3rd Degree (12 page)

Agent Thompson sighed.

“In the meantime, we still have a murder to solve. The man's dead here,” the deputy director snapped. He looked around the room, his gaze ending up on Thompson. “Any-one have a problem with that?”

“No, sir,” Thompson said, flipping his phone back into his jacket pocket.

I was stunned. Molinari had backed me up. Even Hannah Wood mooned her eyes in his direction.

We spent the rest of the day at the FBI regional office in Portland. We interviewed the person Propp was meeting in Vancouver and his economist friend at Portland State. Moli-nari also brought me in on two calls back to senior inves-tigators at his home office in D.C., backing up my theory that this was a copycat crime and that the terror might be spreading.

About five, it dawned on me that I couldn't stay up there much longer. There were a couple of fairly prominent cases that needed my attention back home. Brenda informed me there was a Southwest flight back to San Francisco at 6:30.

I knocked on the gray, carpet-covered cubicle Molinari was using for an office. “If you don't need me up here any-more, I thought I'd head home. It was fun being `Fed for a Day.'”

Molinari smiled. “Look, I was hoping you might stay a couple of hours. Have dinner with me.”

Standing there, I did my best to pretend that it didn't mat-ter hearing those words, but my general rule about Feds notwithstanding, I was curious. Who wouldn't be?

But a few reasons why I shouldn't be popped into my head as well. Like the murder cases on my board. And the fact that Molinari was the second most powerful law-enforcement figure in the country. And unless I was misreading the little tingle bubbling up my spine, knocking down the old Chinese wall in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation wasn't exactly the best protocol.

“There's an eleven o'clock back to San Francisco,” Moli-nari said. “I promise I'll have you to the airport in plenty of time. C'mon, Lindsay.”

When I hesitated one more time, he stood up. “Hey, if you can't trust Homeland Security... who can you trust?”

“Two conditions,” I said.

“Okay,” the deputy director agreed. “If I can.”

“Seafood,” I said.

Molinari showed the outline of a smile. “I think I know just the place....”

“And no FBI agents.”

Molinari's head went back in a laugh. “That's the one thing I can definitely guarantee.”

“JUST THE PLACE” turned out to be a caf‚ called Catch, down on Vine Street, which was like Union Street back home, filled with trendy restaurants and cutesy boutiques. The maŒtre d' led us to a quiet table way in the back.

Molinari asked if he could handle the wine, ordering a pinot noir from Oregon. He called himself a “closet foodie” and said what he missed most about a normal life was just staying home and puttering around the kitchen.

“Am I supposed to believe that one?” I grinned.

He laughed out loud. “Figured it was worth a try.”

When the wine came I held up my glass. "Thank you. For

backing me up today.“ ”Nothing to thank,“ Molinari said. ”I felt you were right." We ordered, then talked about everything but work. He

liked sports - which was all right with me - but also music, history, old movies. I realized that I was laughing and listening, that time was going by pretty smoothly, and that for a few moments all of the horror seemed a million miles away.

Finally, he mentioned an ex-wife and a daughter back in New York.

“I thought all the deputy-level personnel had to have a little woman back home,” I said.

“We were married fifteen years, divorced for four. Isabel stayed in New York when I started work in Washington. At first, it was just an assignment. Anyway” - he smiled wist-fully - “like many things, I would do it differently if I could. How about you, Lindsay?”

“I was married once,” I said. Then I found myself telling Molinari “my story.” How I was married right out of school, divorced three years later. His fault? My fault? What differ-ence did it make? “I was close again a couple of years ago.... But it didn't work out.”

“Things happen,” he said, sighing, “maybe for the best.”

No,“ I said. ”He died. On the job."

“Oh,” Molinari said. I knew he was feeling a little awk-ward. Then he did a lovely thing. He simply put his hand on top of my forearm - nothing forward, nothing inappropri-ate - and squeezed gently. He took his hand away again.

“Truth is, I haven't been out much lately,” I said, and lifted my eyes. Then trying to salvage the mood, I chuckled. “This is the best invitation I've had in a while.”

“It is for me, too.” Molinari smiled.

Suddenly his cell phone beeped. He reached in his pocket. “Sorry...”

Whoever it was seemed to be doing most of the talking. “Of course, of course, sir... ,” Molinari kept repeating. Even the deputy director had a boss. Then he said, “I understand. I'll report back as soon as I have anything. Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

He flipped the phone back into his pocket. “Washing-ton... ,” he apologized.

“Washington, as in the director of homeland security?” It gave me a bit of a kick to see Molinari as part of a pecking order.

“No.” He shook his head and took another bite of his fish. “Washington, as in the White House. That was the vice pres-ident of the United States. He's coming out here for the G-8.”

I CAN BE WOWED.

“If I wasn't a Homicide lieutenant,” I said, “I might believe that line. The vice president just called you?”

“I might press *69 and show you,” Molinari said. “Except that it's important we begin to establish more trust.”

“Is that what we're doing tonight?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.

Whatever was starting to happen, those little pinballs pat-tering inside were now crashing around my ribs like the drums in “Sunshine of Your Love.” I was aware of the tiniest film of sweat at my hairline. My sweater was starting to feel prickly. Molinari reminded me of Chris.

“I hope we're starting to trust each other,” he finally said. “Let's leave it at that for now, Lindsay.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” I said.

He paid the check, then helped me on with my jacket. I brushed against his arm and, well, electricity flared. I glanced at my watch. 9:30. Forty minutes to the airport to catch that flight I needed to be on.

Outside, we walked a block or two along Vine Street. I wasn't really paying attention to the shops. The night was cool but very pleasant. What was I doing here? What were the two of us doing?

“Lindsay” - he finally stopped to face me - “I don't want to say the wrong thing....” I wasn't sure what I wanted him to say next. “My driver's down the block if you want.... But there's always the six A.M. flight.”

“Listen...” I wanted to touch his arm, but I didn't. I'm not even sure why not.

“Joe,” he said.

“Joe.” I smiled. “Was this what you meant by being out of the field?”

He took my bag and said, “I was just thinking it'd be a shame to waste a perfectly good change of clothes.”

I do trust him, I was thinking. Everything about Joe Moli-nari inspired trust. And I definitely liked him. But I still wasn't sure if this was a good idea, and that told me all I needed to know for right now.

“I think I'm just gonna let you think I'm a bit harder to get than I really am” - I bit my lip - “and make that flight at eleven.”

“I understand....” He nodded. “It doesn't feel right to you.”

“It's not that it doesn't feel right.” I touched his hand. “It's just that I didn't vote for your administration....” Molinari laughed out loud. “But just for the record, it wasn't the wrong thing to say.”

That made him smile, too. “It's getting late,” he said. “I have some things to attend to up here. I'll be seeing you soon enough.”

Then Molinari waved down the block for his car. The black Lincoln drove up. The driver climbed out and opened the door for me. Still not completely sure that I was doing the right thing, I got in.

Suddenly something hit me and I rolled down the win-dow. “Hey, I don't even know what flight I'm on.”

“Taken care of,” Molinari said. He waved and slapped the side. The car started to pull away.

As soon as we were on the highway, I shut my eyes and began to review the day, but mostly my dinner with Molinari. After a while the driver said, “We're here, ma'am.”

I looked outside and saw that we were at some remote part of the airfield. Yep, I can be wowed. Waiting for me on the tarmac was the Gulf stream G-3 jet I had flown up in that morning.

JILL HAD IT ALL planned out. And in her mind, it was going well.

She had come home early and prepared one of Steve's favorite meals, coq au vin. In truth, other than half a dozen kinds of eggs, it was the only thing she knew how to cook - or at least that she was confident about.

Maybe tonight they could talk about how to proceed. She had the name of a therapist that a friend had given her and Steve had promised he would actually go this time.

She had vegetables simmering in the pan and was about to add wine when Steve came home. But when he walked up the stairs, he seemed to look right through her. “Look at us,” he said. “You'd think we were an ad for domestic bliss.”

“Trying,” Jill said. She was wearing pressed jeans and a pink V-necked T-shirt, and she had her hair down the way he liked it.

“Just one thing wrong.” Steve tossed his newspaper down. “I'm going out.”

Jill felt her stomach sink. “Why? Look at me, Steve. I've gone to a lot of trouble.”

“Frank needs to bounce a proposal off me.” Steve reached across to a fruit basket and took a peach. There was a part of him that seemed almost to be gloating, amused that he'd ruined the evening.

“Can't you see Frank at the office tomorrow? I told you, there was something I needed to talk about. You said okay. I've got all this food.”

He took a bite out of the peach and laughed. “You break one night before eight and get it in your head to play Alice on The Brady Bunch, and I'm the one blowing the script?”

“It's not a script, Steve.”

“You wanna talk” - he sucked out another bite of the peach - “go ahead. In case you've forgotten, it's still my check that pays for those Manolo Blahniks. The market the way it is these days, the only thing scarcer than the Ice Queen with an urge to have sex is a promising deal. Given the odds, I'll throw in with the deal.”

“That was really cruel.” Jill glared at him. She was deter-mined to hold herself together. “I was trying to do something nice.”

“It is nice.” Steve shrugged, took another bite. “And if you hurry, you might still catch one of your girlfriends to share this special moment with you.”

She saw herself reflected in the window, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “You're an incredible bastard.”

“Aw...” Steve whined.

Jill flung the spatula down, grease splattering over the counter.

“That's a five-thousand-dollar slab of limestone you're redecorating there,” Steve said.

“Goddamn you,” Jill cried, her eyes starting to well up with tears. “Look what I'm trying to do for you.” Everything had fallen apart. What was she trying to hold on to anyway?

“You belittle me. You criticize. You make me feel like crap. You want to walk out that door, go.... Get out of my life. Everyone thinks I'm crazy for wanting to keep this together anyway.”

“Everyone...” She saw the venom in his eyes, the switch suddenly tripped. He grabbed her by the arm and squeezed it hard, forcing Jill down to the floor. “You let those bitches run your life. I run your life. Me, Jill...”

Jill held back more tears. “You're gone, Steve. It's over!”

“It's over when I say it's over,” he said, hovering close to her face. “When I make your life so miserable, you beg me to leave. And I will, Jill. Until then, this is the way it is. It's not over, honeybuns.... Things are just starting to warm up.”

“Get out,” she said, and pulled away from him.

He cocked his fist, but she didn't even flinch. Not this time. Not even a blink. Steve moved fast, as though he was going to strike, and Jill just held her ground. “Get out, Steve,” she seethed again.

The blood seemed to drain from Steve's face. “My plea-sure,” he said, backing away. He picked up another peach from the basket and rubbed it against his shirt. He tossed a last smirk toward the messy stove.

“Be sure and save the leftovers.”

As soon as she heard the door close downstairs, Jill broke into tears. That was it! She didn't know if she should call Claire or Lindsay. There was something she had to do first. She pulled the Yellow Pages out of a kitchen cabinet and paged through them, frantically dialing the first number she found.

Her hand was trembling, but this time there was no turn-ing back. Answer, someone... please!

“Thank God,” she said when a voice finally did.

“Safe-More Locksmiths...”

“You do emergencies?” Jill asked, resolve mixed with her tears. “I need someone over here now.”

MY MESSAGE LIGHT was flashing.

It was after one in the morning when I finally got back to my apartment.

I threw my suit jacket over a chair and pulled off my sweater, hitting the PLAYBACK button of the answering machine.

5:28. Jamie, Martha's vet. She's ready to be picked up in the morning.

7:05. Jacobi, just checking in.

7:16. Jill. A quiver of nerves in her voice. “I need to talk to you, Lindsay. I tried your cell phone, but it didn't answer. Call me, whenever you get home.”

11:15. Jill again. “Lindsay? Call me as soon as you get home. I'm up.”

Something had happened. I punched in her number and she answered on the second ring. “It's me. I was in Portland. Is everything okay?”

“I don't know,” she said. A pause. “I threw Steve out tonight.”

I almost dropped the phone on the floor. “You really did it?”

“This time's for keeps. We're done, Lindsay.”