Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"The police," Adam finished for her.

They were back on the old conspiracy kick, but it was hard to let it go. Esterhaus's death had been an apparent execution. She thought of what Maeve said-that Esterhaus was being pressured to steal the Zestron and deliver it somewhere. The bombing of her house had been a professional job. She thought about all the doors that had slammed in her face when she'd tried to publicize the overdose victims. The powers that be in Albion had systematically shrugged off the deaths of those three junkies in South Lexington.

Shrugged off? Or covered up?

"Head downtown," she suddenly said.

"Why?"

"We're going to City Hall. I want to see Ed."

Adam turned onto the downtown exit. "Why?"

"Force of habit-I like to torment him. Plus, he might get us the information we need. Namely, which cop arrested Esterhaus-and then let him go. And what else the said cop has been involved in."

"Would Ed know that?"

"He has a direct pipeline into Police Internal Affairs. If there's a crooked cop involved, they might have a file on him."

"Unless they're all crooked."

"Please," she groaned. "Don't even mention the possibility."

City Hall had been turned into a media circus. Banners were everywere: Mayor Sampson Presents the Albion Bicentennial, 200 Years of Vision, Albion: looking toward the third century . In the hall was posted a map of Friday's two-mile parade route. Anyone who bothered to study that map would see that the parade didn't even go anywhere near Albion's center, but skirted around it, along the northern city limits, thereby avoiding the South Lexington district entirely.

Ed was in his office, barricaded by a fortress of papers. Campaign posters were plastered across the wall behind him. A picture of a kid serenely skipping rope caught M. J.'s eye: "Albion. Safe, and getting safer." For whom ? she felt like asking.

Ed, as usual, did not look happy to see her. "I haven't got a lot of time, okay?" he grumbled as M. J. and Adam settled into chairs. "This bicentennial thing is turning into a disaster. The weatherman says rain. Three high school bands have dropped out because of sniper rumors. And now the cops say they can't guarantee crowd control."

"Yep, that's our town," said M. J. sweetly. "Safe, and getting safer."

"What you do want?" snapped Ed.

"Some service for my tax dollars, Mr. DA."

He sighed. "This isn't about the drug ODs again, is it?"

"Peripherally. By now, you've heard about my exploding house. And the dead Cygnus researcher."

"That was a paid hit, Miami mob. At least, that's what the cops tell me."

"The cops also say Esterhaus stole the drug from Cygnus and bombed my house to stop me from asking too many questions."

Ed laughed. "I can think of a lot of reasons to bomb your house."

"But that theory strikes us as too simple," said Adam. "Blame all those acts on a dead man. Esterhaus kept his nose clean for years. He had only one arrest-a year ago, for growing marijuana."

"I didn't hear about that," said Ed.

"He wasn't charged. It appears he was rather quickly released. We want to know who made the arrest."

"Why?"

"Pot growing's an open-and-shut case," said M. J. "Find the plants, you've got your conviction. Now, why go to the trouble of arresting someone, and then let him walk without charges?"

"The decision could've been made on a number of levels."

"We want to know the street level," said M. J. "The name of the cop."

"Yeah? What else do you want?"

"We want to know if Esterhaus might have offered this cop a bribe. Whether this particular cop suddenly found some new… prosperity. Check with Internal Affairs, see if there's a file."

"There may not be."

"Then just the name, Ed. Get me that."

Ed shook his head. "You're just fishing, M. J. You've got nothing."

"I've got an empty lot where my house used to be."

"And I've got a dead researcher," said Adam.

Ed leaned back. "So you're both fishing, huh?"

"You should be too," said Adam. "It's part of your job, Mr. DA."

"And he's a terrific one, too," said a voice from the doorway. They turned to see Mayor Sampson, looking dapper in a three-piece suit. He strolled into the office and, like any good politician, reached out to pump Adam's hand. "Mr. Quantrell, good to see you again. Coming to the bicentennial ball, aren't you?"

"I hadn't made plans."

"But I thought Isabel reserved two inner-circle tickets."

"She didn't mention them to me."

Sampson glanced at M. J. and she saw the look of dislike on his face, quickly smothered by a smile. "Keeping busy, Dr. Novak?" he asked.

"Too busy," grumbled Ed.

"Oh, Lord. Not those junkies again?" Sampson gave M. J. an indulgent pat on the shoulder, the sort of gesture she resented. "You are taking this case entirely too personally."

"Yeah. It got real personal when my house blew up."

"But Ed is right on top of things," said Sampson. "Aren't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Now, isn't it time we got moving?" asked Sampson.

"Huh?" Ed glanced at his watch. "Oh, yeah. Gotta go, M. J. Parade committee."

They all walked out of the office together. In the hall, Ed raised an arm, a gesture that could've meant either goodbye or good riddance, and headed off with the mayor. M. J. watched the two men disappear around the corner and then snorted in disgust. "Our tax dollars, hard at work. I'll be glad when this damn bicentennial is over."

They got into the elevator, joining a City Hall clerk, her arms loaded down with a pile of gaudy flyers. "Take one!" she said in a cheery voice.

M. J. snatched one up and read it: Mayor Sampson's Bicentennial Ball. General tickets: $50. Contributor: $100. Inner Circle: $500 .

"Do you think Ed will help us out?" asked Adam.

"I'll hound him to the grave if he doesn't."

Adam laughed. "I'd say that's a pretty potent threat, coming from you."

They stepped off the elevator. "Hardly," said M. J., still gazing down at the flyer.

Inner circle tickets were $500 each and Isabel had two of them.

"I'm not a threat to anyone," she muttered. Then she tossed the flyer into a trash can.

The cook had laid out a lovely supper for them: Cornish hens glazed with raspberry sauce, wild rice, a bottle of wine chilling in the bucket. And candlelight, naturally. Everything, thought Adam, was perfect. Or should have been perfect.

But it wasn't.

He watched M. J. silently chase a sprig of parsley around her plate, and he wondered how many days, how many hours, before this woman-this fascinating, maddening woman-would be strolling out of his life. That she would leave, he had no doubt. It was only a matter of time. She was right, of course; the gap between their worlds was immense, perhaps unbridgeable. His world was Groton and Harvard, ski slopes and Surry Heights. Adam Dillingham Quantrell IV had known both his parents, had even known the names of his grandparents and their grandparents, had grown up versed in the history of his bloodlines. Mariana Josefina Ortiz, raised on the mean streets of South Lexington, had known only her mother's name. Her father would forever remain a mystery. Lacking any pedigree, she was, quite simply, what she'd made of herself.

He liked the result.

And he was perplexed by it.

She was shoving a sliver of carrot around her plate now. Where was her appetite? With a sigh, she put down her fork and looked at him.

"Thinking about Esterhaus again?" he asked.

"And… everything, I guess."

"Including us?"

After a pause, she nodded.

He picked up his wineglass and took a sip. She watched him, waiting for him to say something. It was unlike her to hold back words. Are we so uncomfortable with each other ? he wondered.