Silence

31

YOUR IDEA brought us some surprises, Jack,” Poliakoff said. “In fact, the plan worked too well. It went down around four this morning.”

Jack Till held the cell phone to his mouth and spoke quietly because he didn’t want Wendy in the next room to overhear. “What happened?”

“During the night, we deployed SWAT officers in buildings along the south side of Temple Street near the DA’s office, just as you suggested. We had two black SUVs like the ones they use to deliver prisoners to court. When the two SUVs pulled up at the curb and opened their doors, two men came out of parked cars on both sides, apparently trying to get a shot at a female officer in the second vehicle. The SWAT guys had spotted them, so they each got about as far as pulling out a weapon.”

“Is everybody all right?”

“Everybody but the two men. We would have liked to ask them some questions, but they were both DOA.”

“Have you got IDs on them yet?”

“Not yet. When a guy has three driver’s licenses on him, he may as well have none. The bodies have been fingerprinted, so we’ll probably have names before long.”

Till said, “I don’t know what to say, except to thank you for doing this. If I had just pulled up in front of the DA’s office and tried to take her in, we’d be dead.”

“This is a win. Now that we’ve got those two out of the way, are you going to bring your client in to see the DA today?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.” He looked up and saw Wendy Harper standing in the open doorway between their rooms.

“Do that.”

“Thanks again. I owe you.” Till ended the call and put his cell phone into his pocket.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Good news. I asked a friend of mine who’s still in the department to see what would happen if you and I were to drive up to the DA’s office and try to walk in.”

“What did happen?”

“Two guys with guns came out of parked cars. Both of them were killed.”

“Oh, my God! Was anybody else hurt?”

“No. The cops are all fine.”

She stepped closer until she stood over him, looking down into his eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“That you were planning something like that.”

“It wasn’t my operation. It was Max Poliakoff’s. He didn’t tell me until just now, and it’s been over for hours.”

She looked at him closely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Same reason he didn’t tell me. Until those two guys showed up, there was nothing to tell.”

“Do you think they were the same two who killed Louanda?”

“The odds are they were, but we can’t know that for sure. There may be prints or blood or something in her house in Nevada that ties them to the scene. We may have seen them at some point. They could have been in a crowd, or stopped at an intersection or something, and we’ll remember the faces. But I never got a look at them when they were chasing us. Did you?”

“No. I saw their car, and I saw that there were two heads in it.” She sat down beside him on the bed. “This is my fault. I should never have decided to leave Los Angeles. I was scared. I hated being scared, and I saw a way to fix it. I had started out okay, trying to find Kit Stoddard. But as soon as I got beat up, everything changed. I changed. I decided that I had already given enough to the memory of Kit. That was what I told myself she was by then—just a memory. And I had this belief that if I could just get away and stay away for a time, then her boyfriend would stop looking. I had the idea that my having done nothing to harm him would persuade him that I could never do anything, and he would realize that he should leave me alone. So I left.”

“Look, Ann. I—”

“Wendy.”

“What?”

“Wendy. I told you already, I can’t be Ann Donnelly anymore. Yesterday, when I left, I gave that up. Using that name now doesn’t help me. All it does is point out to everyone who doesn’t already know it that there are people with that name who are connected with me. Being connected with me is dangerous.”

“Less dangerous than it was yesterday.”

“Does that mean it’s over? We’re going to Los Angeles now?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? If the police shot the men who were following us, then what is it that you’re worried about?”

“I’m not exactly worried, but I’m taking precautions. I’m resisting the flow of events. When you’re trying to outsmart somebody, you shouldn’t let a rhythm build up. We left San Francisco; they attacked us on the road. We lost them; they went to L.A. to wait for us. We set up our own ambush for them, and got two men. Now what? The logical, almost inevitable next move is to drive to L.A. now, today.”

“So you’re avoiding predictability.”

“I’m not making the move that’s called for at the moment when the rhythm demands it. What is the man who killed Kit Stoddard doing right now?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s scrambling, trying to scare up replacements for the two men who got killed. That’s risky. Some of the people who do that kind of work are already in trouble. Their phones might be tapped, or they might decide that their best move isn’t to take the job, but to turn him in and get credit for cooperating. He’s probably going beyond his usual circle of acquaintances. All he has to do is miscalculate once—talk to somebody he thinks he can trust and be wrong. He’s in a rush today because he thinks we’re on the move.”

“That’s quite a detailed picture of somebody you don’t know.”

“The specifics don’t even matter. Every minute he can’t get to us means the cops might get to him first. The police are trying to find out who the dead men were. When they identify them, they’ll search their houses and cars, talk to anybody who knew them. All kinds of things turn up when the cops begin to look closely.”

“So we’re doing nothing?”

“I’m giving him time to get unlucky, and time to make mistakes, and time to get betrayed. If his name turns up, we’ll get a picture and you’ll identify him.”

“I don’t know if that will help. Even if I’m sure he’s Kit’s old boyfriend, I can’t prove he’s behind everything.”

“Things have changed. Six years ago, you had a theory that Kit Stoddard might have been a victim. This time we’ve got murders we can prove happened. This time if we find out who this guy is, he’s got a problem.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re something, Jack. You always make things sound good. You give me strength.” She stood and walked into her room.

Jack Till sat on his bed and closed his eyes. It had almost sounded as though she was telling him she cared about him. She was beautiful, and that made it difficult to interpret what she said. It was just as likely that she was telling him gently that she knew he was manipulating her. She knew that he had been a homicide detective, and she knew that he had spent a whole career getting people to tell him things that they didn’t want to.

At six, she came in while he was talking to Poliakoff again. She sat down in the chair beside the window and waited until the call ended. Then she said, “Anything new?”

“A few things. The two men who were waiting for us at the courthouse have been identified. Their prints were in the NCIC database. One was either Ralph or Raphael DeLoza, depending upon which part of his rap sheet you’re reading, age thirty-one. The other is Martin Osterwald, age twenty-nine. Have you heard either name before?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would have. They apparently weren’t the kind of people who went to Banque. But eventually we’ll look at their pictures, in case we saw them somewhere.”

“Okay. When we’re there, we can do that. Are you getting hungry?”

“I guess I am.”

“Want to go out to dinner? I’ll take you.”

He hesitated. They both knew that whatever happened, she was very likely to be traveling soon, building another false identity and living on whatever cash she had managed to take with her until she was settled again. He didn’t want her to pay for anything, but he didn’t have a way to prevent her that would spare her feelings.

“If you’re hoping for a better date to call up at the last minute, I’ll understand.”

“No, I’ve been waiting for you to offer. It must be at least an hour or two since lunch.”

“You’re a man of incredible self-discipline to keep from saying anything.”

“Where would you like to go? What sort of place?”

“I’ve lost track of the restaurant scene over the years, but saw a restaurant in the tourist magazine in my room that I’ve heard of. And I liked the pictures.” She handed him a sheet from the hotel’s scratch pad with the word Aimee’s and an address.

“Did they have a phone number?”

“They did, and they do. I already called it and made a reservation in the name of Harvey. Presumably you’re Harvey. Now get showered and dressed. You could use a shave, too, Harvey.”

“White tie and tails?”

“A clean shirt would be nice. It doesn’t knock a girl off her feet, but you’ll have to accept me with feet. I’ll see you in about a half hour.” She turned and walked into her room. After a moment, he heard the shower.

Till went to his closet to examine his options. He had a fresh sport coat. He looked in his suitcase and found that he still had a couple of clean dress shirts. He showered and shaved twice, making himself as well-groomed and appealing as he could.

He gave himself a last examination in the mirror. He was always startled when he saw that he no longer looked the way he felt. He supposed that he looked like what he was: a man in his forties who had spent his adult life carrying a gun for a living. His eyes looked cold and watchful, and the wrinkles at the corners and on his forehead were no longer faint crinkles, but sculpted lines.

He heard Wendy come into his room, so he stepped to the bathroom door and looked out at her. She was wearing a simple black cocktail dress that fit her perfectly and made her light skin look like porcelain.

“You look great.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a quick, perfunctory curtsy.

He stepped out, took his sport coat off the hanger, and put it on. He looked in the mirror and he adjusted his cuffs and collar, then shrugged to make the coat hang correctly over his gun. He glanced at her in the mirror. “Actually, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you again. You look identifiably human.”

“It’s a step up. I can’t believe that when you were throwing stuff into a suitcase to leave town, you brought a dress like that.”

She looked down at it for a second. “It’s funny how the mind works. I didn’t think I was going to have to pack a bag again, yet at the same time I knew the things I had that I would put in it.”

“In the bag you weren’t going to pack?”

“Yes. I had in my mind an image of everything I would pack and knew just where it was. Does that make sense?”

“I guess it does. You knew what looked good.”

“I don’t know if that was it, exactly. I just had a sense of the things that would make me feel stronger, more able to go places. Maybe something inside me was reminding me that I had to be ready to move on. A little black cocktail dress takes up almost no space.”

He opened the door to the hallway, leaned against it, and stayed there to hold it open for her while he looked up and down the hallway in both directions. Her eye caught his, and he realized that she had seen him scanning. When he spoke, it was to change the subject. “You said you picked this restaurant partly because of the pictures. What were they?”

She smiled. “The food looked believable.”

“Believable?”

“Yes. You know—not a picture of three waiters in tuxedos and a sexy hostess grinning while they set a thirty-pound rib roast and a forty-pound world-record lobster on a table for two. This one had a picture of a nice room, an unassuming piece of grilled halibut, and a glass of wine. I can believe that if we walk in there, we’ll get something not too far from that.”

Till took a few seconds to scan the parking lot before he opened the door for her, but she didn’t say anything about his precautions. He led her to a blue Cadillac.

“Where did you get this car?”

“Same place as the last one. Before we went for our walk I called the agency and had a guy drive this one here and take the other one back.”

“Why?”

“Because I could.” He opened her door for her.

She stopped without getting in. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Going out for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so. But you’ve been invisible for six years. I haven’t. You tell me.” He held his hand out toward the car seat, and she got in. He walked around the car, taking his time and turning to be sure he had surveyed the area in every direction, then got into the driver’s seat and started the car. “No explosion.”

“Yet.”

He took out the piece of paper she had given him and read the address again, and she said, “Go up that road and turn right at the light.”

“You know the area?”

“The ad had a map.”

As he drove, she gave him the rest of the directions. The darkness of the roads once they were out of downtown Morro Bay made them feel anonymous and safe. The restaurant was beside a country club, so Till passed by it before he realized it must be the right place. He turned around in the road and came back. He was pleased to see that when he turned, there were no headlights coming toward him.

The restaurant was a long, low white building with gray trim. Till drove to the edge of the lot close to it. The brass plaque beside the door said Aimee’s. He parked and they walked inside. As they approached the hostess, he whispered, “Is this the same as the picture?”

“Exactly.”

The hostess seated them and the waiter arrived. Wendy ordered them each a martini. Till said, “How did you know I liked martinis?”

“I could say something witty and unkind, but I’ll just tell the truth. I remembered from six years ago, when we were stuck in that hotel.”

The waiter brought the drinks quickly. Till lifted his icy glass and said, “To better food.”

She clinked her glass against his. “To old friends.” She sipped her martini. “Wow. I forgot how good these taste. I haven’t had a drink in about five years.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I stayed out of restaurants at first, for obvious reasons. And nightclubs were a worse bet. Then, when you have young children, you forget there is such a thing as a martini.”

Till’s appreciation for the restaurant had nothing to do with aesthetics. The room was light with a single entrance, so there weren’t places in the bar for unexpected people to sit without being seen clearly. The windows were all on the side of the building away from the road, a wall of glass overlooking a tee on the golf course. A long fairway stretched down and away into the darkness. He could see a glint of reflected moonlight somewhere out there, so he guessed there must be a lake. It was not impossible for someone to be out there watching the restaurant, but it was extremely unlikely.

He could tell that when Wendy read the menu, she saw more in it than he did. “Interesting.” She pointed at a line of type. “This should be good, if you like warm salads, and I’d love to see what she does with this Thai-French chicken, but I’ve been thinking about paella.”

“You order one, and I’ll get the other.”

“Thanks. I love a man who can take big fat hints.”

“I’m only up to it if you speak slowly and look right at me.”

When the food arrived, they shared the entrées. Wendy tasted the chicken and said, “This is a very nice variation on the sauce that Sybil Weitz used at Veritable in Chicago. I wonder if Aimee worked there.” She sampled the paella and said, “Ooh, she’s good. This looks like a big mishmash—clams, shrimp, lobster, mussels, chorizo, pork, chicken, all flavored with saffron, so how can you miss—but it’s complicated to get it just right because the ingredients are all cooked and seasoned differently.”

“I thought you didn’t care about the cooking side of things.”

“I don’t anymore. But people don’t forget everything they know.”

“You seem to be feeling better about things tonight.”

“You noticed.”

“Yesterday was pretty awful. I guess it’s good not to be scared.”

“It is,” she agreed. “I’d say that’s a necessary condition—not to be actively scared. But you have to remember that I’ve learned to tolerate a certain level of insecurity in my life—just like you do.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t start questioning the source of a good mood. It’ll kill it.”

“Not at all. I’m glad that you’re watching me closely enough to notice it, and I’m glad you mentioned it because it forces me to confess.”

“Confess?”

“Yes. I was smiling to myself because this is exactly the same as a fantasy I’ve had over the past six years.”

“Really. Then I’m delighted to be at the table to see it.” He looked around the room, as though in new appreciation.

“You’re an essential part of it.”

“I am?”

“Yes.” She sipped her martini, but kept the glass up and studied him over the rim. “You don’t think about having a beautiful evening by yourself. Somebody has to share it.”

He met her gaze and understood. “I’m honored.”

They ate in a leisurely way, each sampling the other’s entrée. The waiter arrived to clear the table, brought the dessert menus and coffee, then returned with sweet berries and sorbet, all with a deliberate air of unhurried politeness.

As they shared their dessert and drank the coffee, Till had time to consider what he was about to do. It was going to complicate matters, it was unwise, and it was probably unethical. He waited through the elaborate ritual of the little leather folder. When Wendy paid the bill in cash, he nodded in approval. “Thank you for the wonderful dinner.”

They walked to the car and Till opened the door for her, but she didn’t get in at once. She put her arms around him and kissed him. The kiss began as a gentle, tentative peck, but when he responded, the kiss deepened and became passionate. She broke it off and ducked her head to get into the car.

He came around the back of the car and sat behind the steering wheel. “That was a nice surprise.”

“It was very nice. But it wasn’t a surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Till started the car and drove slowly toward the exit from the lot.

“We’re not teenagers, Jack. We both knew exactly what the kiss would be like. We’ve lived too much not to be able to imagine it perfectly. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you as soon as I saw you.”

Till stopped at the end of the driveway and looked in both directions, preparing to pull onto the highway.

She said, “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking about me.”

“Yes.”

Till drove back to the center of Morro Bay and down to the ocean, doubled back twice to be sure that they had not been spotted in the restaurant and followed, then parked the car in the hotel lot among the others. He and Wendy went up to the second floor, and he had her stay in the stairwell while he checked to be sure that they’d had no visitors in their rooms.

When he was certain it was safe, he went to the door and opened it. She was already stepping into his arms. She had not been quite right about knowing. She was exactly as he had known she would be—beautiful, pale, soft, fragrant—and yet his imagination had been unable to anticipate the way he felt. There was no hesitation between them because this decision had first been made six years ago, and even though they had denied it, the wish had not gone away. Tonight it was as though they had been given another chance to make the right choice, to live the images that had come into their minds in bitter regret and longing during the years since then.

Afterward they lay on the bed together, her head on his shoulder, and his hand caressing her naked back, moving slowly from the shoulder down to her narrow waist and along the curve of her hip. She sighed. “It sure took us a long time to get here. I’m so glad to stop waiting and wondering.”

“I’m glad, too.”

“I thought about you a lot after you left me at the airport. I don’t mean that day. I mean from then until now.”

“You were hurt and alone and scared. It’s a natural reaction.”

She raised herself up on her elbow and looked down at him. “Don’t belittle this. It’s not a weakness or a whim.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought about you a lot, too. I wondered about where you were, what you were doing.”

“I dialed your number a few times. I even packed my bag twice.”

“What stopped you?”

“Things that seem stupid to me now. At first I was still afraid. Then I didn’t want anybody to think I was a failure who couldn’t survive a month on my own—but mostly you, because you were the one who had taught me and helped me get away. I told myself that if I was gone for a year or so, you would think better of me. After a year, it didn’t seem enough. After a couple of years passed, it was too much time. I began to think that I had imagined that you felt anything for me. Neither of us had ever said a word. I thought that if I suddenly showed up at your office, you would probably say, ‘Oh, yes. I remember your case. You relocated. How is that working out for you?’ I would stand there with my suitcase in my hand and no place to go, and start to cry. Then I married Dennis Donnelly, and I didn’t have the right to come to you anymore.”

Till lay silent for a few seconds, not sure whether to say what he was thinking or not, but she knew the question was in the air.

“It’s okay, Jack. Dennis knew it in advance. Ann Donnelly was a hiding place, and when it stopped fooling anybody, it was over.” She hugged him and lay still. “If you and I were really young or one of us were really naïve, I would say that the marriage wasn’t real, or that Dennis was such a bad man that it somehow didn’t count. But he’s a nice, ordinary guy, and the marriage was probably as real as most of them are. We told each other jokes, saved for our old age, and had sex. The only difference was that we both knew it might have to end suddenly. Now it has.”

“Was yesterday really the end, or was tonight the end?”

“You have me figured out. Tonight was the end.”

“It’s a bit late to say that I didn’t want to harm him.”

“Want to give me back?”

“No.”

“I haven’t treated anyone as well as I wanted to—including him—but I told him the truth. I even told him about you. I didn’t tell him your name, but I told him that it could end in two ways: if the killers came for me, or if you did.”

“I’ve been wishing that this would happen since the first day six years ago. But I don’t know what’s after this.”

“I don’t, either. I’ve kind of given up on making that kind of prediction.” She kissed him, her leg came across his belly, and she shifted her weight over him. She closed her eyes and gave a deep sigh. They made love again, this time slowly and gently, enjoying each other without the frantic uncertainty of a few hours ago.

It was after ten when they were lying in the bed in lazy silence again. She sat up abruptly, and he said, “Something wrong?”

“There’s one more thing I wanted to say.”

“What’s that?”

“His name is Scott.”

“Whose?”

“Kit’s boyfriend. His name is Scott. I heard her say his name that night.”