How juvenile was that!
He guessed everyone, when they retired, felt that way for a while. But the fact that he did deeply annoyed him, as if he had no more inner resources than a wind-up mannequin.
He knew he'd miss some of his coworkers, but they'd be in touch, the city wasn't that far away. He'd miss his two favorite judges, but he sure wouldn't miss some of the other federal judges. The deterioration of the judicial system, on all levels, was one thing he was not ambivalent about, he was damn glad to be away from that breakdown.
His only regret was that he hadn't been able to do more to hold the line, to maintain the principles on which the federal courts had traditionally been based. The change in the quality of judges and their misuse of the law, both at local and federal levels, were hard to live with. Very hard, when the results of that disintegration were too many felons walking the streets committing more crimes, robbing and raping and killing law-abiding folk.
Bitter, he thought. Getting old and bitter.
But he hadn't been old when he'd started that battle, he'd fought it for twenty-five years. He had to admit, he was tired. Tired of locking horns with elected officials who didn't have a clue as to the damage they were doing or didn't give a damn.
Around him the night was very still, the only sounds the crashing of the breakers and Rock's excited panting. Where the bright waves rose and fell, a seal surfaced suddenly and it was all he could do to hold Rock, to stop the big silver dog from plunging in and swimming after the animal-when the ninety-pound Weimaraner abandoned his manners and set his mind to something, he was a powerhouse.
A hardheaded powerhouse, Mike thought, the kind of dog, if he's well trained and well directed, will work his heart out for you. The obedience simply had to be on Rock's terms, on terms of mutual respect.
To settle Rock down Mike did a two-mile run with him. Turning back at last, winded, they stopped at the foot of Ocean, where Mike brushed the wet sand off Rock's belly and legs before they headed home.
Now Rock walked easily at heel, just tired enough to wag and laugh up at him, his panting expression filled with happiness.
"You don't miss your mistress and your new master?" Mike asked him. "You don't miss Ryan?"
At the mention of Ryan, Rock came to full attention, tensed to leap away again, and looking all around into the night searching for her, sniffing for her scent.
"She isn't here," Mike said contritely. "I just meant…It's okay, boy," he said, patting Rock's shoulder with a hard and reassuring hand and then rubbing his ears. "It's okay, she'll be home soon."
At his steadying voice and at no further mention of Ryan, and when the silver dog could not pick her scent from the wind, he at last settled down, looking up at Mike as if almost trusting him, as if hoping he could trust his new friend.
"You're a fine fellow," Mike told him as they walked up through the moonlit village and past the open small and charming shops and restaurants, past couples and foursomes leaving the cafés or looking in boutique windows at the elegant wares. Leaving Ocean, turning down Clyde 's street and entering through the back gate into the patio, he toweled the big Weimaraner dry, and then in the kitchen gave him fresh water. As he made himself a cup of coffee, the gray tomcat wandered in, yawning, staring up at him.
"You can't be hungry. It's a wonder you're still alive. I hope Clyde doesn't start feeding Rock like that, sneaking him rich snacks." Strange, he thought, that the tomcat was in such good shape, his sleek silver body muscled and lean. He gave Joe a small snack of cold steak that Clyde had left, watched Joe gobble it, then carried his coffee down the hall to the guest room, the cat and dog crowded at his heels.
Opening his briefcase he flipped through the files and laid the Carson Chappell folder on the night table. As per Clyde 's instructions, he told Joe and Rock they could sleep on the bed-a useless gesture, considering that the two were already tucked up together hogging most of the king-size mattress, Joe Grey stretched out across the big dog's front legs. At Mike's voice, the cat looked up at him with bold yellow eyes, keenly assessing him, then closed his eyes and tucked his head under.
Ready for sleep, Mike thought, watching the tomcat. And he pulled off his shoes and shirt, preparing for bed, looking forward to a cozy evening tucked up by the fire accompanied by the sleeping dog and cat as he went over the Carson Chappell file.
11
THE MOMENT MIKE went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, Joe Grey's eyes were wide open again, his attention fixed on the Chappell cold file as keenly as if he'd spotted a rat lumbering across the white sheets. Hungering to get at the information, he debated whether to try for a look while Mike was out of the room.
Right. Mike comes out and catches him pawing through the file, and then what? Could he pretend to be sniffing the scent of mouse in the department's archived papers? Well, sure, that would explain a cat's interest.
He waited impatiently until Mike returned, wearing navy pajama bottoms and a short robe; he watched the tall, lanky Scots Irishman light the gas logs in the stone fireplace, set the glass screen in place, and then slide into bed, propping the pillows behind him. Then Joe, making a show of stretching and yawning, sauntered up the bed to Mike's pillow. Yawning again, he curled up beside Mike purring with such sudden affection that Flannery did a double take, frowning down at him.
"What's with you? You miss Clyde already? Is that why you're not out roaming the streets? You're lonesome? Well, dogs get lonely, so I guess cats do, too." And Mike spent a few moments scratching Joe's ears.
But soon, still absently stroking Joe, he was scanning the Chappell file-and Joe, sprawled among the pillows near Mike's left ear, was just as eagerly soaking up additional details of Carson Chappell's disappearance and of Lindsey's search for him.
But as Joe read, he watched Mike, too, and was slyly amused.
Where the original report discussed Lindsey and Carson's relationship, Mike's expression changed from interest to what surely resembled jealousy. In the ten-year-old report, Lindsey had assured the interviewing detective that she and Chappell were very much in love and that he would never have left her. They had planned a honeymoon in the Bahamas, they'd had their plane tickets and hotel reservations and had intended to go directly from the church to the airport. They had planned, on their return, to move into a cottage in the village, on which Carson had made a sizable down payment-they had intended to move their furniture and other belongings in two days before the wedding, the day that Chappell was due home from camping. Lindsey said they had wanted, when they arrived back, to be already comfortably settled in their new home.
In the short quotations that had been included among the dry sentences of the case file, it wasn't hard to read Lindsey's shock when Carson didn't return; Joe could detect nothing contrived or uneasy in her recorded answers, though without the sound of her voice, the intonations, and the facial expressions, it was difficult to make such an assessment. It wasn't hard, though, to imagine a bride-to-be's growing despair when there was no word from the intended bridegroom.
At that time, neither Lindsey nor the police had found the plane tickets, not in Chappell's apartment nor in his office, these had disappeared as surely as had his passport.
Halfway through, Mike set aside the file and sat quietly staring into the fire, a deep and preoccupied look, almost a dreaming look, that Joe studied with interest. Was Flannery keener on finding Chappell? Or on rekindling his relationship with Lindsey?