“Somehow,” she said, “I get the feeling it was considerably more… interesting than you make it out to be.”
“Nope. Document analysis, tedious interpretation of satellite reconnaissance photographs, that sort of thing. Boring as hell most of the time. Anyway, Judge Kennebeck and I go back a long way. We respect each other, and I’m sure he’ll do something for me if he can. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow afternoon at a New Year’s Day party. I’ll discuss the situation with him. Maybe he’ll be willing to slip into the courthouse long enough on Friday to review my exhumation request and rule on it. He’d only need a few minutes. Then we could open the grave early Saturday.”
Tina went to the bar and sat on one of the three stools, across the counter from Elliot. “The sooner the better. Now that I’ve made up my mind to do it, I’m anxious to get it over with.”
“That’s understandable. And there’s another advantage in doing it this weekend. If we move fast, it isn’t likely Michael will find out what we’re up to. Even if he does somehow get a whiff of it, he’ll have to locate another judge who’ll be willing to stay or vacate the exhumation order.”
“You think he’ll be able to do that?”
“No. That’s my point. There won’t be many judges around over the holiday. Those on duty will be swamped with arraignments and bail hearings for drunken drivers and for people involved in drunken assaults. Most likely, Michael won’t be able to get hold of a judge until Monday morning, and by then it’ll be too late.”
“Sneaky.”
“That’s my middle name.” He finished washing the first brandy snifter, rinsed it in hot water, and put it in the drainage rack to dry.
“Elliot Sneaky Stryker,” she said.
He smiled. “At your service.”
“I’m glad you’re my attorney.”
“Well, let’s see if I can actually pull it off.”
“You can. You’re the kind of person who meets every problem head-on.”
“You have a pretty high opinion of me,” he said, repeating what she had said to him earlier.
She smiled. “Yes, I do.”
All the talk about death and fear and madness and pain seemed to have taken place further back in the past than a mere few seconds ago. They wanted to have a little fun during the evening that lay ahead, and now they began putting themselves in the mood for it.
As Elliot rinsed the second snifter and placed it in the rack, Tina said, “You do that very well.”
“But I don’t wash windows.”
“I like to see a man being domestic.”
“Then you should see me cook.”
“You cook?”
“Like a dream.”
“What’s your best dish?”
“Everything I make.”
“Obviously, you don’t make humble pie.”
“Every great chef must be an egomaniac when it comes to his culinary art. He must be totally secure in his estimation of his talents if he is to function well in the kitchen.”
“What if you cooked something for me, and I didn’t like it?”
“Then I’d eat your serving as well as mine.”
“And what would I eat?”
“Your heart out.”
After so many months of sorrow, how good it felt to be sharing an evening with an attractive and amusing man.
Elliot put away the dishwashing liquid and the wet dishcloth. As he dried his hands on the towel, he said, “Why don’t we forget about going out to dinner? Let me cook for you instead.”
“On such short notice?”
“I don’t need much time to plan a meal. I’m a whiz. Besides, you can help by doing the drudgery, like cleaning the vegetables and chopping the onions.”
“I should go home and freshen up,” she said.
“You’re already too fresh for me.”
“My car—”
“You can drive it. Follow me to my place.”
They turned out the lights and left the room, closing the door after them.
As they crossed the reception area on their way toward the hall, Tina glanced nervously at Angela’s computer. She was afraid it was going to click on again, all by itself.
But she and Elliot left the outer office, flicking off the lights as they went, and the computer remained dark and silent.
Chapter Fourteen
Elliot Stryker lived in a large, pleasant, contemporary house overlooking the golf course at the Las Vegas Country Club. The rooms were warm, inviting, decorated in earth tones, with J. Robert Scott furniture complemented by a few antique pieces, and richly textured Edward Fields carpets. He owned a fine collection of paintings by Eyvind Earle, Jason Williamson, Larry W. Dyke, Charlotte Armstrong, Carl J. Smith, and other artists who made their homes in the western United States and who usually took their subject matter from either the old or the new West.
As he showed her through the house, he was eager to hear her reaction to it, and she didn’t make him wait long.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Stunning. Who was your interior decorator?”
“You’re looking at him.”
“Really?”
“When I was poor, I looked forward to the day when I’d have a lovely home full of beautiful things, all arranged by the very best interior decorator. Then, when I had the money, I didn’t want some stranger furnishing it for me. I wanted to have all the fun myself. Nancy, my late wife, and I decorated our first home. The project became a vocation for her, and I spent nearly as much time on it as I did on my legal practice. The two of us haunted furniture stores from Vegas to Los Angeles to San Francisco, antique shops, galleries, everything from flea markets to the most expensive stores we could find. We had a damn good time. And when she died… I discovered I couldn’t learn to cope with the loss if I stayed in a place that was so crowded with memories of her. For five or six months I was an emotional wreck because every object in the house reminded me of Nancy. Finally I took a few mementos, a dozen pieces by which I’ll always remember her, and I moved out, sold the house, bought this one, and started decorating all over again.”
“I didn’t realize you’d lost your wife,” Tina said. “I mean, I thought it must have been a divorce or something.”
“She passed away three years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
“I’m so sorry, Elliot.”
“At least it was fast. Pancreatic cancer, exceedingly virulent. She was gone two months after they diagnosed it.”
“Were you married long?”
“Twelve years.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Twelve years leaves a big hole in the heart.”
He realized they had even more in common than he had thought. “That’s right. You had Danny for nearly twelve years.”
“With me, of course, it’s only been little more than a year since I’ve been alone. With you, it’s been three years. Maybe you can tell me…”
“What?”
“Does it ever stop?” she asked.
“The hurting?”
“Yes.”
“So far it hasn’t. Maybe it will after four years. Or five. Or ten. It doesn’t hurt as bad now as it once did. And the ache isn’t constant anymore. But still there are moments when…”
He showed her through the rest of the house, which she wanted to see. Her ability to create a stylish stage show was not a fluke; she had taste and a sharp eye that instantly knew the difference between prettiness and genuine beauty, between cleverness and art. He enjoyed discussing antiques and paintings with her, and an hour passed in what seemed to be only ten minutes.
The tour ended in the enormous kitchen, which boasted a copper ceiling, a Santa Fe tile floor, and restaurant-quality equipment. She checked the walk-in cooler, inspected the yard-square grill, the griddle, the two Wolf ranges, the microwave, and the array of labor-saving appliances. “You’ve spent a small fortune here. I guess your law practice isn’t just another Vegas divorce mill.”