“Do you know who he is?”
Oh yes.
I nodded.
“That should settle that. Have this cop contact Tyrell and describe the situation.” He leaned back. “The trespass is going to be tougher.”
“I wasn't trespassing,” I said hotly.
“How strongly do you feel about this foot?”
“I don't think it fits with anyone on the passenger list. That's why I was snooping around.”
“Because of the age.”
“Largely. It also looked more decomposed.”
“Can you prove the age?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you absolutely certain the foot donor was that old?”
“No.”
“Is there any other test that can more firmly establish your age estimate?” Pete, the lawyer.
“I'll check the histology once the samples are processed.”
“When is that?”
“Slide preparation is taking forev—”
“Go there tomorrow. Get your slides bumped. Don't quit until you know the guy's collar size and the name of his bookie.”
“I could try.”
“Do it.”
Pete was right. I was being a pansy.
“Then ID Foot Man and shove it up Tyrell's ass.”
“How do I do that?”
“If your foot didn't come from the plane, it must be local.”
I waited.
“Start by finding out who owns that property.”
“How do I do that?”
“Has the FBI checked the place out?”
“They're involved in the crash investigation, but until there's proof of sabotage, the Bureau isn't officially in charge. Besides, given my current status, I doubt they're going to share their thoughts with me.”
“Then find out on your own.”
“How?”
“Check the title to the property and the tax rolls at the county courthouse.”
“Can you walk me through that?”
I took notes as he talked. By the time he finished, my resolve was back. No more whining and self-pity. I'd probe that foot until I knew every detail of its owner's life. Then I'd find out where it came from, nail an ID, and paste it to Larke Tyrell's forehead.
“Thank you so much, Pete.”
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Without hesitating, he drew me in. Before I could pull back, he returned my cheek kiss, then another, then his lips slid to my neck, my ear, my mouth. I smelled the familiar mix of sweat and Aramis, and a million images burst in my brain. I felt the arms and chest I'd known for two decades, that had once held only me.
I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Illinois, to the later years, when it became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as well as the curves of my own body. Making love with Pete was all-encompassing. It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed the familiar and comforting, the shattering of my consciousness, the stopping of time.
I thought of my silent apartment. I thought of Larke and his “powerful people,” of Ryan and the unknown Danielle, of separation and distance. Then Pete's hand slid to my breast.
“Fuck 'em,” I thought.
Then I thought of nothing else.
I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF A PHONE. PETE HAD DRAWN THE shades, and the room was so dim I needed several rings to locate it.
“Meet me at Providence Road Sundries tonight and I'll buy you a burger.”
“Pete, I—”
“You drive a hard bargain. Meet me at Bijoux.”
“It's not the restaurant.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I don't think so.”
The line hummed.
“Remember when I wrecked the Volkswagen and insisted we push on?”
“Georgia to Illinois with no headlights.”
“You didn't speak to me for six hundred miles.”
“It's not like that, Pete.”
“Didn't you enjoy last night?”
I loved last night.
“It's not that.”
I heard voices in the background and looked at the clock. Eight-ten.
“Are you at work?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Why are you phoning?”
“You asked me to wake you.”
“Oh.” An old routine. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“And thanks for keeping Birdie.”
“Has he made an appearance?”
“Briefly. He looked edgy.”
“The old Bird has become set in his ways.”
“Birdie never liked dogs.”
“Or change.”
“Or change.”
“Some change is good.”
“Yes.”
“I have changed.”
I'd heard that from Pete. He'd said it after his tryst with a court reporter three years earlier, again following a Realtor episode. I hadn't waited for the trifecta.
“That was a bad time for me,” he went on.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
I hung up and took a long shower, reflecting on our failings. Pete was where I'd always turned for advice, comfort, support. He'd been my safety net, the calm I'd seek after a day of tempest. The breakup had been devastating, but it had also brought out strength I'd never known I had.
Or ever used.
When I'd toweled off and wrapped my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.
Question: What was I thinking last night?
Answer: I wasn't. I was angry, hurt, vulnerable, and alone. And I hadn't had sex in a very long time.
Question: Would it happen again?
Answer: No.
Question: Why not?
Why not? I still loved Pete. I had since first laying eyes on him, barefoot and bare-chested on the steps of the law school library. I'd loved him as he lied about Judy, then Ellen. I'd loved him as I packed and left two years ago.
And I obviously still found him sexy as hell.
My sister, Harry, has a Texas expression. Flat ass stupid. Though I love Pete, and find him sexy, I am not flat ass stupid. That's why it would not happen again.
I wiped steam from the glass, remembering the old me looking back from that same mirror. My hair was blond when we first moved in, long and straight to my shoulders. It's short now, and I've abandoned the golden surfer look. But gray hairs are sneaking in, and I'll soon be checking out the Clairol browns. The lines have increased and deepened around my eyes, but my jawline is firm and my upper lids have stayed put.
Pete always said my butt was my best feature. That, too, has remained in place, though effort is now required. But, unlike many of my contemporaries, I own no spandex and have never hired a personal trainer. I possess no treadmill, step machine, or stationary bike. I do not enroll in aerobics or kickboxing classes, and have not run in an organized race in over five years. I go to the gym in T-shirts and FBI shorts, tied at the waist with a drawstring. I jog or swim, lift, then leave. When the weather is nice, I run outside.
I've also tried to tighten up on what I eat. Daily vitamins. Red meat no more than three times a week. Junk food no more than five.
I was positioning my panties when my cell phone rang. Racing to the bedroom, I upended my purse, retrieved the phone, and hit the button.
“Where have you disappeared to?”
Ryan's voice was completely unexpected. I hesitated, panties in one hand, phone in the other, unable to think of a thing to say.
“Hello?”
“I'm here.”
“Here where?”
“I'm in Charlotte.”
There was a pause. Ryan broke it.
“This whole thing is a crock of sh—”
“Have you talked to Tyrell?”
“Briefly.”
“Did you describe the coyote scene?”
“Vividly.”
“And he said?”
“Thank ya, sir.” Ryan mimicked the ME's drawl.
“This isn't Tyrell's idea.”
“There's something off center about the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm not sure.”
“What's off center?”
“Tyrell was jumpy. I've only known him a week, but jumpy is not normal demeanor for him. Something is making him squirm. He knows you didn't tamper with remains, and he knows Earl Bliss ordered you up here last week.”