'I’m busy .'
There was a shocked silence. And then Ritts was off his perch. 'You’re busy ? Aren't you listening? I'm talking about dinner with the man himself ! I'm talking about the News Corp. annual fucking dinner !'
Harriman rose and dusted his sleeve, on which Ritts's ashes had fallen as he'd waved his cigarette around in excitement.
'I've accepted an appointment as a reporter at a newspaper called the New York Times. Perhaps you know of it.' Harriman slipped an envelope out of his pocket. 'My letter of resignation.' He laid it on the desk, right on the shiny place where Ritts usually perched his ass.
There it was. Said and done. He'd drawn it out about as long as he could. There was no point in wasting any more time: he had a new office to fix up, a lot to do. After all, Bill Smithback would be returning from his extended honeymoon on Monday to find the surprise of his life: Bryce Harriman, associate reporter, fellow colleague, occupying the office next door.
Now, that would be something.
God, life was good.
He turned and walked to the door, turning just once to get a final look at Ritts, standing there, mouth open, for once with nothing to say.
'See you around, old chap,' Harriman said.
{ 88 }
The big jet hit the tarmac with a jolt; tipped back into the air at an angle; then settled once more onto the ground, thrust reversers screaming.
As the plane decelerated, a lazy voice came over the P.A. system. 'This is your captain speaking. We've landed at Kennedy Airport, and as soon as we get clearance, we'll taxi to the gate. Meanwhile, y'all please keep your seats. Sorry about that bit of turbulence back there. Welcome to New York City.'
Faint applause arose here and there from a sea of ashen faces, then died quickly away.
'Bit of turbulence,' muttered the man in the aisle seat. 'Is that what he calls it? Shit on a stick . You couldn't pay me enough to get back in a plane after this.'
He turned to his seatmate, nudged him with his elbow. 'Glad to be back on the ground, pal?'
The nudge brought D'Agosta back to the present. He turned slowly away from the window, through which he'd been staring without really seeing, and glanced at the man. 'What's that?'
The man snorted in disbelief. 'Come on, stop playing it cool. Me, my own life passed before my eyes at least twice the last half hour.'
'Sorry.' And D'Agosta turned back to the window. 'Wasn't really paying attention.'
D'Agosta walked woodenly through Terminal 8 on his way out of customs, suitcase in one hand. All around him, people were talking excitedly, hugging, laughing. He passed by them all, barely noticing, eyes straight ahead.
'Vinnie!' came a voice. 'Hey, Vinnie. Over here!'
D'Agosta turned to see Hayward, waving, walking toward him through the crowds. Laura Hayward, beautiful in a dark suit, her black hair shining, her eyes as deep and blue as the water off Capraia. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach quite as far as those perfect eyes.
'Vinnie,' she said, embracing him. 'Oh, Vinnie.'
Automatically, his arms went around her. He could feel the welcoming tightness of her clasp; the warmth of her breath on his neck; the crush of her breasts against him. It was like a galvanic shock. Had it really been only ten days since they last embraced? A shudder passed through him: he felt strange, like a swimmer struggling upward from a very great depth.
'Vinnie,' she murmured. 'What can I say?'
'Don't say anything. Not now. Later, maybe.'
Slowly, she released him.
'My God. What happened to your finger?'
'Locke Bullard happened.'
They began to move through the baggage area. A silence grew between them, just long enough to become awkward.
'How's it been here?' he asked at last, lamely.
'Not much has happened since you called last night. We've still got ten detectives working the Cutforth murder. Technically. And from what I hear, that Southampton chief of police is catching holy hell for lack of progress on Grove.'
D'Agosta gritted his teeth, started to speak, but Hayward put a finger to his lips.
'I know. I know. But that's the nature of the job sometimes. Now that Buck's out of the picture and the Post has moved on to other things, Cutforth's finally off the front page. Eventually it'll become just another unsolved murder. Along with Grove's, of course.'
D'Agosta nodded.
