She brightened. “Now, Siberia. That's somewhere I would like to see. A trip on the Trans-Siberian Railroad, the Sayany Mountains, Lake Baikal. You know, it wouldn't kill American children to take a vacation once in a while where they actually learned something about another culture.”
I rolled my eyes in Damon and Jannie's direction. 'Once a teacher . .
“Always a teacher,” Jannie said.
“Always a tee-cha,” repeated Little Alex. He was three years old, and our own little myna bird. We got to see him too infrequently, and I was partially amazed by everything he did. His mother had taken him back to Seattle more than a year ago. The painful custody struggles between Christine and me were still dragging on.
Nana's voice cut through my thoughts. “Where do we go fir -”
“Soarin' Over California!” Jannie had it out before Nana was even finished asking the question.
Damon chimed in. “Okay, but then we're hitting California Screamin'.”
Jannie stuck her tongue out convivially at her brother, and he gently hip-checked her in return. It was like Christmas morning for these two - even the disagreements were mostly in fun.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “And then we'll hit It's Tough to Be a Bug! for your little brother.”
I scooped up Alex Junior in my arms and held him close, kissed both of his cheeks. He looked back at me with his peaceable little smile.
Life was good again.
Mary, Mary
chapter 6
THAT WAS WHEN I SAW James Truscott approaching, all six foot five of him, with waves of red hair hanging down over the shoulders of a black leather jacket.
Somehow, some way, Truscott had gotten his editors in New York to agree to do a continuing series on me, based on my track record for getting involved with high-profile murder cases on a fairly regular basis. Maybe it was because the last one, involving th Russian Mafiya, had been the worst case of my career and also very high-profile. I had taken the liberty of doing some research on Truscott. He was only thirty, educated at Boston University His specialty was true crime, and he'd published two nonfiction books on the mafia. A phrase I'd heard about him stuck in my head: He plays dirty “Alex,” he said, smiling and extending his hand as if we were old friends meeting by chance. Reluctantly, I shook hands with Truscott. It wasn't that I disliked him, or objected to his right to write whatever stories he wanted to, but he had already intruded into my life in ways that I felt were inappropriate - like writing daily c-mails and arriving at crime scenes, and even at our house in D.C. Now, here he was, showing up on our family vacation.
“Mr. Truscott,” I said in a quiet voice, “you know I've declined to cooperate with these articles.”
“No problem.” He grinned. “I'm cool with that.”
“I'm not,” I said. “I'm officially off the clock. This is family time. Can you give us some space? We're at Disneyland.”
Truscott nodded as though he understood completely, but then he said, “Your vacation will be interesting to our readers. The calm-before-the-storm kind of thing. This is great! Disneyland is perfect. You have to understand that, right?”
“I don't!” Nana said, and stepped toward Truscott. “Your right to stick out your arm ends at the other person's nose. You ever hear that wise bit of advice, young man? Well, you should have. You know, you have some kind of nerve being here.”
Just then, though, I caught something even more disturbing out of the corner of my eye - a movement that didn't fit the circumstances: a woman in black, slowly circling to our left.
She had a digital camera and was already taking pictures of us - of my family Of Nana confronting Truscott.
I shielded the kids as best I could, and then I really lit into James Truscott. “Don'tyou dare photograph my kids!” I said.
“Now you an your girlfriend get out of here. Please, go.”
Truscott raised his hands over his head, smiled cockily, and then backed away 'I have rights, just like you, Dr. Cross. And she's not my fucking girlfriend. She's a colleague.
This is all business. It's a story.'
“Right,” I said. “Well, just get out of here. This little boy is three years old. I don't want my family's story in a magazine. Not now, not ever.”
C ha pte r 7 WE ALL TRIED TO FORGET about James Truscott and his photographer for a while after that. Did pretty good, too.
