“Probably not.” I surprised myself. Until that moment I’d been operating on the assumption that I’d go to the lab.
Ryan crossed to me, squatted, and placed a hand over mine. His face was so close I could feel his breath, smell the familiar Garnier shampoo.
“You deserve a couple of days off.” Gentle squeeze. “I’m going to build you a fire. Light it when you want.”
“Thanks.” Barely audible.
When Ryan left I gathered the breakfast debris, called the lab to tell them I wouldn’t be in until Monday, then took a long bubble bath. Lying in water as hot as I could bear, I pondered my decision to stay home. I never take an unscheduled break. Idleness makes me cranky.
Post-poisoning fatigue? Minus twenty-two temperature reading? Confidence that the Lac Saint-Jean vics would soon be IDed? Humiliation over Briel’s public disclosure of my screwup in the Villejoin case?
Whatever.
The hot water and full belly acted like an opiate, drugging me into a state of total lethargy.
Avoiding my sweat-stained bed, I got a quilt, lit Ryan’s fire, and stretched out on the couch. Birdie joined me.
I stroked his fur. He purred on my chest.
I closed my eyes, feeling drained of the ability to move. To read. To watch TV. To think.
I awoke to the sound of a ringing phone. Bird was gone. The windows were dark and the fire was nothing but embers.
Retrieving the handset, I clicked on.
“I didn’t see you today or yesterday.” Emily Santangelo.
“Food poisoning. I’ll spare you the details.”
“You OK now?”
“I’ll live.” My eyes drifted to the mantel clock. Four forty-five. “Beware vending machine sandwiches.”
“You actually ate one?”
“Not the crusts.”
Pause.
“Did you see Briel’s interview Wednesday night?”
“A thing of beauty.”
Longer pause.
“We need to talk.”
My instincts sat up. Emily Santangelo was a reserved, almost reclusive woman, not one for office gossip or girlie exchanges.
“Sure,” I said.
“You feel up to dinner, maybe something light? Chicken soup? I could bring it to you.”
“I’ll need to disinfect this place before anyone enters.” I was thinking flamethrower. “How about meeting at Pho Nguyen on Saint-Mathieu?”
“Vietnamese?”
“They make great soup.”
“That works. I can be there by six thirty.”
“I won’t look good.”
“I won’t call the press.”
There was a subtle muffling of ambient noise, as though Santangelo had cupped the mouthpiece.
“Something’s very wrong.” Almost a whisper.
“Wrong?” I asked.
“See you soon.”
The line went dead.
29
DECOR IS NOT A PRIORITY AT PHO NGUYEN. TWO STEPS DOWN from the sidewalk, the place has a white tile floor, white walls, and maybe a dozen Formica-topped tables. White.
But the soupe Tonkinoise kicks ass.
Santangelo was there when I arrived, seated in a back corner, perusing the menu. She smiled on seeing me. Waved.
“This cold will either cure or kill me.” I pulled off my muffler and gloves and unzipped my parka. “Glad you called. I needed some fresh air.”
“You walked?”
“It’s not far.” Pho Nguyen’s other attraction is that it’s only blocks from my condo.
Stuffing my accessories into a sleeve, I hung the jacket on the chair back. An Asian kid approached as soon as I sat. His cheekbones were high, his hair thick and black, with one platinum streak in front. A gold earring looped his right brow.
“I’ll have a number six, medium.”
“What’s that?” Santangelo asked.
“Pho bo. Beef noodle soup.”
“The same for me.” Santangelo tucked the menu back into its holder.
The kid crossed to the front counter and bellowed our order into the kitchen.
“I’m not what you’d call an adventurous eater,” Santangelo said.
“You’ll like this.”
The kid returned with small plates piled with basil, lime, and sprouts.
Santangelo shot me a quizzical look.
“I’ll talk you through it,” I said.
I brought Santangelo up to date on the Keiser and Villejoin investigations. On Ayers’s distress over missing a bullet track. Fully engaged in transitioning to the coroner’s office, she’d not kept current. When the soup arrived, we focused on adding hot sauce, soy sauce, and the fresh embellishments.
We’d been slurping and twirling for a while when Santangelo finally got to the subject on her mind.
“Do you know the real reason I’m leaving the lab?”
“No.”
