Rachel Wallace smiled and put her face up and kissed me. She looked good. Her dark hair was nicely brushed back from her pleasant face. Her makeup was careful and quiet. She wore gray slacks and a white blouse open at the throat. She had on a black velvet blazer and black boots with considerable heels. She took my hand when she kissed me and held it a moment after the kiss, as she stepped back and looked at me. Her nails gleamed with clear polish. On a chain around her neck were black-rimmed half glasses.
“How are you,” she said.
“Functional,” I said. “Perhaps even efficient. Thank you for coming up.”
“Easy,” she said. “And since my publisher is in Boston I can deduct the costs as business travel. Before I go back I’ll have lunch with John Ticknor and make it all legitimate. Do you remember John?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m a licensed investigator and I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you in on the tax rap.”
“I understand,” she said. “But first can we make some martinis?”
I shook my head. “We’re subsisting on government issue,” I said. “There is a bottle of Scotch, blended, but after a couple you barely notice. And it gets the stains off your teeth.”
Hawk rolled out of his hundredth or so push-up and into some sit-ups. I poured Rachel Wallace some Scotch over ice. And one for me, straight up. “No beer?” she said.
“Scotch is quicker,” I said.
“Yes it is,” she said. “Are you drinking much?”
“Not as much as I want to,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Need to be sober,” I said. “I’m working.”
Rachel Wallace nodded, touched my glass with hers, and drank about an ounce of the Scotch. We were leaning our hips against the kitchen counter. “You want to talk about your feelings a little?” Rachel Wallace said.
I shook my head. “No, not now.”
She looked at Hawk. “Would you like to go somewhere else and talk?”
“No,” I said. “I have a lot of feelings. And I’m not embarrassed to talk in front of Hawk. It’s just that the feelings won’t help me now. Now I have other stuff I have to do. When it’s done, maybe.”
“I understand,” she said. She took another whack of her Scotch. “Well, let’s get to work. How are we going to do this?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I know how we’re not. We’re not going to ask the feds to help us. The people I’ve talked with would have trouble finding Rin Tin Tin at a cat show.”
Hawk came into the kitchen. He had his shirt off and a faint gloss of sweat covered his torso, head, and face. His breathing was easy and peaceful. He took a bottle of Moet and Chandon White Star champagne from the refrigerator and opened it. The bottle made a soft sigh as the cork came out. Hawk poured champagne into a large wineglass and shook his head.
“No wonder the country is going to hell,” he said. “Goddamned government don’t even know enough to stock champagne glasses.”
I nodded. “You’d figure a Republican administration would at least get that right.”
We went into the living room and Rachel Wallace sat on the couch and put her boots on the coffee table and took a small note pad out of her purse. I sat at the kitchen table and nursed my Scotch. Hawk leaned against the doorframe that led to the kitchen. He held his glass in his left hand and the bottle in his right. He was looking at Rachel Wallace. She looked up at him and smiled. Hawk smiled back. There was nothing in Hawk’s smile. Neither warmth nor insincerity. Hawk only communicated when he wished to.
“Why are you looking at me?” Rachel Wallace said. There was no hostility in her voice. Only curiosity.
“You a nice-looking woman,” Hawk said.
“Thank you,” she said. Hawk continued to look at her, and Rachel looked amused and turned to me.
“Hawk cannot believe,” I said, “that any woman who is not ugly can fail to feel lust for him.” Rachel Wallace’s smile widened and she nodded her head.
“Of course,” she said. She looked back at Hawk. “It is difficult even for me,” she said.
Hawk nodded and poured champagne. “That’s heartening,” he said in a North Shore twang. “I hate feeling insecure.”
“I imagine so,” Rachel Wallace said. “I’m sure you’re not used to it.”
“You want some more Scotch,” Hawk said.
“Yes,” Rachel Wallace said.
Hawk went and got the bottle and poured her another shot, over the ice that remained in her glass.
“You really a lesbian,” Hawk said.
“I really am,” Rachel Wallace said.
“Well,” Hawk said, “save money on diaphragms I guess.”
Rachel Wallace, halfway into a sip of Scotch, burst into laughter and nearly spilled all of her drink. Hawk grinned. This time there was warmth. I patted Rachel Wallace on the back until she stopped choking on the half- swallowed whiskey.
“Hawk has that special insight into minority situations,” I said. “You have anything new on Costigan?”
