T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"Pete liked your number-seven pyramids," he said. "I saw two boxes of them in his humidor at home."

Raegan's brow furrowed and her plump little lips went tight. "He must have come in on my day off, because I wouldn't have sold to him. I'd have kicked him out."

"Maybe he didn't come in at all," said McMichael. "Maybe they were a present. I was thinking I could look at your customer list."

"What's that going to tell you?"

"Friends, enemies."

"What, buy him a box of pyramids one day, bash him the next?"

"It's connections I'm looking for. That's all. Pete had his fingers in lots of things."

She gave him a doubtful Irish squint, shaking her head. "Why do I have to have a brother who's a cop? Why do I have to love him and sometimes even think he's pretty cool for a nosy gun-slinging detective?"

"I don't sling. I carry. And I owe you."

"You've owed me for a long time."

"Just name it, Rae."

"Don't go sincere on me. Look, I've got all the customers on disc- I use it for my mailings. You can go alphabetical or by date of purchase or name. I've even got cigar preferences and price points. Start with the pyramids- they're not my most popular shape. But remember, if they paid cash, there's no record except of the sale and the product."

"Maybe I could just tinker upstairs in the office while you get ready for your big Friday night."

"So, is the nurse pretty or what?"

"She's pretty."

"Tommy, your face!"

"She's pretty. So what?"

"Oh, my God."

"I haven't done anything completely foolish yet."

"But close to?" Raegan asked eagerly.

"Actually, yes."

"Oh, brother. I'm so happy for you. I was wondering when you'd finally get a life."

McMichael waited for the warmth to leave his face. "Do you have one?"

Her smile outlasted her shrug. "I met a nice guy last week. Local restaurateur . Very French. Very handsome, very mysterious."

"Sounds bad."

"He looks to be a little on the bad side," said Raegan. "But in a good way."

"Dad always told me I didn't have the brains I was born with," said McMichael.

"And I don't, either?"

"You don't, either."

"Come on. We'll see. He's a nice guy."

By seven o'clock McMichael was sitting on an overturned bucket in the dark attic over the Cuba Room. He had his head up close to the AC vent and it was not comfortable. But he'd pulled the duct loose from its ceiling fixture so the acoustics were surprisingly good as the voices came up through the grille at him. The San Diego Tunaboat Foundation guys wandered into the Cuba Room one and two at a time.

Deep Bass: So I just told the mayor, look, you owe me at least four Super Bowl seats- good ones- or I'm going to get you voted out next time around. He laughs and says what if I get you a booth, and I say you'll be mayor of America 's Finest City for as long as I live!

Nasal Wiseguy: So he gets another few months .

Deep Bass: Hey, my scan's clean, my PSA's way down and I'm good for another ten .

McMichael sat still in the cold, dark attic, chin in his hands, listening and looking down at his tape recorder. He figured his chances of getting anything useful were pretty poor, but the murder would be big news here. And the Tunaboat Foundation was now two million richer so it wouldn't hurt to know what they were saying about Pete. It was also Friday night so he didn't have anything better to do. He wondered if this was the life that Raegan had congratulated him on. It was easy to think about Sally Rainwater now, with the mindless chatter going on beneath him, and he was thankful again that last night hadn't blown up in his face. We might do some good. Then again, this may be the dumbest thing either of us has ever managed.

Below him, laughter erupted as one of the men likened his wife to a twelve-year-old with a credit card.

Nasal Wiseguy: Well, just cut her off, Mike .

Deep Bass: That's what she'll do to him .

Young Man: She did that as soon as he married her .

McMichael wondered if the cops who met here sounded as jocular and retarded as the Tunaboat Foundation, figured they probably did. Something about a roomful of men seemed to drop the collective IQ by about half. Then again, he'd listened in on Steffy and her friends enough to know that women did the same thing, just in a different way. Four women in a room meant four conversations. He thought of the bullet hole in Sally Rainwater's elegant neck and wondered what it would feel like under his finger. He tried to ID the brain thorn that he'd gotten aboard the Cabrillo Star with Patricia. Something about the garage, the twenty large, the rats…

He became aware of the silence in the Cuba Room, wondered if the men were passing something around to look at, or maybe just staring at the table, smoking, out of topics for conversation.

Dom, with the big voice, was the one who broke the silence.

Deep Bass (confidentially): I feel terrible about what happened to Pete. It made me think about who I am and how much time I've got left. You never know- eighty-four years of kicking butt then something like that. We didn't agree on hardly anything, but Pete was Pete .

Young Man: They'll catch whoever did it. Give him the injection, like he deserves .

Nasal Wiseguy: Fuckin' bash his brains out is what he deserves. I'd do it. I'd volunteer for that one .

Young Man: Me, too. I keep thinking about the way I fought the old guy on just about everything. You know? It makes you realize how short your life is, like Dom said. Spend all this time fighting over shit you think matters but really doesn't. I don't know .

Deep Bass: So he leaves us two million in property and we're going to vote for something he'd have fought us on .

Young Man: You gotta do what you think is right. It's time to sell the acres. Let the city have its new hotels for the ballpark, get some payback for financing the Padres. Two million? We could use two million. Pete would have agreed, sooner or later .

Deep Bass: But part of me still sides with him, you know? That's the last of our ground, last of what we used to be. That was ours since, what was it-'thirty-two or 'three? We can lobby the Congress and make trade deals all over the world, but it still isn't going to bring our fleet back home or make jobs around here. We still have thirty-one big beautiful super-seiners off of American Samoa. Fifteen-thousand-ton boats, most of 'em built right here. What a waste. So why give up the last of it? I can see Pete's thinking, I really can.

Young Man: Well, you know, Dom, we're a dying breed.

Deep Bass: But there's different kinds of dying, Teddy. You looked at Pete the last few months it was like he was eighteen again, falling in love. Damned nurse of all things. I'm thinking maybe Pete was younger than all of us, not older.

Young Man: Cryin' shame. Really. Raegan's brother got the case.

Deep Bass: Dance on old Pete's grave, probably.

Victor Braga tapped his foot and looked at McMichael blankly as the detective walked up to him at the Waterfront bar. He was alone at an outside table, wearing a pea coat against the January chill. Tall like his father had been, with thinning gray hair and a remarkably unlined complexion. His eyes were light brown and gentle. Earphone wires trailed down to a disc player that sat on the table beside a glass of what could have been anything from apple juice to scotch.