“And you agreed?”
“I appreciated his confidence in me.”
Pete licked salt from a pretzel, bit off the large loop, and washed it down with beer.
“And?”
“Boyd's on his own for a minimum of ten and a maximum of twenty. I figured he'd get hungry.”
“What is he?”
“He thinks of himself as an entrepreneur. The judge called him a con man and career criminal.”
“I meant the dog.”
“Boyd's a chow. Or at least most of him is. We'd need DNA testing to clarify the rest.”
He ate the other half of the pretzel.
“Been out with any good corpses lately?”
“Very funny.” My face must have suggested that it was not.
“Sorry. Must be grim up there.”
“We're getting through it.”
We made small talk for a while, then Pete invited me for dinner. Our usual routine. He asked, I refused. Today I thought of Larke's allegations, Anne and Ted's London adventure, and my empty condo.
“What are you serving?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Linguini con sauce vongole.”
A Pete specialty. Canned clams on overcooked pasta.
“Why don't I pick up steaks while you deal with the plumber. When the pipes are flowing, we can grill the meat.”
“It's an upstairs toilet.”
“Whatever.”
“It will be good for Bird to see that we're friends. I think he still blames himself.”
Pure Pete.
Boyd joined us at dinner, sitting beside the table, eyes glued to the New York strips, now and then pawing a knee to remind us of his presence.
Pete and I talked about Katy, about old friends, and about old times. He discussed some current litigation, and I described one of my recent cases, a student found hanging in his grandmother's barn nine months after his disappearance. I was pleased that we'd reached a comfort level at which normal conversation was possible. Time flew, and Larke and his complaint receded from my thoughts.
After a dessert of strawberries on vanilla ice cream, we took coffee to the den and switched on the news. The Air TransSouth crash was the lead story.
A grim-faced woman stood at the overlook, the Great Smoky Mountains rolling behind her, and talked of a meet in which thirty-four athletes would never compete. She reported that the cause of the crash was still unclear, although a midair explosion was now almost certain. To date forty-seven victims had been identified, and the investigation was continuing around the clock.
“It's smart they're giving you time off,” Pete said.
I didn't answer.
“Or did they send you down here on a secret mission?”
I felt a tremor in my chest and kept my eyes on my Doc Martens.
Pete slid close and raised my chin with an index finger.
“Hey, babe, I'm only kidding. Are you O.K.?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“You don't look too O.K.”
“I'm fine.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I must have, for the words poured out. I told him about the days of gore, about the coyotes and my attempts to pinpoint the foot's origin, about the anonymous complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me intently.
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The schoolhouse clock ticked loudly from the den wall, and I wondered idly who kept it wound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Well, this has been fun,” I said, unwinding my legs.
Pete took my hand, his eyes still steady on my face.
