T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

Now, trying for balance, McMichael hopped to the nearest rock visible in this dark fast river. "Did you see other cops at Pete's? Or hear him talk about any?"

Sally threw an arm over him and rested her head on his chest. "Jerry somebody. On the phone. I got the impression that Pete was asking Jerry for help. Later, Pete said the guy was a good friend but a lousy cop."

"Pete ever mention business in Tijuana?"

"No."

McMichael listened to the wind again, felt the heaviness of Sally Rainwater's head.

"Your witness is going fuzzy," she said. "Maybe you could turn the interrogation lights back on in the morning."

"Sure."

She took a deep breath and let it out. He could feel the warmth of it on his skin.

"I've dreamed about it every night," she said quietly. "I walk into the trophy room with two bundles of firewood and see him in that chair. And always, in the dream, the blood on the floor is moving and boiling, like there are little fish in it. And Pete looks at me. And you know what he says?"

"Tell me."

"This is your fault."

"And what do you say back?"

"I don't say anything. I just walk past the blood boiling with little fish and I kneel down in front of the fireplace and I try to build a fire but it won't start."

"You tried to save his life."

"I think the dream is telling me there was nothing I could do."

"It wasn't your fault."

"But what if it was? Just a minute sooner home. A green light on Rosecrans instead of a red- five miles per hour might have made the difference. If I'd have used the less-than-ten-items line at the market, but this checker told me once never to use those if they've got more than-"

"It wasn't your fault, Sally."

" More than four customers because that takes longer than just one person with a whole cart full of things because that's only one trans-"

"No. You see, it wasn't your fault. You tried to save his life."

"He was my friend. He was my responsibility. They hired me to take care of him, not let him get murdered."

"You did what you could."

"Once, when I was hardly more than a girl, a man died and I could have prevented it."

McMichael felt her heart beating against his chest. "Tell me about it."

"Not now."

"Some other time, then."

"That would be up to me."

He felt the warm pool of tears on his skin, then the cool slap of air as she threw back the covers, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

It was Tuesday evening by the time McMichael and Paz were granted an audience with Malcolm Case. The port commissioner didn't live in San Diego at all, but in an expensive village northeast of the city.

Case's secretary, Allen, had been apologizing over the phone for the last six hours and sketchily tracing his boss's whereabouts for McMichael: He travels by helicopter to save time, Detective, he's got a ten o'clock in Newport Beach, then lunch in Beverly Hills with state senator Rothrock, then up the mountain to Big Bear at four. Now, he's eager to meet with you and he proposes a six P.M . meeting at his winter home. He has one hour and will have to excuse himself for dinner at seven sharp. Does six work for you?

It did work, in giving McMichael time with Barbara Givens and Hector, who'd done some digging into the dizzyingly prosperous life of Malcolm Case. And into the dramatically poignant life of his large sidekick, Alex Dejano.

But it didn't work, in that his time with Johnny- moved from Wednesday to Tuesday this week by Stephanie- would be short.

McMichael sat on Case's backyard patio and watched the twenty-something Allen build fires in two huge, beautifully tiled chimineas . Allen chattered away about how beautiful Case's property was, how it was within the covenant of Rancho Santa Fe, but still bordered wild and undevelopable land, how it was just an occasional winter home for Mr. Case because port commissioners had to reside in either Imperial Beach, Chula Vista, National City, Coronado or San Diego.

A brindle Staffordshire terrier sat next to McMichael, nosing her enormous head under his hand every time he stopped petting her. Her name was Gidget.

Beyond McMichael a stand of palms divided the sunshine and shadow upon a deep green lawn. The eastern hills lay still in clean orange light. Hector sat across from him, sullen all day, clipping his nails with a Swiss army knife.

The helicopter landed at three minutes after six. Case ducked and trotted through the gale of the blades, overcoat lifting, tie flapping back across his shoulder, black shoes aglimmer in the softening evening light. He plopped a stainless steel Halliburton case onto the blue tile patio table and gave his dog a big hug and a kiss on the back of her head before offering a hand to McMichael.

"Sorry it took so long," he said. His handshake was strong and his smile welcoming. Dark-haired, compact, thirty years old but looked twenty-five. "I just closed an eighteen-million dollar ski resort deal in Big Bear. It'll be the jewel of the mountain. I think the thirty inches of new snow convinced them."

"That and your shoeshine," said Hector.

" Finally , a smartass," said Case. "I could use a little humor after dealing with those hayseeds in the mountains. Drinks, please, Allen. And tell Christine to come out and say hello."

Allen got their orders and went inside.

"Sit, gentlemen." Case tossed his overcoat over the stainless case, then pulled one of the steer-hide chairs closer to the chiminea . "What can you tell me about Pete?"

"What can you tell us?" asked Hector.

"Anything you want," said Case. "Aim me, men. I need a place to start."

"You and Pete and a new airport," said McMichael.

"Excellent. Five of the seven port commissioners wanted to keep Lindbergh Field operating and under Port Commission control because it's a moneymaker and it's fun. We're one of the only port commissions in the world that gets its own airport. Every time we need more money, we slap a rental car surcharge or a runway fee. It's easy. But Pete and I thought differently. We saw ahead. We figured San Diego needs a new airport because Lindbergh is small and dangerous. We figured San Diego also needs a sea cargo terminal. Do you gentlemen know that San Diego Harbor isn't even rated as a cargo terminal? So, we proposed to the commission to support a new airport in return for certain concessions from the new Airport Authority. Simple. Well, nobody liked the idea at first- trading a cash cow for a greasy cargo port. But you know, when nobody likes your ideas, that's when things get interesting."

"You want Pacific Transfer to build a cargo terminal on the Lindbergh site, after it closes," said McMichael.

"Yes, I do," said Case.

"And you own Pacific Transfer," said Hector.

"I own fifty-five percent of it. It's public. Pete bought in for fifteen thousand shares. The stock hasn't done squat since I formed the company and took it public three years ago. But when we get the commission to see our wisdom, it's going to go through the roof."

"That's a conflict of interest," said McMichael.

Case shrugged. "We'll float a bid. So will ten other dredging outfits. It's up to the commission to decide."

"Upon which you sit," said McMichael.

"Yep. Commissioners are encouraged to excuse themselves from votes concerning issues in which they have an interest."

"How often you do that?" asked Hector.

Case laughed. "Whenever even a whiff of conflict arises, Mr. Paz. Of course, our votes are not public so you don't have any idea what I really do. It's possible that I've never abstained due to conflict of interest. It's possible that I can abstain without worry, knowing that my fellow commissioners will do the right thing and vote my way. What are friends for? That's one of the beauties of the commission. That's why, when one of our esteemed brethren resigned from the commission last year, thirty applicants were standing in line the next morning for a job that doesn't pay any salary at all. Commissioners have a way of doing whatever they want. There wasn't even an ethical standards section in our charter, until late last year. And mind you, those are just, well, guidelines ."