Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“Clever.”

“Court duty?”

“Yup. Tannino found out I bet against Italy in the World Cup last year, so he stuck it to me. Two days before I can go out-of-pocket again.” Bear’s face seemed to move and settle into an expression of weariness. “There’s no way for me to say this, so I’m just gonna spit it out.” He paused. “If you don’t knock off the strong, silent routine, Dray’s gonna figure out she’s fine without you.”

“What does that mean?”

“While you’ve been MIA, Dray’s been going through Ginny’s stuff, getting out of the house, seeing friends. She doing this on her own. You sure you want her to?”

“Of course I don’t want her to. But we don’t know how to do it together.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re knocking yourself out trying.” Bear picked up the paper-hat-folded napkin, then set it back down. “Are you having an affair?”

Tim fought to find impassivity. “Bear, I understand you’re trying to help, but this isn’t really-”

“What? My business? Let me tell you what is my business. You may not embarrass your wife. It’s your right to embarrass yourself all you want, but Dray’s been through enough. You’re not gonna drag her through more.”

“Bear. I’m not having an affair.”

“I talk to Dray every day. And I’m getting a weird vibe from her when your name comes up, like she doesn’t trust what you’re up to. Plus, if you hadn’t Houdinied on her, I hardly think she’d need-” He stopped. Pulled the napkin from the table and smoothed it across his lap, eyes lowered and regretful.

“She’d need…?”

Bear’s hands paused. “Mac. She’s had some really bad nights. Mac slept over a few times-not like that, just on the couch-to see her through.”

“Mac?” Tim snapped his chopsticks apart and frictioned off the splinters. Hard. “Why didn’t she call you?”

“Because I’m still your partner first and foremost. Mac’s one of hers. And that’s the wrong damn question. The correct question is, why didn’t she call you?”

“What’d you tell her?”

“What do you think I told her? That she was being a fucking idiot, that she should have swallowed her pride and called you, like you should have swallowed your pride and called her.” Bear took no note of the glances from neighboring tables. He shook his head, disgusted. “You’re both stubborn, spiteful people who will die alone.”

Tim continued to work the chopsticks back and forth, harder. “We decided we needed to take a little time off. We were tangling up in each other.”

“Have you really not seen her in five days?”

Tim felt a sudden heat in his cheeks. He took a sip of water, got a mouthful of lemon. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”

The waiter came up, and Bear ordered quickly for both of them without looking at the menu, naming the spicy shrimp simmered in sake, crab cakes, and seven-spice mussels. He’d been coming here more than once every few months, that was clear. Probably taking the occasional date.

When the waiter left, Bear fixed Tim with an apologetic stare. “Look, I’m just saying you should call her. You need each other. And she needs you-that house went from full to empty in a hurry. Can’t really blame her for wanting someone around in the wake of all this, even if it is Mac sleeping on the couch. And while we’re at it, when are you coming back to work?”

Tim looked up, surprised. “I’m not coming back, Bear. You know that.”

“Tannino’s wondering why he’s having so much trouble reaching you. He’s pulled me into his office twice this week to make clear he hasn’t accepted your resignation.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

“What are you doing, Rack? What are you up to?”

“Nothing. I’m just dealing with things on my own for a while.”

For the first time Tim could remember, he didn’t recognize the look in Bear’s eyes. “Let me add to the list of things that I will make my business. You can’t embarrass me. Not as your partner. And you can’t embarrass the service.” Bear leaned back, crossed his arms. “I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure it out if I want to.”

“You’re overreacting. There’s nothing going on.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have a phone.” Bear’s voice was firm, driving. “So what was the bulge in your pocket when you hugged me? It hasn’t been that long.”

Tim had instinctively grabbed his cell phones so as not to leave them unattended in the car with the valets. An unforgivable oversight. “Picked it up this morning. 323-471-1213. Don’t give the number to anyone.”

“Why all the cloak-and-dagger?”

“There’s still a lot of fallout from the shooting, media hounding me, so I’d just as soon stay under for a while.”

“Really? I haven’t seen anything lately. Everyone’s whipped up about the Lane assassination now. You hear about the guy who pulled that off? They’re snake eyes on leads-guy must have been an ice-cold professional.” He shook his head. “Cranium ventilation. They always can find a new trick.”

Tim shrugged. “It’s not so bad. One less mutt on the street.”

Bear’s forehead furrowed into a wrinkled pane.

Tim looked down, played with his straw. An emotion rippled through him that took him a moment to identify. Shame. He realized he was giving off nervous energy, so he dropped the straw, placed his hands on his knees.

Bear pointed at him with a chopstick. “Don’t let Ginny’s death eat you away. Don’t let it corrupt you. There’s enough ignorance out there. The one person I don’t expect it from is you.”

The waiter arrived with their food, and they ate in silence.

•A funeral procession passed by while Tim idled at the stoplight at Franklin and Highland. The hearse led, somber and dignified, and a convoy of rain-polished cars followed-Toyotas, Hondas, and the obligatory drove of SUVs. Seized by an impulse, Tim pulled out behind the last car and followed the line of vehicles to the Hollywood Forever Memorial Park. He parked a block and a half away. By the time he’d made his way through the solemn front gate and over the first grassy hill, the ceremony was under way.

He watched from a distance, the mourners arrayed in black and gray, diminutive like figurines. When the sun managed to knife through the smog, Tim donned sunglasses to cut the glare. The presumed widower shovel-turned a scattering of rocks and dirt into the open grave, and, despite the distance, Tim could hear it patter on the unseen casket. The man collapsed to a knee, and two young men stepped forward quickly, chagrined, to help him up. He managed as best he could, a patch of mud weighing down his wind-flickering trouser leg, the sun glimmering off his cheeks.

A murder of crows swept in and blanketed an overlooking sycamore, where they looked on, sleek and inauspicious. Tim waited several minutes for the birds to depart, but they didn’t, so finally he turned his back and headed down the too-green slope toward his car.

“…KCOM’S HAVING A field day, with around-the-clock updates and polls. On Hardball, Chris Matthews hosted Dershowitz, two senators, and Mayor Hahn for a roundtable discussion, and a particularly vivid argument brewed on Donahue yesterday morning during a segment titled, ‘The Lane Slaying: Terrorism or Justice?’”

Rayner shuffled through his sheaf of notes while the others sat in varying degrees of attentiveness around the table, waiting for his media recap to conclude. Like mirrored objects, Robert and Mitchell sat on either side of the table, each shoved back in his chair, each with his legs loosely crossed, sneaker resting on opposite knee. Their languid postures suggested boredom; at last an attribute they shared with Ananberg. The Stork listened intently-Tim noted he had a tendency to blink frequently when concentrating-and Dumone, leaning back in his chair, statue-still, hands laced across his stomach, took it all in with a silent, almost magnanimous patience.