LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (19 page)

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thanks to whichever god rules cable channels, when I joined Annie on the couch, TCM started showing
The Lion in Winter,
with Katharine Hepburn and Peter O'Toole. Annie graciously shared the down comforter with me as we watched the film, and she said, “God, yes, the Dark Ages, when cutthroat politics really mean cutthroat politics.”

So I joyfully settled down with my woman, aching but feeling loose-limbed and refreshed, and looking at the nearby clock to see how much longer dinner was going to be. Another twenty minutes or so, if things went well. The rain was really coming down harder, and wind was splattering some of it on my rear deck windows, and Annie cuddled in closer to me and said, “My God, I'd forgotten places and times like this still exist.”

I said, “It's here for you, whenever you want it.”

She laughed. “My life the past few months has been living out of suitcases, finding a place that does dry cleaning in an hour, and trying not to eat pizza four days in a row. I haven't been home to Boston in weeks, my mail is probably two feet high, and after the election, I swear, I'm going to collapse.”

“Then collapse here,” I said.

“Mmm,” she said, “you know, I was thinking about after the election and—”

The ringing phone cut right into her, and I pulled myself free to answer it. “Lewis?”

It was Paula. “Hey,” I said. “How's it going?”

She laughed, but her voice sounded brittle. “Better … last night I managed to get a good two hours' sleep, and I didn't have a nightmare. So I've got that going for me.… and did you see today's
Chronicle
?”

Annie's face was impassive. I said, “No, I haven't.”

“Well, my story … hell, your story was in it. I just wanted to thank you again.”

“No problem, Paula,” I said, and with that, Annie's left eyebrow rose. “Glad I could help.”

“The big demo is set for tomorrow,” she said. “I'll see you at the usual place?”

“I'll try,” I said.

“Want me to pack a lunch for us?”

“If you'd like, that'd be fine,” I said.

She was quiet, and Paula said, “You're not alone, are you.”

I said, “That's absolutely right. And you?”

She sighed. “The honorable Mark Spencer has a meeting later on with some financial types looking to support him for his state senate run. He may or may not join me for dinner. In the meantime … thanks again. And you take care.”

“You, too,” I said, and hung up the phone. I went back deep into the couch and Annie reassembled herself against me. On the television screen, Peter O'Toole, playing Henry II, was chewing up the scenery as only he could. Annie asked, “Paula?”

“Yep.”

“What's up with her?”

“She wanted to thank me for helping her out with a story the other day. We'll probably see each other at tomorrow's demonstration.”

“She still has her boyfriend?”

“For the moment,” I said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Her boyfriend is the town counsel for Tyler. He's considering running for state senate. That seems to be taking up his attention more than Paula.”

Annie said, “Sounds like a dick.”

“No argument from me.”

“Still,” she said, squeezing me under the comforter, “if she dumps him and is back on the market, I have first and last dibs on you.”

I kissed the top of her head. “And all the dibs in between.”

On the screen, Katharine Hepburn, playing Queen Eleanor, was being as commanding and elegant as only she could be when the phone rang once more. I muttered something inconsiderate and answered, and it was another woman in my life, Denise Pichette-Volk.

“Lewis?”

I said, “The same.”

“The last piece you did caused quite the stir. Especially that ‘fucking Russians' quote. What do you have for me next?”

What I had next was my reporter's notebook, lost somewhere in the mud and grass of the Falconer salt marsh. Annie stirred, and I kept my arm firm around her. I said, “How does an exclusive interview with the head of the Nuclear Freedom Front sound?”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” I said. Okay, the notebook was gone, but I was certain I could re-create most of my conversation with Mr. Chesak with a fair degree of accuracy. If not, well, what was he going to do? Take off his cheesy disguise and show up at the
Shoreline
offices to complain?

“When can I have it?”

“Sometime tomorrow,” I said.

“Why can't I have it today?”

“Because I'm taking today as a sick day, that's why,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “How sick are you?”

“Sick enough,” I said, and hung up the phone. Annie giggled and said, “My God, the women just won't leave you alone, will they.”

“The burden of being popular,” I said.

“Your boss?”

“As much as I hate to admit it, yes, my editor at
Shoreline.
”

“She sounds like a real pistol,” Annie said.

“More like a howitzer,” I said.

That earned me another intimate snuggle, and I checked the time. Less than ten minutes to go, and Annie saw me look at the clock and said, “God, my stomach is about ready to declare war on the rest of me. This had better be good.”

“It will,” I said. “Promise.”

As if the ghost of Alexander Graham Bell were cursing me for some long-forgotten Scottish joke on my part, the phone chimed again, and as I reached for it, Annie pushed me aside and said, “Unh-unh, this time, it's my turn.” She grabbed the phone and smiled at me and said, “Mr. Cole's personal assistant speaking. How may I assist you?”

It was a funny bit, but then her face paled and she passed the receiver over to me without a word. I took the phone and heard a familiar muffled male voice on the other end.

“So you made it, asshole,” the voice said.

“Apparently so.”

“Guarantee, you won't be so lucky next time,” he went on. “I missed you, but pal, I rarely miss—and never on the second try. Got that?”

“Bold talk for a loser who likes to take shots at a guy who's got cuffed arms and is knee-deep in mud,” I said, and I hung up the phone.

Annie's eyes were very wide. “That him?”

“Yeah. What did he say to you?”

“He said, ‘If that fucker Lewis Cole is next to you, let me talk to him.'”

I said, “Sorry. I wish I had taken the call instead.”

“I don't care about the language,” she said. “I hear worse in the span of ten seconds in my job. Cops?”

“Not worth it,” I said.

“The call could be traced and—”

“He sounds sharp,” I said. “Which means a disposable cell phone. Which means no tracing. Beside, a call to the cops … in a matter of days, I'd be back in the news, and so would your candidate. Not going to happen.”

“So what's going to happen, then?”

I got up from the couch, rearranged the comforter around her, and then traced the phone line to the jack in the nearby wall. I pulled the phone line free, held it up so she could see it.

“No more phone calls. No more interruptions. Just you and me.”

Then there was a pounding on the door.

*   *   *

I dropped the phone line and looked at my heavy door with the dead bolt, and tried to keep my voice cheery. “Looks like our meal's here. Stay on the couch and I'll take care of it.”

I raced upstairs, the bottom of my robe fluttering, and went into the bedroom, which smelled of soap, exertion, and the pleasing scent that Annie wears. I got to my wallet on the nightstand, pulled out five twenties, paused, and then pulled something else out. From the nightstand drawer, I took out my loaded 9 mm Beretta. I didn't check to see if it was loaded. It was. I know I'm breaking a half dozen rules and commonsense approaches, but all of my weapons are loaded. When somebody is breaking in at 2:00
A.M.
is no time to fumble around looking for ammunition. There are no inquisitive children in the house, and none visiting anytime soon, so I was comfortable with my arrangement.

I switched off the safety, dropped the pistol in the large right pocket of my robe, and went back downstairs.

*   *   *

On the television screen, a sword fight was ensuing, and I went to the front door and hesitated for just a second before using the peephole. No, I didn't like being exposed like that, so I moved over and looked out the near window. I saw a young man dressed in jeans, windbreaker, and a Red Sox baseball cap worn backward, looking miserable in the rain, holding two large white plastic bags in his hands.

“You Mr. Cole?” he asked, his face splotchy with a red and white complexion.

“Yep,” I said, and he sighed and passed over the packages to me.

“Here ya go,” he said, and I passed over the five twenties, which brought a smile. “Christ,” he said, deftly pulling one twenty out and shoving it into his jeans. “I thought Ramon was dicking with me, that somebody would actually pay for a home delivery. Thanks, bud.”

“No problem,” I said, ducking back into the house, locking the door, and heading off to the kitchen. As I spread out our feast—and told Annie to stay still—I slipped the Beretta out of my robe and put it in the silverware drawer, next to the remote. It was getting crowded in there, but I would put up with it.

*   *   *

Some time later, after a dinner of grilled lobster tails over rice, with a side of salad and grilled veggies, and a bottle of a French Bordeaux that I had been saving for a special occasion, Annie put another chunk of firewood in the fireplace, retired back to the couch, and stretched out. I cleaned up and restored everything to the kitchen, and Annie called out, “Mr. Cole?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“You know what my mama said about rainy fall days like this?”

I folded up a dish towel. “Nope. What did your mama say?”

“She said, ‘Days like these, you'd want to spend in bed with a good book, or someone who's read one.'”

I went back out to the living room. “Feel like exploring my library?”

She said, “I feel like something. Let's go upstairs and find out.”

*   *   *

I awoke with a start, dreaming that I was mucking around in the salt marsh while bullets zipped over my head. I shifted in the warm bed and looked at the bright red numerals of the nearby clock radio. It was 2:10 in the morning. I moved a hand across to the other side of the bed.

It was empty.

I lay still for a few moments, then heard the furtive noise of someone working at a keyboard. I sat up and looked out the bedroom door. A small glow of light was coming from my office. I threw on my robe and went out to my office and saw Annie sitting at my desk, working on my Apple computer.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey yourself,” she said, still looking at the computer screen.

I leaned against the doorjamb. “Thought you were taking a day off.”

Her gaze didn't move away. “I did, sweetie. If you check the time, you'll see it's a new day—and in a few hours, I'm going to ask you to take me to the airport. I was having a bout of insomnia, and thought I'd get up and check my in-box. It's a creepy feeling to have been away for a day and to have one hundred and nine unread e-mail messages waiting for me. Ugh.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

Her hands hesitated for a moment, and then she turned to me, her face wan in the light from my computer. “Can you?”

“I think I can,” I said.

“Then you have a better grasp of things than I do, Lewis,” she said. “Because I can't imagine being in your shoes. I can't imagine being assaulted, getting a threatening phone call, and then going to answer the door with a loaded pistol in your robe pocket. All without contacting the police.”

“Like I said,” I pointed out. “Going to the cops means some publicity, and I don't think publicity is what you or your campaign needs right now.”

A brief nod. “Sounds good. Sometimes, though … I get the feeling you don't mind being on the outside, doing your own thing, maybe making your own rules.”

“True enough,” I said.

“Well, that's outside my world, my friend,” she said. “My world is of rules, broken and bent, but still, rules—and of the law. Being a member of the Massachusetts Bar, I have a respect for the law. Not a healthy respect, but still, respect. Your world … I'm afraid our worlds will collide in one hell of a bang one of these days.”

I made a point of looking at the digital clock in my office. “Not this day, I hope.”

She shook her head, smiled. “No, not today. Also not today is something else we're eventually going to discuss.”

“Which is what?”

“What I wanted to talk about yesterday, for a bit. About when the election is over. About when you and I recover here. Lewis…”

I said, “Things in politics aren't going to end because of the election, are they.”

“No.”

“Even if Senator Hale loses?”

“Even if he loses. Win or lose, I've been promised—in writing—either a position in the new administration, or in Senator Hale's office in Washington.”

“You've done a hell of a job for him.”

“You're damn right I have,” she said, “and I deserve it.”

“Going back to Boston and working on wills and probate … doesn't seem as attractive, does it.”

“God, no.”

“So what, then?”

She turned back to the keyboard. “This was something I wanted to think about on my day off. Buddy, I am no longer on my day off, and I've got scores of e-mails to get through.”

I went in, kissed the top of her head, and put my hands on her soft shoulders. “Then we'll talk about it later.”