print white silk pajamas. Barely buttoned on top, they gapped open as she leaned over to read.
He reached over and cupped her breast and she moved her hand over his, holding him there, never stopping her reading. He went back to the paper and turned the page. Some tension must have translated over to her.
'What is it, John? Are you all right?'
His hand had left her breast. He read on for another few seconds, making sure it confirmed what the headline seemed to promise. It did. He looked up at her, concern etching his features into something very much older. He hesitated, knowing that his ownership and management of the Ark was not her favorite thing about him. When he'd gotten home from work last night, he had started to tell her about Clint and Panos's people, to say nothing of the actual police. As usual, it hadn't sparked her interest, and he'd let it drop in favor of her query letters to Gourmet, Sunset and Bon Appetit to see if any of them would be interested in a story on the glories of grilled fruit.
He'd already told her the story about how he'd come to own the Ark. He'd known the owner, Joey Lament, pretty well. Joey was pushing seventy and Holiday had had a pocketful of cash from the sale of the pharmacy, so they made a deal and the thing never even went on the open market. But now, like it or not, his bar was about to become the topic again.
'Somebody killed Matt Creed,' he said.
'Do you know him?'
'Yeah, I did. He's the patrol guy. Kind of a cop. Private security.'
'And somebody killed him?'
'Shot him.' He was picking up details, scanning the small article. 'Point blank, or close enough.'
She pulled some covers up around her shoulders. 'Tell me this has nothing to do with you or your bar.'
He said nothing, eyes down on the printed page.
'John?'
Finally, a sigh. 'He's the kid who found Silverman. It was in the paper Saturday. The thing they came and talked to Clint about.'
'What do you mean, kid?'
'It says here he was twenty-two.'
Michelle pulled her blanket more closely around her and got out of the bed. She walked over to the picture window and stood before it, looking out. 'I don't want to have this in our life, if we're going to have a life,' she said. 'People you know getting killed. They're related aren't they?'
He sat up, his voice defensive. 'It doesn't say that here. There's no sign of it.'
But he might as well not have spoken. 'I guess I don't understand why you don't just sell the damn bar. Or if it's really important to you, at least fix it up?'
'It's not that important, really. It keeps my money working so I don't have to, that's all. I could sell it today for twice what I paid for it and then retire.' Trying to inject some lightness, he added, 'But then what would I do?'
'I've got a wild idea.'
'What?'
'How about something worthwhile?'
A jolt of anger shot through him and he fought to control it. 'I guess I don't remember,' he said. 'Were we having a fight?'
She lowered herself onto the ottoman by her reading chair. Her head went down so that he couldn't see her face.
'Would you be happier if we broke up?' he asked. 'The last thing I want to do is cause you pain.'
When she looked up, she was close to tears. 'You know two people who have been shot to death in the last week. Do you know how scary that is to someone who loves you? And then you say-you apparently believe-that they're not related, to you or each other.' She shook her head back and forth with great sadness. 'Of course they are, John. Of course they are.'
Roy Panos was buying. He insisted.
He cut into his steak and met the eyes of both inspectors across the table. He put a bite of meat into his face, then put his utensils down and held up his right hand. 'I swear to God. Terry was off. I stopped in around eight…'
'I thought they'd quit paying you guys,' Russell said.
Roy nodded. 'Yeah, but since Silverman, I figured it can't hurt to keep up on 'em, am I right?'
'You're right.' Cuneo was having petrale with capers and lemon sauce, humming as he chewed. 'So Holiday worked the night shift last night?'
'Yep.'
'You talk to him?' Russell asked. He was having the special-lamb chops with asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.
'Said hi when I looked in. I bought a coffee. He asked me where Mattie was.'
'Creed?' Cuneo put down his fork. 'Why'd he ask that?'
Roy shrugged. ' 'Cause normally Mattie walked the north beat first. But last night I took it.'
'Why? 'Russell asked.
'No reason, really. Change of pace.'
'He say anything else? Holiday?'
Panos had had a rye on the rocks before lunch. Now he finished his second glass of wine and started pouring the next. He drank some more, put the wineglass down, twisted the stem of it pensively. When he spoke, it was almost apologetically. 'I didn't want to spook him. I wanted to let you guys get him fresh.'
'So you didn't mention anything about Creed?' Cuneo asked.
'Anything like what?'
'Like he pointed the finger in their direction.'
Roy gave this some more thought. 'I didn't go anywhere near there, but now you mention it, Holiday did say if I talked to Mattie, would I ask him to stop in? He wanted to ask him something.'
The two inspectors exchanged a look.
Suddenly, Roy's heavy eyes lit up with the significance of what he'd revealed. 'He wanted to make sure Mattie was on, didn't he? Son of a bitch. And I told him. Shit.' For a moment, it looked as though Roy would cry.
Russell reached out and patted the table between them. 'It would have been another night, that's all. It's nothing you did.'
'The sons of bitches,' Panos repeated. 'And now, without Mattie's ID…'
'Don't worry about that,' Cuneo said. 'They made some mistakes last night. We're close.'
'How close?'
He was one of them, another cop, so the inspectors told him.
11
The night before, Hardy drove twice around the downtown neighborhood and could not find a place to park even quasilegally. Nearly out of his mind with frustration and worry, he had finally given up and driven the extra few blocks to his own office, where he had his own spot under the building. Back up on the street, he'd run back to the emergency room entrance of St. Francis Memorial Hospital, where Gina Roake had stood waiting by the admitting station.
'How is he?'
Her face was blotched, but she held it now under tight control. 'Not good. He's been in there for two hours. He's still unconscious. They won't let me in.'
'What happened?'
'Somebody beat him up, Dismas. I'd been home an hour and some policemen knocked at the door. He had his wallet on him, which had his driver's license with the address, and…'
