come into my life.”
She grabs hold of my hand. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Fritz. My entire life, as it’s turned out. I’ve had opportunities, I’m not modest about who I am, but it was never right. Now it is. I want the whole package—marriage, your kids, a future together. I’m ready to make a total commitment.” She lies back. “I already have. Even if you haven’t.”
I start shaking. “I love you . . .”
“I’ve scared you, haven’t I? Marriage, kids, a house with a white picket fence. That isn’t you, is it, Fritz Tullis? You’re the wanderer, you like to roam around.”
“No, no,” I correct her hastily, “I want a family, all that, too.”
“With me?”
We’re still holding hands, her right, my left. I squeeze hers. She squeezes back.
“If I’ve ever wanted to,” I tell her honestly, “it’s with you. It’s just . . .”
I can feel her deflating. “So fast,” she finishes for me.<
br />
“Yeah, that, and—shit, Maureen, my mother just died. I haven’t been thinking about us. Not like this.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “The timing sucks. But I can’t help it, goddamn it, I’m leaving soon. I can’t leave without knowing something, even if it’s—” She stops herself.
“What?”
“That you can’t go all the way with this.”
I’m churning in my gut. “I love you, Maureen. The idea of you leaving and us not being together is—shit, impossible.”
She’s tense—I feel it. “Is that a yes? Are you proposing to me? Hey! I’m a liberated woman. I don’t have to wait for you. Marry me!” She pounds on my chest—playfully, but with power. “Say you’ll marry me.” She grabs my balls. “Or you’ll be sorry!”
She starts laughing, almost manically. In a few seconds, though, she’s crying, her body wracked with sobs. “Oh, damn it! I didn’t want to do this. I fucking did not want to do this, I’m not some grasping woman, shit, I’m sorry.”
I cradle her in my arms, holding her tight, like I’m swaddling her. “Listen a minute.”
“Oh, shit.” She rolls away from me. “This hurts.”
I pull her to me. “Let me finish, Maureen! You’re not the only one whose emotions are raw. Before you leave—once I’m past the shock of my mom’s death, and try to find out how it happened . . .”
She groans. “Oh, Fritz. Please don’t go down that rabbit hole anymore. You promised.”
“I’m not going to get crazy about it,” I say, trying to calm her down. “I just need to know what happened. It won’t take long, I swear. Just give me some time, okay, Maureen? What’s wrong with a little more time?”
She nods—her crying time is over. “Okay. I’ll give you some more time.” She laughs—it’s a small, rueful laugh. “I don’t have a choice, Fritz. When you fall, you fall. And there’s not a damn thing in the world you can do about it.”
• • •
Maureen is staring at me when I wake up, a crooked smile on her face. She kisses me inside the ear. Her breath is warm.
“Maureen . . .” I’m still coming out of sleep.
She puts a finger to my lips. “Don’t say anything. I’m with you now, that’s all I care about.”
She showers while I make coffee, then she makes scrambled eggs and toast while I shower. All very domestic, easy. There’s still a gnawing sensation in my brain about her, but right now I’m holding that in abeyance.
“What are you up to today?” I ask, gently prying.
“Get some of my things at the motel for openers. Make some phone calls, trivial stuff. I could be back in a couple of hours. You can take me somewhere I haven’t been yet. I love it down here.” She smiles. “I love it anywhere you are.”
We finish breakfast, do the dishes. She takes off.
Last night was incredible. Not the sex—that was great, but we’ve had great sex from the beginning—but what we talked about.
A life together.
The phone rings. “This is Fritz,” I answer.
“It’s Buster, Fritz.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got some incredible news to lay on you. Can you drive up here this afternoon?”
He sounds wired, like his voice is being filtered through a line of cocaine.
“Today?”
“Yes, today,” he says impatiently.
Another round-trip long haul. I’m beginning to hate that drive. But I created all this, so I can’t bitch about it. “If I have to.”
“You have to. Be in my office at six,” he orders me curtly.
“What’s this about, Buster?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. Don’t dress like a hippie,” he adds. “A sports coat and clean slacks wouldn’t hurt.”
The phone goes dead in my hand. A sports coat? What’s the occasion?
Now I have to call Maureen and lay another lie on her. She answers on the first ring. “Fritz?” she says expectantly.
“Hey.” Damn, I am sick of lying to her.
“What’s up?” she asks innocently.
“I have to see Sam again, this afternoon,” I grouse. “Some lease papers or something I need to co-sign. I won’t be back till late, I’m afraid.”
“Shit.” She doesn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. “Will you be home tonight?”
“I hope so. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
• • •
Rush hour is at its peak as I approach Washington. I’m not going to make it to Buster’s office remotely on time, so I give him a heads-up on my cell phone.
“Wonderful,” he grumbles. “Well, get here as soon as you can.”
“Hey, I’m the one stuck in this clusterfuck, not you.”
I arrive forty-five minutes late. I park in his building’s garage and ride the escalator up to the firm’s lobby, where his secretary is impatiently waiting for me. “This way,” she commands, her high heels staccatoing across the floor. I follow her as she marches determinedly down the hallway to Buster’s office and ushers me in.
Buster, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie slackened, is pacing behind his desk. “You took your sweet time,” he grouses as he reaches for his suit coat and tightens the knot on his hundred-dollar silk tie. I’m dressed in a vintage J. Press sports coat, khakis, button-down shirt, plus a tie, since he stipulated I dress like a grown-up.
“You’ll do,” he allows, checking out my attire. “Call and tell ’em we’re on our way,” he instructs his secretary. “Ten minutes.”
“Where are we going?” I ask. “And who is them?”
“Them’s who’s going to give you the answers to your questions, dodo brain.”
We ride the elevator back down and go outside. It’s a balmy evening. The streets are bustling with people leaving work for the day, as well as families carrying beach chairs and blankets on their way to a free Marine Corps Band concert at the Lincoln Memorial steps, a few blocks south.
Buster seems uptight about what’s in store for us. “We’ll grab something to eat later, if you still have an appetite,” he says as we briskly weave our way through the crowd. “I suspect you’ll want a drink.”
That’s cheering.
We walk down 23rd Street to Virginia Avenue, then cross the street and head for the State Department building, a massive structure that occupies a full city block. As I realize that this is our destination, butterflies start flying around in my gut. This is where James Roach works.
“What’s going on, Buster?” I ask.
He plows ahead toward the main entrance, forcing me into a trot to keep up. I reach out for his arm, almost dragging him to a stop.
“Buster. What’re we doing here?” I demand.
He turns to me, almost scowling. “You asked me to do something for you, Fritz. I’ve done it, okay? It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t comfortable, but I did it, because you’re my best friend and you’re trying to exorcise some strong demons. You want the answers you asked me to get you? Well, you’re gonna get ’em.” He points to the huge building. “In there.”
Both his answer and the attitude he’s taken make me more nervous, rather than less. “Who’s going to give them to me?”
He tries to give me a reassuring smile; it doesn’t come off, his face is stiff. “You’re not in any danger, if that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing’s going to happen to you, you’re gonna walk out of here with the same number of arms and legs you brought in.” He takes a handful of my lapel. “It’s time to shit or get off the pot, Fritz.”
I brush his hand away. “You didn’t answer my question, Buster. Who are we meeting in here?”
“You’ll see,” he says, continuing to evade giving me a straight answer.
“Not Roach.” I’m ready to turn tail and get out of here.
Buster takes another crack at saying what he has to say without telling me what I want to know. “Let me put it this way, Fritz. Roach isn’t the problem, okay? So stop obse
ssing about him. Now come on, we’ve already kept them waiting over an hour.”
I have no recourse but to follow him inside—I’ve come this far, I have to see it to the finish.
The lobby’s almost deserted—it’s after seven, most of the personnel have gone home for the day. A uniformed guard sits at the desk near the security gate. He’s talking to a man whose back is to us. The guard looks up as we approach, says something, and points.
The man turns to us. He’s about our age, dressed in a mid-price-range dark suit. A government lifer, I’m guessing. He strides toward us. “Mr. Reilly?” he asks Buster.
“I’m Buster Reilly,” Buster acknowledges.
“And you’re Mr. Tullis.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Kevin Lockhart. They’re waiting for you upstairs.”
“Who is they?” I ask. This is getting spookier by the minute.
Lockhart ignores my question. “Sign in and show ID, please.”
We sign in, produce our driver’s licenses, pass through the metal detector. Lockhart leads us to a bank of elevators, presses an up button. We wait for the elevator. No one says anything.
We ride to the top floor. Getting off, we follow Lockhart down a long corridor, at the far end of which is a set of double doors. As we approach them, Lockhart stops us. “Wait here.” He opens one of the doors and goes inside.
I’m getting more and more nervous by the minute. “This is awfully damn cloak-and-dagger,” I tell Buster.
“It’s the government, Fritz. That’s what they’re good at.”
Lockhart comes back out. “You can come in.”
He stands aside while we enter. Then he closes the door behind us.
We’re in a large conference room. The light is low, from soft recessed ceiling fixtures. A long oval rosewood table surrounded by plush upholstered chairs dominates the space.
Two men are standing at the far end, engaged in low conversation. I can’t make them out—they’re in semishadow, and their backs are to us. As they hear the door closing, they turn in our direction. One of them takes a few steps toward us. I recognize him as the senior partner in Buster’s firm who’s tight with James Roach.
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