Линда Ла Плант - Framed

He had to bend his head slightly to enter the cabin. The throb of the engines had started. The boat swayed as the water churned and frothed like the champagne Lola already had open. She was filling four glasses to the brim. She passed one to Charlotte, another to Larry, and lifted her own at the same time Von Joel reached for his. Larry was about to say something, a toast perhaps, but Lola tapped his arm. It was a tiny gesture, but an indication that they were not equals, and Larry was onto it fast. He kept his glass lifted, his eyes met and held Von Joel’s.

“To us, to the future, no regrets, no betrayals...” It was not done with a flourish, a relish even. Von Joel’s voice was husky, and solemn. He looked first at Charlotte, then to Lola, and lastly to Larry. Only then did he raise the champagne glass to his lips, only then did he laugh that infectious, wonderful gut laugh that had stayed in the mind of a young, eager police officer, a laugh that the same police officer, now a sergeant, had recognized all those years later. Larry had known instantly that he was right. The man calling himself Philip Von Joel was in actual fact the supposedly dead Edward “Eddie” Myers.

“You’ll have to do somethin’ about that laugh, Eddie... It’s very distinctive...”