“Not that we did anything wrong,” Rae said.
“I thought we did well,” Bob said. “Lucas?”
“I’m not happy, but it is what it is,” Lucas said.
—
THEY HAD A LAST DINNERthat night. Bob and Rae planned to fly out early the next morning, before Lucas got up. Rae said, “We’re leaving for the airport at six. Don’t bother to come out and wave to us.”
“I promise I won’t,” Lucas said. His plane was at one o’clock. He added, “But you’re flying Business Class, right?”
“We are,” Bob said. He placed his hand on his chest. “Be still, my beating heart.”
—
SUZIE/CAROL/WENDYcalled at ten. “I heard all about it,” she said. “Tom was worried that you might be coming after me. I wasn’t there.”
“I know. I mostly wanted to make sure you were straight on the death of Jim Ritter. What caused it, who caused it, all that.”
“I think I got it. You believe it was Parrish. So do I.”
“Yes. Not long before we think he was killed, he was within a couple of hundred feet of Parrish’s house without any reason we’ve been able to find for being there,” Lucas said. “The phone track looks like he walked around the neighborhood, maybe to check for surveillance.”
“Why would he do that? Nothing wrong with talking to Parrish, not at that point.” Lucas didn’t reply, and she added, “Unless Parrish asked Jim to check because he was planning to kill him and didn’t want anyone to see Jim go into the house.”
“I think that might be it,” Lucas said. “A crime scene crew is going to take Parrish’s house apart, and they may find out what happened there. Look, you knew Jim, I didn’t, except through research and some observation. It seems to me, though, that if Parrish had given him even a hint of what was coming, Jim would have torn him to pieces.”
“Yes, he would have,” she said.
“So I think what happened was that Parrish completely surprised him, asked to see him for some innocuous reason, and Jimwas standing there, chatting, friendly, maybe drinking some milk, and Parrish pulls a gun and kills him. That’s the way I see it.”
After a moment, Wendy said, “Parrish wouldn’t have done it on his own. So there’s still one person out there, and you won’t get her.” Her voice had pitched higher, was almost squeaking. Lucas realized that she was crying but trying to talk through it.
“She’s nuts, she’s a killer, but nobody would ever say she’s stupid,” Lucas said. “She’s got some guts. She went to Douglas’s house and executed three people, her whole plan blew up, and then she murdered her way out of trouble, killed Old Lady Woods, got away with it, and used Senator Smalls as an alibi, which might have been the neatest touch of all. I doubt she even thinks about it anymore. In some ways, I’ve got to admire her.”
“A good op is a good op,” Wendy agreed, her voice almost back to normal. “And you don’t think the cops are coming after me?”
“Nah. I told them you were accounted for last night, that I got that from a source I trusted but won’t disclose. And I won’t. They might figure out who you are and want to chat, but there won’t be much urgency to it,” Lucas said.
“I’ll think about that,” Wendy said. “Have a nice life, marshal.”
“Wait, wait. Tell me the truth, goddamnit. That was you at the hotel, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and hung up.
31
The night was hazy with heat and humidity, creating fuzzy balls of light around all the streetlamps visible above the garden wall. Taryn Grant was alone in her house, moving around in a silky black camisole and thong. The air-conditioning was pounding away—the place would be intolerable without it—but she didn’t like the dry cold and had opened two small side windows to let in some of the night air. A Backstreet Boys album,Never Gone, played from hidden speakers; the Boys had been her favorites since high school, and still were.
The Senate.
The Senate was a political circus, but that had been true for quite a while. She didn’t care, as long as she could continue to push her profile higher.
She had a champagne flute in her hand, holding a drink favored by her mother. It looked like champagne but was actually an inch and a half of Bollinger champagne with a double shot of Stolichnaya vodka, traditionally called a Stoli-Bolli. A delicate, feminine-looking drink that could kick like a mule.
After she’d drunk about half of it, she thought about the senator from Colorado. He was talking about running for the presidency. And there were some good reasons to think he was viable. Grant didn’t want to murder him; she would like to keep himintact long enough to run on the ticket with her as her vice presidential candidate.
Put a cowboy hat on him, peel off some of the redneck votes that the Republicans had been counting on.
