Kate shrugged as she spread golden butter on a chunk of stillwarm bread. “Jelly said they put in for transfers. I’m thinking he’s hoping they want to go with him. Roy always said he was going to transfer out to ATF.”
Sandy bit into her own bread and sighed happily. “I haven’t been here since I quit and walked away. I really missed this bread. So what are you going to do, Kate?”
“Finish up my thesis. Write a cookbook.”
Sandy laughed. “You don’t know how to cook. I’m ahead of you, I finished up. You can call me Dr. Martin from here on in. I have résumés all over the place. Got a lot of replies and, believe it or not, one from the University of Miami. I’m taking my time. Not sure where I want to go. I miss being an agent, I’m not going to lie to you. I think I was meant to do that. I sent one to the FBI. I haven’t heard back.”
“Oh, Sandy, that’s wonderful. I hope, for selfish reasons, you pick Miami. We could be roommates if you like, and I won’t charge you rent. You know I still have that beach house on Harbor Island. We can split the utilities. Until you decide where you want to put down your roots, tell me you’ll think about it.” Susie appeared at the table, and the women gave their order. They always went with the special of the day, and today’s special was pot roast, mashed potatoes, green peas, and a Southwestern corn medley.
“Here’s my address and the phone at the house on Harbor Island. I’ll write the directions on the back of the card. If you decide, just show up.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it. You make it sound . . .” She sought the right word, couldn’t come up with one, so rattled off a long string of Spanish.
“I hope that means exciting and wonderful. More than likely it will be dull and boring, hot and humid, but we’ll be right on the ocean. That’s a plus that has no equal. I used to love going to sleep in my grandmother’s house and hearing the ocean all night long.”
“I think you just sold me. Are you sure, Kate? You’re not just inviting me because you feel sorry for me?”
“God, no! By the way, do you know anything about Mango Key? Ooh, here comes our food.”
“You mean Thunder Key?”
“Yeah.”
“Not much. It’s a private Key if I remember correctly. Some kind of land grant to some Indians. I should know, but I don’t. Why?”
“Something is going on down there. But that’s not my problem. Right now I have to learn how to cook, so I can do a cookbook. Maybe I’ll ask Susie for the recipe for this pot roast.” Kate held up her glass of sweet tea, and said, “To women and the decisions they make on the spur of the moment.”
“Yeah,” Sandy drawled as she clinked her glass against Kate’s.
Chapter 4
Eleven Months Later
Kate Rush sat on the front porch looking out at the ocean as she sipped sweet tea. She looked down into the glass and saw that the ice had already melted. She’d only been out here in the heat and humidity less than fifteen minutes, and already her drink was warm. July in Miami.
A quick trip to the kitchen, and she was back on her bright red Adirondack chair, staring out at the ocean. She was bored out of her mind. But she was now Dr. Kathryn Rush. She had no idea what she was going to do with that title. Nor did she have a clue what she was going to do with her life from here on in. She thought about her brilliant idea to write a cookbook and laughed out loud. A cook she would never be. Although she could now make a decent pot roast, she had to eat it and variations thereof for a solid week. She now hated pot roast. Sandra hated pot roast. When Sandy had moved out, she had been glad that she would never have to eat it again.
Kate gulped at the rapidly warming drink. Not only was she bored, she was lonely. Bordering on being a recluse, she knew it was time to make some important decisions. How ironic that just eleven months ago, almost to the day, she’d been sitting on her little terrace in Phoenix making the same kinds of decisions. Decisions she’d followed through on. Once again, it was time to do it all over. Back then, though, she’d had a plan. Right now, that minute, she couldn’t see through to the next hour.
Financially, she was still sound. She’d been frugal, and for the five months that Sandy had lived with her, she’d contributed to the food bill and utilities. She envied her friend because in January she’d started teaching at the University of Miami. She’d bought a condo close to the university and a secondhand car, a Volvo, owned by a little old lady so she, too, was in good shape. She came to the Harbor Island beach house every weekend, and the two of them lazed about, walking on the beach, going out in the water in Kate’s new Boston Whaler. Kate was tired of being a beach bumette. She needed a plan, a goal, incentives. Where was she going to find them? Within, she told herself.
Then, like always, she thought about Josh, Roy, and Jelly and wondered how they were doing. The last she’d heard was that Josh and Roy had joined Jelly in the field office in Miami. Even though it was only a short drive over the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway, the promised visit to drop in for coffee had never materialized. She’d been a little miffed at that. Surely, somehow, some way, they could have carved out an hour to visit an old friend and colleague. Out of sight, out of mind. She felt sad at the thought. Time to make new friends. Maybe if she found a job, she’d make friends at her place of employment. She grimaced at the thought. In six months, Sandra hadn’t made any friends, saying it was a closed shop at the university, and no one was interested in adding new friends to their inner circle.
A smile tugged at the corners of Kate’s mouth as she remembered how Sandy had said she signed up for every workshop Home Depot had to offer. She’d been convinced she would meet interesting people. She now knew how to spackle, paint, wallpaper, and lay tile and brick, but she hadn’t made any new friends. The upside to Sandy’s new knowledge was that the cottage sported fresh paint, some new wallpaper in the bathrooms along with new tile, and the walkway leading to the front door was neat and tidy, with brand-new brick and slate. And Kate had saved the money on the labor.
And there were no new men in either her life or Sandy’s.
Kate looked at the remains of the tea in her glass—all water. She tossed it over the banister just as the phone inside rang. No one called her on the landline. Probably a telemarketer. Still, she was lonely enough to go inside and answer it. She could always tell the person on the other end to stop calling.
Inside, she picked up the phone and barked a greeting, daring the voice to be someone she wasn’t interested in hearing from. “Kate, it’s Arnold.”
“Jelly! This is so weird, I was just thinking about you. Where are you? What are you doing? I thought you were going to stop by? How are Roy and Josh?”
The big man laughed, the sound booming over the wire. “Whoa. I tried for months to get out to the island, but I’ve never worked so hard as I have since moving here. I’m just coming out of court. Had to testify on a drug runner. Josh and Roy are standing right here, and we want to come over and have that coffee. We can talk when I get there. How about around six? We need to go back to the office first and clean up a few things. Dinner would be nice. Real nice. I’m sure you must be an expert by now. I can’t wait to see how the cookbook is coming. You okay, Kate?”
Kate was grinning from ear to ear. “It’s Dr. Rush these days, Jelly.”
“No kidding! Congratulations. Have you seen Sandra?”
“She’s Dr. Martin these days. I see her every weekend. Each time she comes, she asks if I’ve heard from any of you. I’ll call and ask her to come over. I’ll see you at six.”
Kate hung up the phone, a huge grin in place as she clapped her hands. Company. She immediately called Sandy and left a message on her voice mail. Then she ran to the kitchen and opened the freezer to see six eye round roasts sitting side by side. She pulled one out, then the pressure cooker. “Oh, Susie, you would be so proud of my pot roast. It’s just as good as yours!”
She could make it with her eyes closed. That she was sick of it didn’t matter. The guys would l
ove it, and she could pick at it the way Sandy would. She was excited now as she bustled about the kitchen getting things under way. The moment she was satisfied, she raced to the bathroom, showered, and changed into a white sun dress that showed off her tan. She was glad she’d gotten a haircut and had her nails done on Monday.
Back in the kitchen, she checked the refrigerator to make sure she had enough beer because the guys were beer drinkers. She had enough. She also had a frozen peach pie she plopped into the oven. The guys weren’t gourmets, so they’d never know it was an out-of-the-freezer special.
Excitement coursed through Kate as she rushed around tidying up the living and dining rooms, where she had books and papers scattered everywhere. The guys were coming. How wonderful. The next few minutes were spent preparing the vegetables and potatoes. She was pouring fresh tea over a full glass of ice cubes when she stopped what she was doing when the realization hit her that she wanted to go back to being a DEA agent almost as much as Sandra Martin wanted to. Since they’d burned their bridges, the next best thing would be hearing the guys recount all that went on this past year.
The ATF was always looking for experienced agents, ditto for the FBI. She’d actually queried the DOJ, but when the Department of Justice called her to come in for an interview, she’d blown it off. Now with her doctorate under her belt, she knew she would be in high demand. Or was she flattering herself? Probably.
Kate shifted into a neutral zone and stared out at the ocean until she heard Sandy’s car in the driveway. Sandy barreled up the slate walkway, jabbering as she reached the porch. “I can’t believe they’re coming. I’m so excited. Are you excited, Kate? Oh, God, are we having pot roast? Okay, okay, I know it’s the only thing you know how to cook. It’s okay. The guys will love it. I can’t wait to hear what’s been going on. Jeez, it’s almost a year. Why now?” She deflated like a pricked balloon as she sat down in a lime green Adirondack chair. Kate did love bright colors. Painting the chairs had been their first project after Sandy’s first class at Home Depot. Three more chairs were on the front porch, one bright yellow, one orange, and the other a beautiful sky blue. The chairs matched the colors of the flower-filled clay pots.
“How many times have we sat out here bitching and moaning about life?” Kate asked.
“Too many to count. Do you think they’re coming for a reason, or is it just a social call? Eleven months is a long time without so much as a call. What do you think, Kate?”
Kate laughed. “What you’re really asking is what do I want it to be? Why lie? We’d both kill to get back in, but that isn’t going to happen. So let’s just go with they’re coming for dinner and let it go at that. If it’s anything else, I think we’ll both be surprised.”
They heard the horn that started blowing a full block away. Both women ran down to the end of the driveway to wait for the Jeep Cherokee to swerve onto the driveway and park next to Sandy’s car.
Arnold Jellard was out first, wearing shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. He looked like a beached whale. Josh Levinson was dressed in khaki shorts and a white Izod T-shirt. He was barefoot. Roy Jacobson wore long pants and a button-down short-sleeved shirt. All three men had military-style crew cuts and were heavily tanned.
The hugs, the squeezes were genuine, and the laughter was happy and joyous.
Sandy played hostess while Kate checked on dinner. She literally danced around the kitchen. She couldn’t remember being this happy in a long time.
Tray in hand, with three Coronas, a lime wedge stuck in each bottle, and two glasses of ice tea, Kate made her way to the porch.
“Tell us what’s going on. Do you miss us? What’s up with Tyler? How do you like Miami?” Sandy never asked one question if she could ask three or four at the same time.
Jellard waved his arms. “We can’t keep up with the drug runners. The money laundering is getting away from us. We’ve been working seven days a week for months. We’re also shorthanded. Miami is great, but I hate the humidity. Tyler’s daddy arranged for him to relocate to Los Angeles. Given the manpower shortage after the budget cuts, not only does he continue to supervise the office here in Miami, but also the Arizona and LA offices.
“Seems like the only place he isn’t supervising is New Jersey. Don’t ask me what they did to deserve that piece of luck. I suppose that if you have to work in New Jersey, you’re entitled to luck on something. We’ve lost a lot of agents because of Tyler. But that’s not my problem. We do our job, and I’m counting down the months till it’s time to retire.”
Josh Levinson laughed out loud at the expression on the women’s faces. He was a good-looking guy with an aversion to marriage, but he’d had the same girlfriend for the past ten years. She was a professional model and had no more interest in getting married than Josh did. He was movie-star good-looking, with dark hair, laughing eyes, and a perfect smile. His body was okay, too, all 180 pounds of muscle. His six foot two frame carried the weight well.
Roy Jacobson was grinning, too. Shorter than his partner, with a receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and a spare tire around his middle, he was happily married with five daughters, two sets of twins and one stray, as he put it.
Both men were the kind of agents you wanted covering your back, and they did it well because it was what they did. Once they’d been an exceptional team, each agent knowing the others so well they could anticipate one another’s moves. Those instincts had saved all their lives on more than one occasion.
“One of these days, someone is going to pop the son of a bitch, and it will probably be one of our guys. I heard through the grapevine there is a petition going around. If he isn’t removed, there is going to be a massive walkout. I heard a special task force has been initiated on the QT,” Josh said. The other two men nodded to show they’d heard the same thing, which meant it was way past the rumor stage and absolutely a fact.
“Oh, be still my heart,” Sandy cried dramatically.
Roy swigged from his bottle. “Don’t get excited now. His old man is pretty damn powerful. He’s one of those people who makes things go his way. Or, I should say, his son’s way. He likes to brag that his only son is a big shot in the DEA. Don’t ask me why.”
“So, what are you working on right now? Can you talk about it?” Kate asked.
The silence that greeted Kate’s question sat there like a hundred-pound rock. The two younger agents deferred to Jellard.
“Drugs, drugs, and more drugs. Money laundering is at an all-time high, like I said. It’s just a long swim to Cuba from here. Yesterday, we had a visit from Homeland Security. Surprised the hell out of me, I can tell you that. Hey, Rush, what’s for dinner?” he asked.
That told Kate Jellard wanted to change the subject. “Pot roast. Sassy Susie gave me her recipe before I left. I perfected it. When you eat it, you’ll think you’re back there. And, of course, the peas and the Southwestern corn and peach pie for dessert. Anyone want another beer?” Three hands shot into the air.
“Relax, everyone, I’ll get it,” Sandy said.
The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant blur. The camaraderie was genuine and heartfelt. It was nine-thirty when Jellard finally got down to business. Kate recognized the look on her old boss’s face. Her heart kicked up an extra beat as she licked at her dry lips. She risked a glance at Sandy, who she was certain was reading Jellard just the way she was.
“I’m here to make you an unorthodox backdoor offer. I’d like it to be otherwise, but I know the two of you realize how the game is played, so we have to go with what we can and cannot do. Just so you know, on paper you’re both considered out-of-control hotheads. Tyler wrote up killer reports and made himself look like Agent of the Year. At least that’s what his father’s spreading around. He’d have to do a lot more ass kissing for anyone else to see him in that light, but blood’s thicker than water.
“In any case, the way it was done makes it pretty hard to get it reversed. But with the task force looking into things, I’m confident that, eve
n if he isn’t canned, he’ll no longer be supervising the Miami office. So I’m going to make you this offer. But first I need to know if you’re interested. You both appear to have moved on, you have your PhDs now, and Sandy has what appears to be a fine job, while you, Kate, are following your dream of writing that cookbook you told me about. If you aren’t interested, say the word, and we’re outta here.”
“Bullshit,” both women said in unison.
“Lay it on me. I’ve been bored to death,” Kate said. Sandy nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”
Jellard’s fist shot in the air, followed by Levinson’s and Jacobson’s. Then they were in a circle, pounding each other’s backs.
“Just like old times,” Sandy gurgled happily. “Now, tell us everything and don’t leave a thing out in the telling. Anyone want another beer?”
“You can sleep here in case either of you have any thoughts of returning to downtown Miami tonight. No drinking and driving on my watch. I have plenty of space,” Kate said.
“You sound like our den mother. We accept your offer and we’ll also take another beer. My throat is going to get dry giving you all the details,” Jellard said.
A light breeze coming in off the ocean stirred the ferns hanging from the rafters of the front porch. The paddle fans whirred softly to match the whispering breeze. Out in the distance, where the sky met the ocean, it was sparkly bright, the tide making its own music as it rushed toward the shore.
“This is like . . . I don’t know, something almost ethereal,” Jacobson said. “My wife would love sitting here on the porch, listening to the ocean and watching the stars. You sure, Kate, that you want to come back into the business? Give up evenings like this?”
Kate thought Roy’s voice sounded a tad too anxious. The spill from the light in the living room bathed him in a golden color, but his features, she thought, were worried. “I don’t have to think twice. This probably isn’t a secret, but I will never make a cook. Pot roast is the only thing I learned how to cook. Since I can’t cook, I’m not going to write a cookbook. At best it was something to say to make myself believe that perhaps I could do it. The bottom line is, I don’t want to do it.”
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