A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the drive. When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low “rrup!”
“Is he here?” I asked, slamming the door.
The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its mouth.
I circled to the front and rang. No response.
I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn't use it. Though we'd been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an intimacy I didn't want to imply.
But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I wanted my cat.
I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.
“Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?” said Pete, surveying me from top to bottom.
I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I'd donned for the morgue at six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.
“I thought you'd be at work.”
I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I'd die of humiliation.
“Why aren't you at work?”
He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close, as if imparting secure information. “Rendezvous with the plumber.”
I didn't want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It would call in an expert.
“I came for Birdie.”
“I think he's free.” Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my great-aunt's chandelier.
“How about a drink?”
I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.
“You know what I mean.”
“A Diet Coke would be nice.”
While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.
Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms, reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We'd nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I'd watch the honeysuckle come and go through the window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and attainable.
Pete reappeared, transformed from attorney-chic to yuppiecasual. The jacket and vest were gone, the tie loosened, the shirtsleeves rolled to below the elbows. He looked good.
“Where's Bird?” I asked.
“He's been keeping to the upper decks since Boyd checked in.”
He handed me a mug with Uz to mums atkal jaiedzer! scrolled around the glass. “To that we must drink again!” in Latvian.
“Boyd's the dog?”
A nod.
“Yours?”
“Interesting point. Have a seat and I'll share with you the saga of Boyd.”
Pete got pretzels from the kitchen and joined me on the couch.
“Boyd belongs to one Harvey Alexander Dineen, a gentleman recently in need of pro bono defense. Completely surprised by his arrest, and lacking family, Harvey requested that I look after his dog until the misunderstanding with the state was cleared up.”
“And you agreed?”
“I appreciated his confidence in me.”
Pete licked salt from a pretzel, bit off the large loop, and washed it down with beer.
“And?”
“Boyd's on his own for a minimum of ten and a maximum of twenty. I figured he'd get hungry.”
“What is he?”
“He thinks of himself as an entrepreneur. The judge called him a con man and career criminal.”
“I meant the dog.”
“Boyd's a chow. Or at least most of him is. We'd need DNA testing to clarify the rest.”
He ate the other half of the pretzel.
“Been out with any good corpses lately?”
“Very funny.” My face must have suggested that it was not.
“Sorry. Must be grim up there.”
“We're getting through it.”
We made small talk for a while, then Pete invited me for dinner. Our usual routine. He asked, I refused. Today I thought of Larke's allegations, Anne and Ted's London adventure, and my empty condo.
“What are you serving?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Linguini con sauce vongole.”
A Pete specialty. Canned clams on overcooked pasta.
“Why don't I pick up steaks while you deal with the plumber. When the pipes are flowing, we can grill the meat.”
“It's an upstairs toilet.”
“Whatever.”
“It will be good for Bird to see that we're friends. I think he still blames himself.”
Pure Pete.
Boyd joined us at dinner, sitting beside the table, eyes glued to the New York strips, now and then pawing a knee to remind us of his presence.
Pete and I talked about Katy, about old friends, and about old times. He discussed some current litigation, and I described one of my recent cases, a student found hanging in his grandmother's barn nine months after his disappearance. I was pleased that we'd reached a comfort level at which normal conversation was possible. Time flew, and Larke and his complaint receded from my thoughts.
After a dessert of strawberries on vanilla ice cream, we took coffee to the den and switched on the news. The Air TransSouth crash was the lead story.
A grim-faced woman stood at the overlook, the Great Smoky Mountains rolling behind her, and talked of a meet in which thirty-four athletes would never compete. She reported that the cause of the crash was still unclear, although a midair explosion was now almost certain. To date forty-seven victims had been identified, and the investigation was continuing around the clock.
“It's smart they're giving you time off,” Pete said.
I didn't answer.
“Or did they send you down here on a secret mission?”
I felt a tremor in my chest and kept my eyes on my Doc Martens.
Pete slid close and raised my chin with an index finger.
“Hey, babe, I'm only kidding. Are you O.K.?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“You don't look too O.K.”
“I'm fine.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I must have, for the words poured out. I told him about the days of gore, about the coyotes and my attempts to pinpoint the foot's origin, about the anonymous complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me intently.
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The schoolhouse clock ticked loudly from the den wall, and I wondered idly who kept it wound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Well, this has been fun,” I said, unwinding my legs.
Pete took my hand, his eyes still steady on my face.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do?” I said irritably, pulling free. I was already embarrassed by my outpouring and dreaded what I knew was coming. Pete always gave the same advice when aggravated by others. “Fuck 'em.”
He surprised me.
“Your DMORT commander will clear up the issue of entering the site. The foot is central to the rest. Was anyone around when you picked the thing up?”
“There was a cop nearby.” I focused on the pillow.
“Local?”
I shook my head.
“Did he see the coyotes?”
“Yes.”