T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

Patricia yanked off her scarf and tossed it belowdecks, started talking fast and loud over the engines:

"I love this thing, Tom. I'd have gone with twin Mercs or eight-ninety-twos for more speed but the Cats get me around. Only got sixty hours on them. Pete gave this to my mom and dad the year before they died in the wreck. Named it for my mom. I gave it back to him when Anna died, seemed like the right thing to do. Pete and Gar and me, we'd scream over to Catalina and fish for a couple of days, live right on board, cook up our catch and drink good port. Hours of that. Gar would vomit and sleep until noon. God, I miss him. Pete, not Gar."

"Not Gar."

"Hey, I'm still a speed demon, Tom, remember that old Mustang I had back after high school and how we'd get it going out the Eight toward Yuma, hit a hundred and float past the sand dunes thinking we could hop from mirage to mirage? Man, that was great, remember that Ford V-Eight with the air conditioner that blew cubes and we could get from San Diego to Rosarito on the toll road in nothing flat? Eat lobsters and drink tequila 'til we rolled to a hotel, get up and have more lobsters for breakfast?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"So how could you get mixed up with the nurse?"

"Good question."

"Thing is you can't hit a hundred on water, but fifty feels just like it, maybe better because you get the up and down and the yaw. More dimensions of speed. Was it anything like we used to be, you and that young blonde?"

"Let's talk about something else."

"You and Stephanie like us?"

"Chrissakes, Pat, just drop that shit, will you?"

"You're right, McMike. I said I'd distract you!"

She eased the boat into a loose port turn, then tightened her into a dizzying spin that sent McMichael's brain to one side of his skull as the hull dug into the sea and the spray shot off to starboard and the engines groaned against the load and the backwash almost bucked them over. Patricia laughed and straightened Corrinna Braga , heading east at a less adamant pace.

They came back into the harbor, chugged north past the navy boatyards. McMichael stared at the battleships and destroyers and the floating hospital- majestic gray mountains of steel sitting impossibly high in the water, bristling with ordnance.

Back in the slip at Shelter Island they sat down by the bait tank with their backs to the wind and the wine open between them.

"Who killed him, Tommy?"

"I can't talk about it."

"Are you still on the case?"

"Just the edge of it now."

"Because of the nurse?"

McMichael nodded, drank some wine, said nothing.

"It was the nurse, wasn't it? She suckered you in so you'd lose your bearings."

He shrugged.

"So, I can't talk about your exes and I can't talk about my grandpa. Are we down to odds on the Super Bowl?"

"It was nice of you to rescue me today," he said.

"You're such a square, Tom. You were always such a square. Although, for a few months there, when we were nineteen, I really had you going."

Oh, did you, he thought.

She moved the wine, sat close and put her head on his shoulder. McMichael smelled perfume and salt air. He put his arm around her, felt her shudder. He wondered what it would be like to love her again, after the lifetime that had ended when he and Stephanie broke apart. It wasn't like it was, because Johnny had most of his heart and Steffy maybe some, and even Sally Rainwater had a piece of it. Patricia had her part, too. But there was a big piece that was still his, oddly aloof and calculating and convinced of its own value, though willing to be given.

He felt a slight tapping on his thigh, looked down to see the drops soaking into his jeans.

"Stupid," she said.

"What is?"

"Me. This. I'm unraveling, ever since Pete. Like he held me together. I obsess. I can't turn it off."

She wiped her face, set her hand on his leg by the teardrops. "I think about Garland and who I am and what I'm going to do. And I think about you all the time like some kind of mantra or something. I go back twenty years and start thinking that was my life, that was the best it was ever going to be and I was too dumb to know it. I think it's just that I'm older, McMike. I hate getting older. This is the first time I can remember not looking forward to something."

"You're thirty-eight. You're a beauty and you've got a whole life out there."

"Where?"

"Wherever you make it."

"Selling Fords in San Diego?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Yeah. Sure, Tom. We have the best climate in the world."

"And the zoo."

"I can still have a child."

"That would be good."

"Gar shot blanks. My boyfriend before Gar got me pregnant but it didn't take. Twice."

"You've got the time."

"I'm leaving for good."

"You mean that?"

"Going to wrap up the estate, fly away. I'll rent out the fancy condo. I'm thinking Santa Cruz or maybe Newport Beach. Gotta stay near the water."

She sniffed and straightened and ran her fingers under her eyes, looked at the melted makeup. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"Thanks for hanging. Nice to have a friend. Come on, I'll take you home."

Outside McMichael's apartment Patricia slid the car into park and reached across him to dig into the glove box. She pulled out some sheets of paper, folded lengthwise, opened them and set them in his lap.

"Henry finally came up with these letters from Grandpa," she said. "You guys hadn't presented a subpoena for them and he figured the best thing was to get them to you this way."

McMichael studied the letterhead, the typed text, the aggressive signature of Peter Braga at the bottom. "Where were these?"

"Old Grothke had them in his suit coat pocket."

"Oh, come on. Junior said they'd looked everywhere for them."

"According to Junior, they'd checked his father's pockets every day since the letters got lost. And his blankets and the Sea World bag on his wheelchair and his briefcase, too. Who knows? Maybe he's got lots of suits."

The letters were addressed to Henry Grothke Sr., at the downtown address.

Dear Henry,

It has come to my attention that I've ponied up almost two million dollars to the San Diego Diocese over my lifetime. In light of that faith and goodwill I proposed that the new church being built in north county be named either St. Peter's, St. Anna's or St. Victor's in tribute to the Braga family. From the Diocese I've received only reasons why this cannot be done. Therefore, I want to remove the Diocese from my will. They will receive nothing upon my death. Please rewrite the will accordingly. I also want you to reverse the charitable remaindered trust we set up to give them the houses in Rancho Santa Fe and Mammoth. Cut them out totally, Henry. I've had enough of their hypocrisy!

Sincerely,

Peter Augustino Braga

The second letter was a shorter, more vehement version of the first, with elaborate scoldings of Grothke, Steiner & Grothke for "losing, throwing away or shredding" the previous directive. There was a threat at the end of it to "swing" Pete's legal business elsewhere if Grothke couldn't "keep track of things" and do as he "was told."

"Take them," said Patricia. "Maybe they'll help."

McMichael thanked her, kissed her cheek and pushed his way out of the convertible.

He shut the door and waved to her but she was staring down at the steering wheel and didn't look up.

Gabriel sat on his usual stool, the usual pint and shot on the bar before him. He saw his son, broke into a dissociated smile.

McMichael sat beside him, ordered up a pint from Hugh.