“Trust me,” Peter said. “We’ll call. When we need to. If we need to. Mr. Thorley?”
Jane edged farther away. She didn’t care what Peter said-there was a guy with a knife. Well, he didn’t have the knife anymore, actually, she did. She held it at her side, the handle still warm, the curve of the plastic fitting her fingers. She put her other hand on her chest, feeling it rise and fall, trying to be as calm as Peter seemed to be. How could he be this cool? She was on the verge of losing it.
Peter still pointed the gun at the man-Thorley? Something like that? They knew each other, for some reason. Obviously they weren’t pals.
“Peter, what the hell-” She didn’t want to hold the disgusting knife anymore, but she was afraid what might happen if she put it down. Peter and the guy couldn’t be in this together, could they? Whatever this was. Peter hadn’t been planning to come home, they were only in Milton because of the crash. This Thorley could not have known Peter’d be here.
“Thorley?” Peter said again.
“What?” the man said. “I’m done, you win, whatever.”
Jane took another step closer to the kitchen. If Peter wasn’t on Thorley’s side, then the tide seemed to have turned, and whatever danger she’d been in was somehow over. Still, she’d be much happier if the police arrived to make the odds even better.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Peter was saying. “I’m on your side, you know that.”
Jane’s brain was going to explode. They were on the same side?
31
“Well, fancy meeting you here.”
Lizzie turned at Aaron’s voice. He stood under the spotlight glow of the halogens illuminating her space in the bank’s parking lot. Pale blue shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Loafers, with no socks. Khaki pants. Out of his banker’s clothes.
“Hi, Aaron,” she said. “I guess we’re both running late.”
“Indeed.” He smiled slowly, raked a hand through his hair. Kept staring at her.
It was just the two of them. She heard the thundery rumble of the elevator going back up, the static buzz of the lights. A multicolored maze of interlinked pipes twisted across the ceiling. The parking lot, a grid of mostly empty lined spaces, hosted only the familiar dark Lexus in the president’s spot, and cars from a few other Tuesday night stragglers. And the two of them.
Her car key clicker was in her hand. Aaron’s keys were in her briefcase.
Lizzie set the briefcase on the pavement, not quite sure what to do. She planned to get those appetizers and meet Aaron at her apartment, maybe even have a second to change into something more-casual. He’d never seen her in anything but banker’s clothes, and she had a silk camisole that-
“Maybe we should change our plans,” Aaron interrupted her thoughts.
A pang of disappointment. Was he canceling? She wasn’t that late.
“I picked up your keys,” she said.
“Did you get my keys?” he said at exactly the same time.
Aaron laughed, the sound echoing from the parking lot’s dingy concrete walls. A reassuring, happy, relieved-sounding laugh.
“Jinx,” Aaron said.
Good.
“Jinx,” Lizzie said back. She and her father used to say jinx, back when she was little.
“You have them? Here?” He watched her nod. “Terrific.”
She felt his arm go across her shoulders, felt him take her hand, point her clicker at her car door, locking it.
“Ka-ching,” he said. “Leave your car here. I’ll drive. Let’s go celebrate.”
The beep of the lock ricocheted through the empty lot. Her car was locked. With her on the outside.
“Celebrate?” She bent down, picked up her briefcase. Nothing was how she’d planned it anymore.
“Big time,” Aaron said. “Your chariot awaits, milady.”
Lizzie felt her cheeks flush as she slid into the front seat of his sleek white car. He was driving, she was the “date.” It was silly, and maybe she should be skeptical, but… it had been such a long time.
“All set?” He adjusted the rearview mirror, then reached over and placed one hand, briefly, on her shoulder. “Look in the backseat. I brought champagne. And some apps.”
“You-?” She wasn’t being very articulate, which was annoying, but she almost couldn’t keep up with this. He could be so charming. She twisted around to look in the backseat, saw a bottle of Moët in clear cellophane, and a glossy white box from Cinzano’s Trattoria.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” he said. “Let’s pretend last night never happened. Okay? I’ll stay away from beer this time. And you’re going to love tonight.”
Jake’s eyes opened as the wheels rumbled across the tarmac, the reverse thrust of the jet engines pushing him forward against this seat belt. He blinked, assessing, remembering. He’d fallen asleep, his feet holding the briefcase under the seat in front of him.
“Welcome to Boston, ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated until…”
Jake yawned, shook his head to clear it, then found his cell, checked for messages. Nothing. Little did Elliot Sandoval know how events had lined up to give him one more night off the hook. Tomorrow, Jake would get that show on the road. Get the results of those lab tests, and assess what D had meant about the steroids. But all in all, soon he’d have some progress to report to Shandra Newbury’s family. And to her colleague at the real estate office, that Brian Turiello. Telling the people who cared that you’d nabbed the bad guy, that was what made it all worth it. Like his grandfather always told him.
Jane’s silence-not necessarily good. He wondered if she was more upset about canceling the vacation then she had let on.
Six-B finally got organized, let him into the aisle. By the time he reached his car, carrying cellophane-wrapped purple and white lilacs from the airport’s “Bring Me Something” stand-he’d realized the irony of lilacs, but Jane would never know-he’d gotten Jane’s voice mail again. Ten at night. No answer from Jane. Strange.
Or maybe not. If she was unhappy with him.
So now what? He threw his overnight bag in the backseat, placed the lilacs on the seat beside him, and headed for the exit, trying to decide. Home? And call Jane in the morning?
Or to Jane’s now? And surprise her? This time of night, he could hop on Storrow Drive, get off at Kenmore, and be at her condo in fifteen.
She’d love the fragrant lilacs. Maybe he wouldn’t go home at all.
Yes. To Jane’s. And the trip to D.C. hadn’t been a total bust. Frasca had said the name “rang a bell.” What bell?
“You have thirty seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing,” Peter said. “I’m going to put this gun down, okay?”
Peter slowly lowered the.38, setting it on the breakfront beside him. Still in that damn towel, there was nowhere to stick it and keep the thing around him. Someday this would be funny. He hoped. At least-because of lawyer-client privilege-no law enforcement types would have to hear about this, and he could keep it away from a potential jury. He hoped.
There was still poor Jane to deal with. He watched her, with that bizarre knife in her hand, clearly baffled by his not wanting to call the cops. At least she wasn’t yelling. Or flipping out. Had to give her credit.
He kept the weapon within reach. Kept his eyes on Thorley, still slumped on the couch. Shoulders sagging, chest sagging, eyes downcast. All the fight gone out of him. What the hell was he doing here in the first place?
“And listen,” he went on. “Because you pulled a knife on Jane here, you’ve waived attorney-client privilege.” Total mumbo jumbo, but Thorley’d never understand that. “Whatever we say, Jane’s going to hear it. But one false move, Thorley, and it’s the gun and nine-one-one. We clear?”