“I'd rather have owls than blue jays.”
“Pewter, you're obsessed with that blue jay.” Harry rubbed Murphy's ears so she purred the last part of the sentence.
“Apart from the insults, blue jays steal. Anything shiny. They're so greedy.”
41
Rick Shaw's ashtray overflowed with butts. As he absentmindedly put a live cigarette into the deep tray, the whole mess caught on fire, a miniature volcano of stale nicotine and discarded ideas.
Coop, laughing, trotted to the water cooler, filled a cup, and dumped the contents onto the smoldering ashtray. She had prudently carried a paper towel with her to clean up the mess.
“Goddammit!” He stood up, knocking his chair over backward.
“You set the place on fire, not me, grouch.”
“I didn't mean you. I meant me.”
“Boss, you take these cases too personal.”
“I liked Tommy. I like Mary Woo. Hell, I can't even find out who burned her shop down, and she's too upset to remember anything to do with her records. Or maybe too scared. Yes, I take this personal.” He parodied Cynthia's incorrect English.
“Come on, let's go home.” She pointed to the wall clock.
It was two-thirty in the morning.
“No. Not yet.”
“Your wife probably forgets what you look like.”
“Right now that's good. I look like a vampire reject. One more time.” He pointed to the map on the table. “What do these properties have in common?”
“Nothing that I can tell. They aren't connected. They aren't on major roadways or potential road expansions. They aren't in the path of the beltway that the state threatens to build but never does. Just looks like speculation.”
“Land speculation ruined Lighthorse Harry Lee.”
“And plenty more.” Like Rick, Cynthia knew her history—but most Virginians did.
Before schools became “relevant,” teachers led you to the facts. If you didn't study them willingly they simply pounded them into you. One way or the other a Virginian would learn history, multiplication tables, the Queen's English, and manners. Then a child would go home for more drilling by the family about the family, things like: “Aunt Minnie believes that God is a giant orange. Other than that she's harmless, so be respectful.”
“God, I'm tired.” Rick sighed. His mind was wandering. He sank back in his chair.
“Roger.” Cynthia rubbed her eyes.
“Let me review this again. Mrs. Murphy brought you the map. Dropped it right at your feet.”
“Yes.”
“Harry had never seen the map?”
“No. Boss, I told you exactly how it happened. Mrs. Murphy walked outside and returned with the map. She was quite deliberate about it. She didn't give it to Harry. She gave it to me.”
“If we ever go to court, what do we say? A cat gave us evidence?”
“Sure looks that way.” Cynthia smiled. She genuinely liked her boss.
“Let's keep this out of the papers. I can't bring myself to drag the pussycat into the glare of publicity. Where did she find it!”
“We've gone over this. Behind the post office? Near the house? In the bomber jacket? The map could have been dropped anywhere. But wherever it was, Mrs. Murphy found it.”
“Why would she bother to pick it up?” He threw his hands in the air.
“Because cats love paper.”
“Next you'll tell me she reads.”
“That one, I wouldn't be surprised.” She pulled the coroner's report over to her one more time and thumbed through it. “Guess you have to release this.”
“Yes. It confirms he was killed on the night he disappeared. And I guess I'll have to release the fact that he was loaded with cocaine. They'll have a field day with that one.”
“You need some sleep before facing reporters again.”
“I need a lead. A clear lead.” Rick pounded the table.
“We can start visiting these land parcels.”
“Yep.” He rose, sighed, and clicked off the bright, small desk lamp. “You're right. We both need sleep.”
They waved to the graveyard-shift dispatcher.
The cool night air, bearing a hint of moisture, smelled like fresh earth.
“Night, Rick.”
“Coop?”
“Yeah?”
“Think H. Vane is in on the drug trade?”
“We don't know if Tommy was dealing. We only know he was full of the stuff.”
“That's not what I'm asking.”
“H. Vane loves a profit.” She turned up her collar.
“H., Tommy, Blair, and Archie took flying lessons. I questioned Ridley, too, but he wasn't in the club for long. Makes sense.” He sighed. “Well, let's both get some sleep. Then we can drive over the land marked on the map.”
42
Earlier that same night Sarah, in a rage, had slapped her husband in the face. He slapped her back.
“You forget your station, madam.” He coldly turned his back on her.
“You can't go out alone. You hire a bodyguard or I will!”
“Don't tell me what I can do. And don't worry that I'll be killed. Whoever tried was a damned poor shot.”
“You can be insufferably smug.”
“And you can be a bloody nag.”
With some effort, she composed herself. “What happened at the meeting today?”
“Surprisingly, Archie thought your joining us was a good idea, once he had time to adjust to it.”
“And?”
“Blair wants to consult his lawyer. It would give you and me overwhelming control of the corporation and there is the small matter that you haven't invested your share of capital.”
“Ass.”
“He's a better businessman than I assumed he would be. I thought he was just a pretty face and an empty head.”
“What does he care what I put in or what percent of the stock we own? He'll still make a boatload of money.”
“Give him time.”
“You'll persuade him?”
“Actually, I think you will.”
The telephone rang.
Sarah picked it up. “Hello. What are you doing calling here?”
Archie replied on the other end, “I'd like to speak to your husband.”
She handed the phone to H. “Archie.”
“Hello, Arch. Forgive Sarah. She still believes you shot me.” He listened a bit, chewed his lip, nodding in agreement with Archie's ideas. Finally, he turned to Sarah, who had flopped down on the sofa and pointedly picked up a magazine. “He'd like to speak to you.”
“No.”
He put his hand over the receiver. “Sarah, I insist. You must get over this absurd notion that Arch tried to kill me.”
Furiously, she stood; her magazine slithered to the floor. She took the offered phone. “Yes.”
“I'm sure H. filled you in on our meeting today.”
“Yes.”
“I think it would be beneficial to all parties if we sat down and talked.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” She glared at H., who made appeasing gestures.
“Well, I have a great deal to say to you.” He hurried his words before she could cut him off. “We need to talk, especially if we're going to be in business together.”
“That's up to Blair Bainbridge.”
“Sarah . . .”
“Hold on.” She covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to talk to me privately. Do I have to do this?”
“I think it would be best for all concerned.”
She removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “All right.”
“How about my office tomorrow afternoon?”
“Make it Friday. I have a dentist's appointment tomorrow.”
“Fine. Friday. My office.”
She hung up the phone. “Friday. His office. Are you happy now?”
“Yes, the sooner we get this behind us, the better.” His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, then just as quickly as the tension showed on his face, he erased it.
“It would be helpful if we knew who killed Tommy Van Allen and why.” She flopped back down on the sofa, bending over to retrieve her magazine. “You don't think it was Archie?”