Now, as stupid as it seemed, he realized she hadn't come to him on the rebound or out of pity or simply because she wanted someone to hold. She'd made a conscious choice.
And there was something else, something that harked back to an earlier situation that had baffled and angered him. During a case the previous winter, Sammie had gone undercover as a ski instructor, dying her hair blond and sporting the tight jeans and high-waisted parka she thought suitable for the job. He'd been furious with her for that, for looking so good, for making the role seem natural. He'd seen how everyone had appreciated her in purely physical terms, and had realized how easily he could lose her. Then, of course, that fear had only made him lash out as usual.
Not that this sudden revelation would necessarily help now. For his newfound respect for Sammie came saddled with an equally powerful conviction that he'd never be able to express it. Even as he watched her, filled with this sudden knowledge, he was at a loss for what to do.
As if realizing this, she stood up and looked down at him. "Do you know why you wanted to meet?" she asked, looking faintly surprised at how the words had come out. She corrected herself. "I mean, why did you want to meet?"
He considered both questions, and knew neither one could be given an honest answer, the first because of his own emotional inability, and the second for legal reasons.
He therefore chose the latter's more familiar terrain- he'd certainly skirted the law's finer points before.
"I was wondering how the case was going," he stated neutrally, hoping she'd work with him in tiptoeing through a metaphorically mine-laden conversation.
She did. Avoiding the shootout and the wounding of- and silence of-Riley Cox, she answered, "We found out Ron Cashman had two apartments, one clean and listed under his name, the other somewhere over near Kennedy Airport. They're going over that one right now. Joe called in with an update about a half hour ago."
"Find anything yet?"
She paused and rubbed her lower lip with her thumbnail. She was in a real quandary here. There was strong circumstantial evidence linking Willy to the shootout, although no actual witnesses who would talk, and certainly it made sense that he was the one who assaulted John Smith's neighbor in Broad Channel, possibly stealing something in the process. Not only did that make him someone whom the local authorities would love to put in an interview room, if not worse, it also certainly meant she shouldn't be discussing details of the case with him. Just being with him now put her in professional jeopardy.
Not that any of this was all that relevant, of course. Willy was going to motor on regardless of what she did or didn't tell him, and maybe her judicious release of some information might help him go where he needed to without getting killed or jailed. She wouldn't violate the black letter of the law, but she would tell him what she could because in her heart she knew it might be his only route to salvation.
"I don't know what they've found at the covert address. I only heard that Cashman was using the name John Smith, and that Mary called him there once from her home phone."
"She did?" he asked, surprised.
"Not only him, but other people connected to him. From her receipts and Metro cards and whatnot, we found out she was going regularly to Brooklyn and maybe meeting with several of these guys. Ogden has people knocking on those doors right now, too. I don't know what or how, but something's definitely starting to break with this case. For example, we think now that even though she wasn't rolling in dough, she had access to some secret assets. It would explain why she never went the traditional welfare and assistance route."
He absorbed that for a moment, remembering Cashman's last words about Mary becoming greedy. "What else?" he asked.
"Not much. We took your suggestion to look into the Re-Coop a little closer. Turns out some nonprofit named the Seabee Group is their major backer, but that's all we've got right now. I think Joe was going to study that more, but he and I are almost on the outs now. We've outlived our welcome."
She didn't explain why. She didn't need to.
There was an awkward pause. Now that they'd moved from their personal feelings to discussing the case, each of them was anxious about the other's welfare. The first topic made them yearn to stay here longer, the second almost guaranteed that any more time together endangered them both.
Willy ended the unspoken debate by getting to his feet. "Thanks, Sam. I better go."
She stood next to him and laid her hand on his forearm. "I can't ask what I want to. Maybe that's the way it'll always be-"
He interrupted her. "If you want to know have I stepped over the line, the answer is no. Enough to get me fired, maybe. But not the way you're worried about."
He looked ready to say more, to tell her things that seemed to be brimming up inside him, but he pressed his lips together tightly, as if physically biting the urge back.
She made the choice easier for him, kissing him and stepping away. "Will you at least try to come back in one piece?"
He smiled at her, again struck by how much she seemed to know of his inner struggles. "I will now."
He watched while she retreated across the narrow roadway, got back into her car, and drove away with a small wave of her hand. Then he stepped in among the surrounding headstones and extracted from his pocket the top sheet of the calendar he'd stolen off Ron Cashman's desk. Circled several times in blue ink on a date just following Mary's death were the initials "CB," followed by a phone number. The face of Carlos Barzun-La Culebra-rose up in his mind like a specter. Ward Ogden sat back in Ron Cashman's rickety office chair and stretched his arms high above his head. The setting sun was angling in through the dirty window overlooking the boat slip, filling the dingy room with a greasy yellow light. He and a search team including Jim Berhle and the young detective he'd brought with him hours earlier had been combing through the contents of Cashman's two filing cabinets, deciphering what they could of the dead man's arcane and half-encrypted notes. What they had made for interesting if frustrating reading, detailing a range of activities far beyond what Ogden would have guessed from these modest surroundings. It was true that Cashman had also maintained that other apartment, as clean and respectable as the proverbial hound's tooth, but if his records were any reflection of his income, he could have afforded twice that and much more. Whether it was a credit to his discretion or simply because he had no love of material possessions was anyone's guess.
Ogden lowered his arms and studied the scene out the window. Joe Gunther was sitting on the edge of one of the docks overhanging the narrow, slightly mired boat slip, staring out over the view as if he were taking in the Grand Canyon. He liked Gunther, respected his low-key, hardworking style. The man gave credit where it was due, shared what he found, didn't put on airs, and nurtured his younger colleagues. In short, a cop without swagger or self-righteousness. Ogden could only rue that such a creature was so rare.
Which made his own predicament all the more unfortunate, since he was gong to have to tell Gunther that regardless of what Willy Kunkle might or might not have done-and the lack of any hard evidence so far was galling-the Vermont contingent was no longer welcome. The case was simply becoming too big and too complex, and it involved too many unanswered questions about both Kunkles, Mary and Willy.
It was a shame, and meant the loss of two good extra brains, but even Ogden could only skirt the rules for so long and by so far. The NYPD held its own fully accountable, often unfairly and sometimes with a vengeance. The dinosaur wasn't going to trade on his hard-won reputation and seniority for a bunch of outsiders, especially when one of them was running the risk of landing some serious jail time. In fact, Ogden was feeling a little uncomfortable that, having stretched this alliance out for as long as he had, he'd not only been carried away by a combination of intrigue, mutual respect, and cooperation, but had fallen prey to a pinch of old-timer's arrogance. He was still not above thumbing his nose at authority now and then, but in the past he'd usually been a little less obvious about it.