“Winter's wife was a pilot,” Martinez interceded. “An instructor.”
“What does she do now?” Sean asked.
Martinez said nothing.
“She was killed three years ago in a midair collision,” Winter told her.
Sean looked genuinely upset. “But when I asked the other night if your wife minded you being away you said something like, ‘We all hate being away from people we love.'”
“Sorry, it was purposefully misleading. It's not something I like to talk about.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I was prying. I assumed since you wear a wedding ring…”
“Just never got around to taking it off.”
Sean blushed and stepped out on the porch, letting the screen door bang behind her.
“I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn,” Martinez said.
“Three years is a long time to still wear the ring,” Winter admitted.
“So, what do you think of Beck?” Martinez asked, keen to change the subject. “Besides the fact that he needs a haircut.”
“That comes from being a bachelor with nobody to make sure you get it clipped regularly.”
Sean came back inside more composed. “The rain smells so wonderful mixed with the salt air.”
“I like the quiet,” Martinez told her. “You grow up in a three-bedroom apartment with six brothers, one grandmother, and two parents, and see if you mind the quiet. Me, I can't ever get enough of it. You think we should hold to keeping watch like before?”
“Fine with me,” Winter replied.
“We do two hours on and two off while Sean is sleeping.”
“Why?” Sean wondered.
“It's what we have to do until someone in authority says, ‘Angela and Winter, don't do it anymore,'” Martinez replied, laughing.
Sean laughed, too.
“You have any brothers or sisters, Sean?” Martinez asked.
“Only child. My mother passed away almost two years ago.”
“Father?”
“My parents were separated before I was born.”
“You didn't know him?”
“I spent Christmas and summers with him growing up, but I can't say I really know him.” She seemed to close up again at this line of questioning, her surface calm interrupted.
“What's he like?” Martinez continued, oblivious to the effect her questions were having.
“He's hard to describe. He's a workaholic, not in the least artistic. My mother was a painter and not in the least ambitious. He and my mother were such total opposites, I don't know how they ever got together long enough to make a baby. He was like an uncle who didn't know how to relate to a young girl. He was always caring but never flexible. He's judgmental as hell and has no sense of humor to speak of. I suspect he'd rather have had a son, but he never said so. For instance, he taught me to shoot because he liked to hunt, not because I wanted to do it. He wanted me to be tough, but I always got the feeling that he thought women were lesser beings, somehow.” Sean stopped suddenly, surprised at how she had opened up so quickly.
“He remarried?”
“He's had girlfriends, but no, he never remarried.”
“Do you still see him?”
“I haven't spent any time with him since college,” Sean said matter-of-factly. “I called him when my mother died and he sent flowers. I know he loved her, but I had this feeling that if I had called a wrong number, anyone who answered could have offered me the same amount of comfort as he did. And we last spoke just before I got married. He sent me a big set of sterling silver cutlery without a note. He sends the same Christmas card every year. I'm waiting to see if after twelve years he will buy another box, or just stop doing it altogether.”
“Your parents still alive?” Martinez asked, turning to Winter.
“My mother is still alive. She moved in with us after Eleanor died. My father died when I was seventeen.”
“Lydia,” Sean said. “Greg mentioned her the day we arrived.”
Winter nodded.
“My parents are still around. My father has a temper you wouldn't believe,” Martinez said. “But we're close. He treated me exactly like he treated my brothers, until boys came to pick me up. He was like an inquisitor then, and few ever showed for a follow-up. My father was a detective, and he thought every kid who was interested in me was a delinquent. Maybe they were.”
“Where'd you go to college?” Winter asked Sean, hoping to change the subject. Not only did this conversation seem to make her melancholy, he himself didn't want to discuss fathers.
“Loyola, in Chicago. Took drama, some art courses.” She smiled at him. “Even took some literature courses. Ended up getting a master's in business because I wasn't the artist my mother was. I've been thinking I might open an art gallery because I love being around paintings.” Winter had never seen her so talkative.
“What do you think of Beck?” Martinez asked her. “Besides the hair.”
“Same thing I told you the last seven times you asked me.” She and Martinez both laughed. “I like him. Except for the hair.”
Martinez laughed. “Before there's even a dinner date, the boy's hair definitely gets a professional shaping,” she said.
“Seriously, Angela, he's a nice guy and nice guys are hard to come by. Take my word for it,” Sean said.
“It's winding down toward dinnertime,” Winter said.
“I can whip up something,” Martinez said. “Something with peppers, pasta, and ground beef.”
“Tell you guys what,” Winter said, recalling Greg's warning. “Why don't you both go sit on the porch and I'll make us some dinner? Roast beef sandwiches sound good?”
“But I love to cook!” Martinez protested.
“Let's all make the food and then sit out there together,” Sean suggested.
Winter collected the sliced roast, mayonnaise, pickles, and mustard from the refrigerator for the sandwiches. Martinez poured iced tea into three glasses and got out the plates. Sean sliced the bread from one of the loaves Jet had baked and left in the warmer. Once the sandwiches were ready, they walked to the round section of the porch at the north corner, which had a peaked roof over it. For lack of a better term, they referred to it as the gazebo. As they were starting to sit down, the lights went out; only the house windows were illuminated, from the battery- powered emergency lights inside the hallways.
“Great,” Martinez said.
“The sailors will get the power back on,” Winter said. “I expect there's a backup system.”
“I could go get a lantern,” Martinez volunteered.
They ate in the dark, their conversation accompanied by the sound of rain and the surf.
“I'm going to get a jacket. It's cool out here,” Sean said, when they'd finished.
“We can go inside,” Winter offered.
“No, I like it out here.”
Martinez stood. “I need to powder my nose anyway. I'll take the plates back inside and get you a jacket.”
Martinez went back through the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Winter and Sean sat in silence listening to the rain.
Winter looked up when he heard the front door open. Over Sean's shoulder he saw Martinez step out onto the porch holding a windbreaker. She took a step in their direction, stumbled like she'd broken a heel, then fell against the wall, dropping the coat. Winter was wondering what she'd stepped on, when she straightened and the wall where she had leaned was stained dark-blood.
“Shhhhhhh,” he hissed. He drew his SIG, squatted beside the table, and tugged Sean from her chair to the floor. This time she didn't resist.
Sean's back was to the front door so she hadn't seen Martinez stumble, or the blood. Only when she knelt beside Winter did she see that Martinez was leaning against the wall, her right hand gripping her gun, unable to get
