A set of headlights appeared at the bottom of the drive and a mechanical hum announced the slow parting of the wrought iron gates. A black stretch limousine swung into view and proceeded slowly up the drive, approaching the house with all the gravity of the lead car in a funeral procession. The driver pulled under the porte cochere and triggered the trunk lid, which seemed to pop up of its own accord.
As if on cue, the porch light went on and the front door was opened. I could hear Beck talking to someone over his shoulder as he carried out three large bags and set them on the porch. With the engine still idling, the driver got out in his tuxedo and chauffeur's cap and moved around to the rear where Beck waited with the luggage. The driver hefted the suitcases into the trunk one by one. He shut the trunk and then opened the rear limo door. Beck paused, looking toward the house as his wife stepped out onto the porch. She stopped, apparently to check the thumb lock before she pulled the door shut behind her. "Is that everything?"
"We're good. Bags are in the trunk."
She crossed to the limo and ducked into the backseat. Beck followed her in. The driver closed the limo door and then returned to the driver's seat and resumed his place at the wheel, shutting the car door. I could hear a slight pop as he released the emergency brake and then the limo glided down the drive toward the road. The lighted rear license plate read: ST LIMO-1, designating car number one of the Santa Teresa Limousine Service. The gates swung open, the limo disappeared, and the gates eased shut again.
Beside me, Reba flicked her Dunhill, the flame warming her face briefly as she took the first long drag from a fresh cigarette. She put the pack and lighter in her pocket and blew out a stream of smoke. Her eyes were remarkably large and dark, and her lips curved upward in a cynical smile. "Lying sack of shit. You know when I figured it out? Did you see the little hitch in his walk when he first caught sight of me? That said it all. I was the last person in the world he wanted to see."
"At least you managed to queer it for Onni. She was really pissed at him."
"I hope so. Anyway, let's get out of here before a sheriffs deputy decides to cruise by. Beck always notifies 'em when he's leaving town. They're quite attentive to him."
"Are you okay?"
"I feel great. How long will it take to set up the meeting with the feds?"
When I let myself into my apartment at 11:25, the light was blinking on the answering machine, a tiny red beacon in the dark. I flipped on the overhead light. I set my shoulder bag on the countertop and dumped my shopping bags on the floor. I crossed to the desk and stood there, staring at the blink, blink, blink as though it might be a message in Morse code. Either it was Cheney or it was not. The fact of the matter had already been entered into evidence so I might as well find out. If he hadn't called, that didn't necessarily mean anything. And if he had called, it didn't necessarily mean anything, either. The problem in the early stages of any relationship is that you don't know where you stand and you don't know how to interpret the other person's behavior.
So okay. All I had to do was push the button and I'd know.
I sat down. If he hadn't called, I sure didn't want to be the one to call him, though I was panting to tell him what had transpired between Beck and Reba. I could touch base with him for that purpose. In fact, I'd have to call him soon so he could set up the meeting between Reba and Vince. But aside from business – on a personal level – he'd have to make the first move. He looked like the kind of guy women called all the time – too cute and too sexy to have to expend much effort himself. I didn't want to place myself in the same category with his other women, whoever they were. How was it, though, that after only one day I was feeling insecure? Ruefully, I remembered my cockiness of the night before.
I pushed the button and listened to the brief high-pitched squeal as the tape rewound. Beep. "Kinsey, this is Cheney. It's ten-fifteen and I just got off work. Give me a buzz when you get in. I'll be up." He left his number. Click.
I checked the clock. Over an hour ago. I made a note of his home number, then suffered a fit of indecision. He said to call, so I'd call. Nothing tricky about that… unless he was already in bed and asleep. I hate waking people up. Before I felt any more squirrelly, I punched in the number.
He picked up on the first ring.
I said, "If you're asleep I swear I'm going to slit my wrists with a butter knife."
He laughed. "Not at all, babe. I'm a night owl. How about you?"
"Not me. I'm an early bird. I usually get up at six for my run. How come you were working so late? I thought you got off at five."
"We spent the day cooped up in a van over on Castle, taking videos of Johns going in and out of a hot new whorehouse. Heavy weekend trade coming up. We'll do a sweep as soon as we have enough little fishies in the net."
"Nothing like sitting all day to wear you down."
"I'm trashed. How about you?"
"I'm pretty trashed myself," I said. "Though I did have a productive evening. You won't believe where I've been."
"Answer can't be Rosie's. Too easy."
"I was out with Reba. First we went clothes shopping and then we went to Bubbles where we ran into Beck and Onni. I won't plague you with the details -"
"Hey, come on. Don't be like that. I love the details."
"I'll tell you next time I see you. At the moment, I'm too bushed to go into a blow-by-blow. The upshot is Reba's ready to do business."
"She's agreed to talk to Vince?"
"That's what she told me half an hour ago."
"What brought this on? I know she was waffling, but this falls into the too-good-to-be-true category, don't you think?"
"No, I'm trusting her on this. Mostly because I was right there watching when the whole thing went down. Beck laid on a bunch of BS, three or four lies in a row, and Reba nailed him on all counts. I mean, not to his face. He was stringing her along and stringing her along. I think she could have dealt with that – she's probably used to his messing with her head. The kicker was, she realized he was taking Tracy to Panama when he'd implied he was going alone."
"How'd she find out?"
I hesitated. "We did some independent research."
"I don't want to hear this."
"I thought not. Bottom line is she'll meet with the feds as soon as you can set it up."
"Shit, that's great. I'll let Vince know as soon as I can track him down. Might take a couple of days. He's hard to reach on weekends."
"The sooner the better. We don't want her changing her mind," I said.
"While we're on the subject, Vince checked on that FBI guy who went to Reba's with the photos. Turns out he'd been transferred from another office and wanted to show how good he was at taking the initiative. He got his ears boxed but good."
"Glad to hear that," I said.
"So what are you doing at the moment? Are you down for the count?"
"Meaning what, am I in bed? No, I'm up."
"Meaning, I don't want to keep you on the phone if you're about to hit the sack."
"Not a bit of it. I just walked in the door. I was worried I wouldn't catch you before you went to bed yourself."
There was a moment of quiet.
I said, "Hello?"
"I'm here. I was wondering how you'd feel about company."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
I thought about exhaustion, both his and mine. "Good. I'd feel good – assuming it's yourself we're discussing and not someone else."
"Give me ten minutes."
"Make it fifteen. That'll give me time to change."
I took the spiral stairs two at a time, whipped off my clothes, jammed everything in the hamper, showered, shaved my legs, washed my hair, flossed and brushed my teeth, all in the space of eight minutes, which gave me plenty of time to pull on clean sweats (minus underwear) and change the sheets. Downstairs again, I was in the process of refolding sections of the newspaper when I heard his tap at the door.