Jeffery Deaver - Edge

Of course, Ellis’s skills were as mysterious to me as mine were to him and I never quite figured out his magic. I supposed part of his talent was rooted in finding an edge too, the same sword that Henry Loving used. And I did that too, on occasion.

As does nearly everyone, of course, from time to time.

Joanne stared unseeing at the screen, her shoulders slumped. Her face was free of makeup. She wore only a watch and her wedding and engagement ring, while Maree, I recalled, was decked out in a flare of funky jewelry. Joanne examined one of her broken nails.

I stepped to a window, gazed out through the curtain at the cinder blocks and placed a call to Aaron Ellis. I gave him an update on our progress, though I didn’t share with him where we were and which of the three or four dozen government safe houses in the area we were going to. That was need-to-know only. If a fellow shepherd or an agent from Freddy’s office was providing backup or-as was about to happen-our transport man was bringing a new vehicle, I’d part with the information. But I always tried to minimize the number of people who knew where the principals were.

It’s not that I didn’t trust colleagues but there was no doubt in my mind that if Henry Loving got to my boss, he’d do anything he could to find the location of my principals. Ellis had a charming wife, Julia, and three children, exactly fourteen months apart, the oldest being eight. Loving would get Ellis to give up my principals’ location in about ten minutes.

I didn’t blame him one bit. I’d give them up too, in circumstances like that. Abe Fallow himself said to me when I joined our organization, “Corte, listen. Rule number one, and it’s a rule we don’t mention to anybody but ourselves, is at the end of the day your principals are packages. They’re a dozen eggs, they’re crystal vases, lightbulbs. Consumer goods. You risk your life to keep them safe. You don’t sacrifice your life for them. Remember that.”

Ellis asked a few questions but I sensed he had something else on the agenda, so I preempted, saying, “Westerfield called.”

“I know. He said you didn’t pick up… Or was it a missed call?”

“I didn’t pick up. I decided I can’t add him to the mix right now, Aaron. Can you keep him off me?”

“Yes.” But it was a yes with the flu. My boss added, “Just let him know from time to time what’s going on.”

“Can I let you know and you let him know?”

“Just give him a fast call. What can it hurt?” he chided, like one brother reminding another to phone Mom on her birthday.

I relented and agreed.

“No word on Loving’s location?” Ellis asked.

“No,” I said.

“And an accomplice?”

“He’s got one, we’ve confirmed. We have a rough ID.” I described the tall, sandy-haired man who’d been spotted flanking the Kesslers’ house. “We don’t know anything more about him. I should go, Aaron. I’m going to talk to Ryan about his caseload. With the lifter out of sight, I really want to move forward on finding the primary.”

After we hung up, Joanne asked for my cell phone and called her stepdaughter. She continued to put on a good facade for Amanda. She said she was going to call the school on Monday and have the girl’s absence excused. It seemed the girl was genuinely upset to be missing school and her various extracurricular activities.

Amanda reminded me of myself at that age. I actually enjoyed going to class. I liked the precision of study, taking exams. I got bored easily-still do-and school was a chore originally. But when I began to look at classes as a series of increasingly complex games, I devoted myself to the courses intensively. Once, my father wanted me to come to his office with him, some holiday party. I was happy he wanted me to go. But I told him I was sick. After he left, my mother still in bed asleep, I tossed off the blankets-I was fully dressed-and headed off to school. The only instance I ever heard of where a student played sick to attend class. I nearly went into academia. Only through some veering of circumstance did I end up in personal security work.

I whispered to Joanne, “Let me talk to Bill.”

She nodded and when she concluded her conversation with her stepdaughter she asked to speak to him. She then handed the phone to me.

“It’s Corte.”

“Hi. Talked to a friend downtown,” Carter said. Meaning, I assumed, somebody at MPD had told him what happened at the Kesslers’ house. He added, “On my fancy new phone-don’t worry. Sounds like we just missed an interesting party.” He was speaking euphemistically because the girl would be listening.

“He got close. Nobody was injured.”

Carter said, “What I heard. Nobody knows where our friend is.”

“Correct.”

He gave a laugh. Sometimes I was chided for using stiff or old-time language. I prefer to think it’s being precise. Besides, by the time you get to twenty or so-when I graduated from college-you talk the way you’ve learned to talk. No sense in trying to change it. That doesn’t work. And why should you anyway?

I added, “Our information is that he’s in the dark about you.”

“That part’s good.”

“How was the drive?” I asked.

“Uneventful. I got lost. Saw the same scenery three or four times.”

His way of telling me he’d used evasive driving techniques.

“Good. Keep Amanda busy and don’t let her near your landline.”

“Oh, about that. I just remembered it’s broke.”

I liked the old detective. “Thanks.”

“Keep ’em safe, Corte.”

“I will.”

A mysterious chuckle. “I wouldn’t want your job for any money.”

RYAN STEPPED OUT of the bedroom, carrying his shaving kit. He’d washed up. He’d changed his shirt.

And he’d had a drink. Bourbon, I thought. A fair amount.

I like some wine or beer occasionally but you can’t deny that alcohol makes you stupid and careless. I can prove it. When I’m playing a board game that involves skill not chance-like chess or Arimaa or Wei Chi-and I’m not in a seriously competitive mood, I might have a glass of wine. The occasional successes due to some bold, unforeseeable strategy on my part, inspired by a nice Cabernet, are vastly outnumbered by the mistakes I make, thanks to the grape.

Ryan’s drinking was something else I’d have to factor into the protection equation, along with his eager pistol and his role as protector of his family. I assessed the situation: an armed, drinking cop with a hero complex; a woman in shock-though she didn’t know it yet-and furious with her husband for bringing this tragedy on the family (also in the dark about that); and a giddy, irresponsible sister with no self-esteem, who whipsawed back and forth between panic and grating giddiness.

Of course, every principal I’ve ever protected has had some glitch or foible-Lord knows I do too-and if their quirks affect your job you simply note them and compensate; if they don’t, forget the issue and get on with your business. We’re shepherds; we’re not parents.

Joanne too noted the real purpose behind her husband’s fake mission to the bedroom but didn’t acknowledge it. Much less share a look with me.

I made some coffee and poured a good dose into a Styrofoam cup. I stepped into the corner and asked Ryan to join me, cop to cop, and we sat down together. Before I could speak, Ryan said, “Look, Corte. I was wrong. I mean, what Jo was saying: If you hadn’t been there, it could’ve been… well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

So he had heard his wife after all.

I acknowledged the gratitude with a nod and noted that booze made him agreeable and sentimental, not hostile. If it weren’t for the gun on his hip, I might have encouraged him to have another drink.