Faye Kellerman - Moon Music

Alison stood up and gave her husband a half-smile. “Thanks for taking them out.”

Jensen kissed her on the lips, throwing Poe daggers from the corners of his eyes. Easy to think the worst. But he knew Alison. Moreover, he knew Poe. Married women weren’t his thing. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not at all,” Alison chirped. “You want some coffee, Steve?”

Jensen forced himself to smile. “No, I’m fine.” He saw Poe getting up, said, “Don’t let me rush you.”

Feeling as wanted as ice on jet wings, Poe said, “Gotta go. Certain people await me.”

Jensen mouthed, “Lewiston?”

Poe nodded.

Jensen said, “I’ll walk you out, Boss.”

“’Night, Alison.” Pointedly, Poe kissed her cheek. Just to show him it was all very innocent.

“’Night.” She turned her back and busied herself at the counter.

As soon as they were out of her sight, Jensen grabbed Poe’s arm, shoving him out of the house. He slammed the front door behind them, all pretense of calm dissipating like smoke. “What did you two talk about?”

“Get your goddamn hands off me!”

Jensen blushed, dropped Poe’s arm. He said, “What did you two talk—”

“None of your business,” Poe answered. “And don’t you dare interrogate your wife to get answers—”

“I’m not interrogating her, I’m interrogating you. ” Jensen spun 360 degrees on his heels, faced Poe with rage. “You think it’s jealousy, don’t you? You think I’m this big, bad jealous schmuck who’s—”

“Steve, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t goddamn get it, do you? Every time you talk to her and start reminiscing about the good ole days, it sets her back. You don’t see it. Because to you, your little talks are nothing but great fun. And because when she talks to you , she puts on her normal act—”

“Steve—”

“—but get her a couple hours later, when you’re long gone, out screwing your whores or girlfriend or playing your cards being Mr. Asshole Carefree Bachelor, then she’s left alone. And when she’s alone, she sinks, Rom. And guess who has to deal with her shit!”

No one spoke.

Jensen exhaled forcefully. “Every time you come to visit, you put her back six months’ worth of therapy.”

Again, there was silence.

Jensen said, “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s very fragile and disturbed—”

“I’m well aware—”

“You aren’t aware of anything except what she tells you. And that’s always her own slant. Her own bizarre thoughts. I’m not saying she can’t be helped. But you ain’t the one to do it, all right?”

Poe stuck his hands in his pocket, eyes looking upward, into a black, starry sky. “If I’ve been … causing problems between you and your wife, I apologize.”

“I don’t need your apologies, Rom. I need you to leave her alone. Understand?”

“Clearly.”

Jensen suddenly wilted, exhausted and spent. “Weinberg’s looking at me strange. You didn’t tell him about—”

“No.”

“She ask about the case at all?”

“Who? Alison?”

Jensen nodded.

“Yeah. She said you were very upset last night. She asked whether you had slept with the victim.”

“And you told her no?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

Neither spoke for a moment.

Poe said, “You find out anything?”

“About Brittany?” Jensen shrugged. “Nothing that points to a killer. Just bits and pieces.”

“We should meet, compare notes with Patricia.”

“Give me a time and place.”

Poe started snapping his fingers, stopped himself. “Back at the Bureau in what … two hours. Let’s call it for nine.”

“I’ll be there.” Jensen rubbed his face, looked up. “I’ve got to … don’t want to leave her alone.” His jaw tightened. “Although I don’t think she relishes my company.”

“Steve, I—”

“Forget it.”

Poe nodded. Jensen was right. Leave it unsaid.

The big man patted Poe’s shoulder, turned, and walked back inside his house. Poe remained rooted, his eyes racing across an endless inky sky, the sounds of his snapping fingers echoing in the stillness of the night. Slowly, he forced himself to move. To go away.

He had a giant headache.

Probably too much caffeine.

Next time, he’d cool it with the coffee.

Taking a couple of practice swings, the iron whizzing through the air. “How’s your game coming, son?”

Poe answered, “I don’t play golf, Mr. Lewiston.”

“Pity.” Several more slices into the air. Then the moment of truth. Lewiston bunched up his body in concentration, his eyes focused on the tee. He took aim and swung. A clean shot, the ball rising, falling, rolling across the ground. It fell into a sunken cup around fifty yards away.

That’s how big the office was.

Poe estimated that it took up over half the top floor of the Laredo. Floor number twenty-six. Twenty-five actually, because the elevator had gone from floor twelve to floor fourteen. Lewiston’s domain kept going and going, with desks and chairs and couches and tables, all of the furniture resting on a carpet of natural sod. Verdant, clipped sod. The temperature inside his working quarters was a muggy seventy-four degrees.

Lewiston leaned against his iron, said, “You say you don’t play golf?”

“Correct.” Poe was seated in a leather club chair whose legs were buried in the grass. The apparatus had settled slightly to the left, throwing his perspective off-kilter.

“Have you ever tried the game?”

“A few times.”

Lewiston straightened. Poe felt the heat of the casino owner’s eyes, peering at him as if sighting prey. Steely blue things that were reptilian-cold. A chiseled face with a strop-sharpened-razor shave, his complexion so smooth as to appear wet. Short haircut, the color too iridescent to be called gray. It was more like silver. At sixty, Lewiston stood erect and tall—about Jensen’s height. For the golfing demonstration, he had donned a pair of black silk-and-wool slacks and a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His feet were housed in black croc boots. He wore a string tie held together by a jeweled pendant—aquamarine maybe. He had thrown the tie over his shoulder lest it interfere with his shot.

“Son, you’ve never tried the game until you’ve tried it with me. Why don’t you join me on one of my courses this Saturday? Golfing always puts me in a social mood.”

“My handicap would be too big, sir.”

Besides, fraternizing with the big boys is a no-no, Parker. Sort of ruins the objectivity.

“You know how to aim a gun?” Lewiston asked.

“Of course.”

“Shoot a target?”

“Yes.”

“Then golf should be a snap.”

“I think holing a fifty-yard chip takes a little more finesse than blasting a cardboard cutout.”

“Well, it shouldn’t take more finesse,” Lewiston insisted. “Because shooting has a lot more ramifications than sinking a putt. You should work some finesse into your shooting, son.”

Poe was not about to be undermined. “Maybe it has something to do with split-second decisions. Difficult to have finesse when you’re looking down the barrel of a shotgun.” He whispered, “Hand’s shaking too hard.”

Lewiston smiled with brown-stained teeth. “You should work on that, too. Never let them see you sweat.”