The Face of Death

I picture Ellen, sitting behind her cherrywood lawyer's desk. She's an angular woman, made of up lines that are not so much severe as they are businesslike. She's in her mid-fifties, with brown hair that she keeps cut short (and dyed, I suppose--I've never seen a gray), and a tall, thin, almost boyish frame. Ellen is crisp and precise and all business--

a lawyer, in other words. I heard her laugh, once. It was a merry, unfettered sound that reminded me not to hold to stereotypes.

'Go ahead,' she says.

I tell her everything, the big picture as well as the specifics of the Langstrom trust.

'So the lawyer says we need a subpoena to compel him,' I finish.

'He says he'll cooperate as long as it 'legally sets aside his obligations to comply with the rules of privilege.' '

'Right,' she replies. 'That's where you have a problem.'

'What?'

'There's no legal grounds for a subpoena to compel yet.'

'You're kidding, right?'

'No. At this moment, all you have is a closed case. A murder-suicide. Following that, you have an anonymous philanthropist who decides to set up a trust to care for the home and for Sarah. But there's no crime established yet, right?'

'Not officially,' I admit.

'Okay. Next question: Is there any way to establish that the trust itself is an ongoing criminal enterprise? Does its existence assist, or was it set up to assist, in the commission of a crime or fraud?'

'That might be more difficult.'

'Then you have a problem.'

I chew my lip, thinking. 'Ellen, the only information we really need is the name of the client. We need to know who he is. Does that help?'

'Gibbs is claiming privilege on that because the client requested confidentiality of identity?'

'That's right.'

'That won't hold up. If you can prove it's probable the client has in formation vital to an ongoing investigation, I can get you that name.'

'I gotcha.'

'It has to be real, though. Start by finding something that changes the Langstroms' murder-suicide to good old-fashioned double murder. Once you have that, the trust becomes a logical avenue of investigation, and we can compel Gibbs to reveal the identity of his client.'

The tone of her voice changes, friendlier, less crisp. 'I'm giving it to you straight, Smoky. Gibbs might have seemed helpful, but that little phrase he dropped on you about 'legally setting aside his rules to comply with privilege'? It's a bear.'

I want to argue, but I know it's a waste of time. Ellen is a solver. She thinks in the direction of how could we, not you can't because. If she's saying it, she's saying it because it's so. I sigh, resigned.

'Gotcha. I'll get back to you.'

I hang up and dial Callie.

'Overworked Incorporated,' she answers. 'How can I help you?'

I smile.

'How is it going there?'

'Nothing to brag about yet, but we're taking it slow. We're still processing the front of the house.'

I fill her in on the day from where our paths diverged. I begin with Gibbs, continue with Nicholson, and end with Ellen. She's quiet for a moment after I finish, digesting this.

'This has been quite the forty-eight hours, even for you.'

'You can say that again.'

'Well, call it quits then. Gene and I are here. James is off being dis agreeable somewhere. Bonnie is waiting at Alan and Elaina's. If you're not going to listen to me and get a dog, honey-love, then at least go home and see your daughter.'

I smile again. Callie is Callie--she can almost always make me smile.

'Fine,' I say. 'But call me if you find anything.'

'I kind of promise to maybe do that,' she quips. 'Now go away.'

I hang up and sit back, closing my eyes for a moment. Callie's right. It's been an insane few days. Singing, blood-covered sixteenyear-olds. The terrible diary.

And the one that hits home, suddenly. My hands tremble against each other. I bite my lower lip, using the pain to fight back tears. A man killed himself in front of me today, Matt. Looked at me, spoke to me, and then put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His blood was on my face.

I didn't know Dave Nicholson. It didn't matter. He wasn't in that category that Kirby had talked about. He wasn't 'other.' He was one of us, all human, and I can't help mourning him.

I hear footsteps on the carpet, and I swipe my hand across my eyes. A knock, and Alan pokes his head in.

'I got your friendly neighborhood killer off to her car.'

'How does home sound? At least for a little while?'

He thinks about it. Sighs.

'For a little while, yeah. That's a great idea.'

41

I TOLD ALAN I'D MEET HIM AT HIS HOUSE; I HAVE ONE OTHER stop to make.

I drive to the hospital through more rain, and that's fine, because I'm raining inside. It's nothing heavy, just a light but continuous drizzle. This is a part of the job, I reflect. The internal weather. Home and family is sunshine, most of the time. Work is almost always rain. Sometimes it's thunder and lightning, sometimes it's just a drizzle, but it's always rain.

I realized some time ago that I don't love my job. It's not that I dislike it--far from it. But it's not something to love. It's something to do because you have to. Because it's in your blood. Good, bad, or indifferent, you do it because you don't have a choice. Except now you do have a choice, don't you? Maybe there's more sunshine to be found at Quantico, yes?

Even so.

I reach the hospital parking lot and park and resolve, as I race through the rain to the front doors, to be quick. It's almost seven o'clock, and I feel the need for a heavy dose of Elaina and Bonnie. Some sunshine.

When I get to the room, Kirby is there, sitting in a chair outside the door, reading one of those trashy gossip tabloids. She looks up at the sound of my footsteps. Those leopard eyes flash for a moment before she hides them behind a twinkle and a smile.

'Hey, boss-woman,' she says.

'Hi, Kirby. How is she?'

'I introduced myself. I had to do some talking, let me tell you. She wanted to be sure I could kill things. I had to convince her, or she wanted me gone. I convinced her.'

'Okay.'

'Good' or 'Great' doesn't seem appropriate.

'That's a fucked-up child, Smoky Barrett,' Kirby says. Her voice is soft, cozened perhaps by a hint of regret. It's a new sound, and it makes me consider her in a new light.

Kirby seems to sense this. She smiles and shrugs. 'I like her.' She turns back to her paper. 'Go on in. I need to find out what's happening with Prince William. I'd jump his royal bones in a heartbeat.'

This yanks a grin from me. I open the door and enter the room. Sarah's lying in bed, looking through the window. I don't see evidence of any books, and the TV's off. I wonder if this is all she does all day, if she just lies here and stares out at the parking lot. She turns to see me as I come in.

'Hi,' she says, and smiles.