here?”
Avery nodded.
“It’s funny. Your public persona is one of this carefree, light-hearted guy. But there’s a sadness in you—and I think it’s been with you a long time. These last few days have been like a crash course in getting to know you, Avery. I learned a lot tonight. I really like your friends.” She realized she was babbling, but couldn’t help herself. “They—they’ll make excellent character witnesses.”
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Finally, Avery turned away and glanced at the ocean. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything else you need to ask me about that night?” he said.
“No,” she replied. “Not right now. We can go if you’d like.”
They went back to the car, and he opened the door for her. Sean touched his arm. “Thanks, Avery,” she whispered. Then she climbed inside.
As he started up the car, the James Taylor song came on again. Avery backed out of the parking spot. Neither of them said a word. The seventies tape serenaded them, and Sean kept her head turned toward the window, so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
They didn’t notice any rental cars following them on their way back to her office. Avery had broken the awkward silence by talking about the case. He kept it all business. They parked behind the hair salon, and used the service entrance into the building. Avery carried Sean’s briefcase for her.
In the dimly lit upstairs corridor, Sean fished the keys from her purse, opened the office door, and switched on the light. She headed for the fax machine. “The photos your friend made for us are in my briefcase—in the blue folder on top.”
On the security video, they’d spotted three different cars parked at various times in front of Avery’s house; rental-company favorites: a Taurus and two Corsicas. They’d enlisted the help of a starstruck, young videophile from production named Jamie. He’d blown up and enhanced three video images, each showing the cars’ plate numbers.
Avery found Jamie’s photos in the blue folder, while Sean examined the latest incoming fax. Dayle had scribbled on the cover sheet:
Sean glanced at Nick Brock’s note to Dayle, scribbled below the list of license plate numbers. He’d traced credit card payments for the rental cars to a PO Box 73 in Opal, Idaho. He was on his way there to stake out the post office. If Dayle needed him, he was registered as Tony Manero at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn in Opal.
“Does the name
Avery shut her briefcase, and bought the photos over to her. “Wasn’t that John Travolta’s character in
She nodded. “Huh, figures.” Sean laid the photos down on her desk beside the listing. Two plate numbers matched: a Corsica, AOB-829, and a Taurus, EMK-903. Sean and Avery were both quiet for a moment, hunched over the desk together, shoulders touching. Finally, she patted his back. “At the very least, we’ve established some reasonable doubt, Avery.”
“Thank God,” he sighed, laughing. He slid his arm around Sean, and pulled her closer. “You’re beautiful. You really are….”
For a moment, Sean’s whole body stiffened, and she could tell he sensed it. Except for the occasional consolation hug from her brother-in-law, she hadn’t felt a man’s arms around her for more than a year. And now this sweet, attractive man was holding her. “Um, Avery, I—”
“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to get so—enthusiastic.”
“It’s okay,” she said awkwardly. “But I think we ought to call it a night. Maybe I can make it home in time to tuck my kids into bed.”
“Oh, yeah, good idea,” he said.
Sean took a deep breath, then started to put the papers in her briefcase. “Maybe you should spend the night at your friends’ house. You shouldn’t be alone. These same people tried to kill Dayle two nights ago. We have to be careful, Avery.”
“Yeah, I know. George and Sheila are expecting me back.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll walk you down to your car.”
Sean felt herself blushing. She wished she hadn’t pulled away earlier. She wanted so much for him to hold her again—just for a moment. But she could never tell him that.
She closed her briefcase. “Yes,” she said resolutely. “We both have to be very careful, Avery.”
Twenty
George and Sheila’s guest room was like his home away from home, and sleep should have come easily. But Avery had been tossing and turning for hours. He glanced at the nightstand clock for umpteenth time: 3:27 A.M. The house was quiet. He’d heard Sheila a while ago, padding to and from the bathroom. As she recently pointed out, she was peeing for two now.
It seemed so long ago that Joanne was healthy and they were trying to get pregnant. He remembered how she’d appeared to him on the balcony that morning he’d been swimming, how she’d dropped her robe and stood before him naked. It was hard to connect that sexy, fun woman with the catatonic he’d had committed to an institution three days ago.
His dad had asked if Joanne would be out by Thanksgiving—only a week away. Not very likely. He wasn’t even sure if she’d be home in time for Christmas. He couldn’t imagine the holidays without her. Even when they’d had conflicting schedules, Joanne and he had always managed to spend Christmas Eve together. It was quite possible that he’d be spending the Yuletide in a federal prison—and Joanne would still be in that place.
Avery sat up, switched on the light, and reached for the phone. Maybe all he needed was to hear another person’s voice, any familiar voice. He dialed home and listened to the messages he’d forgotten to retrieve last night. His agent and Steve Bensinger had left messages, and so had his parents.
He didn’t know what to make of the last call—at 9:52 P.M.: “Hello, Avery Cooper? This is Gene Clavey. I’m a technical analyst here at Kurtis Labs. I recently examined your sperm samples for Dr. Nathan. Your attorney was asking some questions around here yesterday. I’m curious about a few things. We might help each other out. Why don’t you give me a call?”
He tried Gene Clavey’s office number at 8:45. Hunched over the Webers’ breakfast table with his second cup of coffee, Avery anxiously counted four ring tones until a man answered: “Kurtis Labs, this is Gene.”
“Hello, Gene Clavey? This is Avery Cooper returning your call.”
“Oh, hello,” the man replied tentatively. There was an awkward pause.
“Can you talk right now?” Avery asked.
“No, not really.”
“Why? Is someone there?”
“Oh, yeah, you bet,” he replied cheerfully.
“You have information about the sperm samples?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me this much. Did all those sperm samples match?”
“Not right now. But lunch would be great—if you’re buying. How about meeting me at Pink’s Famous Chili
