“Kids don’t hold a marriage together. If anything they challenge it in ways you can’t imagine.”
“But I can imagine. It’s been a year, like you said. I’m not expecting miracles.”
“They asked me about my past,” Boldt said. “They made me relive all sorts of stuff that I’d forgotten. Phil. Daphne. You and Bobbie. How it all came together.”
“And how it damn near came apart.”
“And something about that made me realize I had to speak my piece. To each of you.”
“You call this speaking your piece to me?”
“You? No. I’m not ready for you.”
“There’s some kind of order? A line?” LaMoia looked around at the grass blowing all around them. “That’s precious.”
“In my head there is.”
“I always wondered what was in there,” LaMoia said. “Lines, huh?”
Boldt stopped a smile from forming. He checked the ferry again, surprised at how steadily it moved across the strait. It had made great progress.
“Do what you gotta do,” LaMoia said.
“It isn’t what you’re thinking. It’s nothing like that. It’s about explaining the past, not making up a future.”
“And that’s the first time I’ve breathed in the past five minutes.”
Boldt couldn’t stop the smile; it exposed him. “I’m going to the Joke later. Play some piano. If you come by, drinks are on me.”
“Are we celebrating?”
“Feels like we should, don’t you think?”
“What would we be celebrating?”
Boldt said nothing.
“What if they dig up that Gaines studied film for two years of college? What if they find out that what that really meant was two years of working in video?”
“Do you really think anyone would ever believe that four officers would all risk their careers for any one person?” Boldt asked again.
“That would be stupid.”
“Incredibly stupid.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Absurd.”
The ferry was nearly out of sight. A small speck spitting a trail of white foam.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Boldt said.
“Do you love her?” LaMoia asked. His eyes were moist as he blew his nose again.
Boldt wondered if the wind was doing that to his eyes. He placed a hand on the shoulder of LaMoia’s deerskin jacket and gripped firmly. LaMoia continued looking out across the water. He would not turn his head.
Boldt squeezed once more, then headed toward the Crown Vic, fighting off a chill he couldn’t seem to beat.
ANNE PERRY
Anne Perry was born in 1938 in Blackheath, London. She endured several illnesses while young and was unable to attend all but a few years of school. Largely educated at home, she was aided by a deep affection for reading. She has lived in various parts of the world, including the Bahamas, a small island off the coast of New Zealand, and Southern California. She took the name of her stepfather, becoming Anne Perry-not a pseudonym but her legal name. Her first book, The Cater Street Hangman, was published in 1979. In addition to the novels featuring Thomas Pitt and his wife, Charlotte, Miss Perry has produced a bestselling series featuring William Monk, novels set during World War I, Christmas novellas, and several stand-alone works. The author of more than fifty books, she lives in northern Scotland.
CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT
BY ANNE PERRY
I would like you to tell me as much as you can about Thomas Pitt,” Naylor said respectfully.
“Really?” Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould raised her silver eyebrows in surprise. She had considered the possibility that Naylor might come to her, and then dismissed it. She did not often make mistakes. She had survived Victorian society dazzlingly, as one of Europe ’s greatest beauties and, far more important, as a woman of passion and courage who dared to say what she thought. She had reached an age that she no longer cared to name in this year of our Lord 1912.
“And why is that, Sir Peter?” she inquired.
“Matters in Europe are becoming most grave,” Naylor replied. “We need a man of extraordinary abilities at the head of our Intelligence Services in this country. The prime minister is considering Mr. Pitt, but there are those who speak against him, primarily the king himself. We cannot afford to be wrong, now of all times.”
A flicker of amusement moved Vespasia’s lips, but it was not untouched by sadness. She knew quite as well as Peter Naylor how darkly the future loomed.
“Thomas Pitt has been one of my friends for thirty years. Do you trust me to have an unbiased opinion?” she asked.
“I trust you to tell me the truth, Lady Vespasia,” he replied. “You understand human nature, and the politics of Europe, therefore you know what must lie ahead. And if you are fond of Thomas Pitt, then you will not wish to see him in a position of leadership for which he is unqualified. It would be not only a disservice to your country, it would be a tragic end to his, so far, highly distinguished career. And I do not use the word tragic lightly or melodramatically.”
“I know,” she answered him. “It may be offensive to underrate a man; it is the ultimate cruelty to overrate him. What is it you wish to know? I assume you already have a history of his cases?”
“I do, for what it is worth. The details are open to interpretation.”
“And you have spoken with Pitt himself?”
“Of course. That is why I need your estimation all the more. The man is an enigma to me, a Gordian knot of contradictions.”
She waited for him to continue, sitting motionless in her ivory silk gown, her back still straight, a cascade of pearls almost to her waist, her throat and wrists masked in lace. There was a gold lorgnette on the small table beside her, but either she did not require it in order to see him or she was not sufficiently interested in the details of his appearance to use it.
Since she was apparently not going to prompt him, he continued. “He sounds like a gentleman, his diction is perfect and his vocabulary wide, yet he looks… ” He hesitated.
“As if he had dressed in the dark, in someone else’s clothes,” she supplied. “And quite obviously not found a hairbrush. And yet I have never seen him unshaven.”
“Quite. Can you explain it?”
“With ease. His father was a gamekeeper on Sir Arthur Desmond’s estate. Desmond’s own son was young Thomas’s age, a charming boy but lazy. Sir Arthur decided to educate them together, as a spur to his son, at least to exceed the gamekeeper’s boy in academic achievement, if not in sportsmanship.”
Naylor smiled. “And did he?”
“No. I believe in neither respect. Pitt excelled beyond young Desmond in intelligence, and lagged behind him in athleticism, and barely knew or cared about one end of a horse from the other. However, he was a good shot, I believe.”
Naylor smiled again. “All that would explain his speech and his apparent education. Still, he has never forgotten his humble origins, to judge from his manner, and a certain… ” He stopped, clearly not wishing to offend her.
She allowed him to fumble. She was quite aware of what he meant, but she was not going to assist him.
“Attitude of mind, an ordinariness,” he finished lamely.
Naylor knew she was amusing herself, but he also knew that she would not let him leave without all the information he needed, honest to the last word and beyond, even to the unsaid implication.
“Part of him never left the servants’ quarters,” he said, watching her face. “And yet it is not a lack of ambition which holds him there. And I am certain beyond any doubt whatever that it is not an innate respect for those who might consider themselves his ‘betters.’ Will you tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”