06_22_2012
Once she had explained that the first leg of the trip was a quick stop at her condo and declared that no, she wouldn't tell him where they were going and that he'd see when they got there, they had settled into silence, their thoughts vague, Lisbon finding her way home by rote.
She had meant her "Only be a minute" as an assurance that he wouldn't have long to wait in the car. He had interpreted it to mean he might as well step inside. She hadn't balked at his getting out of the car and following her in, accepting it as she did all of his easy infringements. She dropped car keys, badge and gun on the desk just across from her front door and, without a word, headed up the stairs leaving him to roam at will, knowing he had already seen most of what was downstairs and that he would heed no warning against it.
He could count the number of times he had entered this sanctum on one hand. The place had evolved over the years as Lisbon had gradually come to think of it as home and not merely a stopping place before the next time she felt the need to move on. He regretted for her sake that it had taken years for that to happen. Gone were the pillars of unpacked boxes and haphazard placement of a few personal mementos. She had eventually bought an armoire that housed a television (not central to the living room's arrangement) as well as, he was sure, linens for the couch in the event of an overnight guest. Photos and books lined the open shelves, scant but tasteful accessories decorated the side tables and she had even purchased dining furniture.
It was comfortable, peaceful and welcoming, and he liked being here; liked the sense of familiarity and acceptance that came with being allowed to just stand in her home and look around him. She would be surprised that this time he didn't snoop, didn't open a drawer or cabinet door, only perused the photos of her family, some including herself, some new since his last visit, from siblings across the country as they or their children had crossed life milestones, allowing his fingertips to smooth along the wood, metal and upholstered surfaces, already knowing for the most part why lay beneath.
Her footsteps on the stairs had him turning to see her, the tease that she still had the previous owner's manufactured artwork on the walls dying on his lips as he took her in. Work suit and boots had been replaced with slightly faded but still form-fitting jeans, a white v-neck and lightweight gray zip-up hoodie. Sneakers muted her footfalls, and she had her arms raised, effortlessly pulling her long hair into a low ponytail, her easy look suited to a quiet walk or casual date. Stepping down to the floor, she headed for the kitchen and indicated the stairs with a slant of her head.
"If you want to use the facilities feel free. I don't want to stop on the road."
He heard the refrigerator door open and his mind focused on what she'd said. Nodding to the empty room, he mounted the stairs, knowing she would grab two water bottles, not needing a reminder or request. Returning quickly, any perusal of her bath as unnecessary as a study of her downstairs had been, he came upon her finishing a phone call.
"Okay, Tony. We're leaving now. See you in a bit."
Slipping her cell into a jeans pocket as she opened her desk drawer, she reached in and drew out a chrome ring with four keys attached, a copy for an exterior door and three originals—one to an inside apartment door, the other two for deadbolts, the kind added as an afterthought. He had noticed them before, resting in the pencil groove along with two other keys to different front doors, when Lisbon had been drugged and framed for murder by her CBI shrink and the two of them had made a play right here in her living room to trick a confession out of him. She pocketed the ring and picked up her own keys and gun. Her hand hovered over her badge before she finally decided to pick it up as well. Once in the SUV, she stored her shield in her glove compartment then pulled out and headed for the I-80.
An hour-and-a-half. Ninety minutes—ninety-four by GPS reckoning. It was the longest she'd been in a car alone with him since he had come back from Vegas. The community service she had expected for his offenses there had not materialized once, with Agent Darcy's help, she had been able to convince the locals that Jane had been deep in an undercover operation. She had listened to their complaints, swallowed the accusations and recriminations— yes, she should have given them a heads up, should have let them in on the op and, yes, she realized what havoc Jane had wreaked during his half-year residency—and their final assertions that she was as much to blame in all things as her colleague had been. Even as she had watched whatever professional and personal favors she had accumulated in that direction turn to dust in the wind, she had thanked God there would be no long drives, no opportunity for long talks. Driving twenty minutes outside the city to see Lorelei each week was more than enough. Sensing her discomfort—though mistaken as to the reason for it—Jane had taken himself to Vegas to personally apologize to the officer he had punched the night of his arrest. Now she was looking at the drive ahead as if from down the wrong end of a gun's barrel. As long as they didn't talk, she could hope this would be the lesser danger.
Their first Thursday interview with Lorelei, her concerns had come to life when Jane had broached the subject of their acquaintance, his manner alerting her that the conversation would have nothing to do with interrogation strategy. She had recognized that sigh and tone, knew a man gearing up for a difficult explanation when she heard it. She hadn't wanted to hear his reasons for sleeping with her. She already knew, had from that first evening after Lorelei had gloated and she had had time to process it, had even come to understand it.
What she dreaded was that inflection, the tenor that would surely color Jane's voice, making him sound as if there was some reason he needed to explain to her, owed it to her for some reason to do so.
It was more than enough, the effort it took to not think about the series of events, the order of the chain, that he had slept with Lorelei then come immediately to find and follow her. That he had left her to go back and set up a meeting, heard the demand that would make him Red John's man then come back to her office to fake her murder and desecrate a suicide victim's body in his machinations to make all of his sacrifice and self-abasement pay off. That he had said . . .
Why had he said that?
She knew why he had done what he'd done, everything he had done, and she could accept. Even looking back on the time he'd been away—her sleepless nights, the increasingly regular visits to the quiet little church, the unanswered messages, the inability to focus on important cases and allowing her team to pick up the slack, knowing she had spent the night walking the cold damp streets, worry over his arrest and guilt for not bailing him out stabbing at her while he had been with Lorelei—she was able to acknowledge the painfully won profit. Finding out about his final ploy had been hard, but she knew why he personally hadn't wanted to be the one to tell her at that point, both of them still raw from their uneasy reunion and the danger it had posed to both of them, losing their prize in the end.
But all of that paled to the havoc that could be wreaked by two little words. Two words she believed he had forgotten he'd said like she believed he'd forgotten he had two hands. It was unnerving her, even when she didn't think about it. And she could go whole days now without doing so, keeping her exposure to him somewhat limited as she managed to do. But in the night when she turned out the light and laid her head down on her pillow, his voice, trembling and uncertain, shaking with the feeling that had called the words to his mind and forced them out his lips, resounded in her memory and beyond, filling the darkness surrounding her.
Those words seemed to change everything, color everything and unhinge everything in a way nothing else that had passed between them or around them ever had. It made everything sharper, made her see things in a different way. Her worrying over him while he was gone became loneliness, her relief at his return was more joyful warmth and her apprehension at his meaning a craving to hear the words again. And it made her feelings on Lorelei and his involvement with her something else again. If he had never said those words, she could've resisted Lorelei's cruel provocations and given at least as good as she got. But Jane's declaration had left her stripped of her armor, vulnerable to an enemy with whom he had traded intimacies for objective. Every taunt left her raw and raging at herself that she was foolish enough to allow it to matter.
If she was to find any equilibrium, to maintain her composure and retain her sanity, distance and silence were imperative. Please, God, please, let him just follow my lead.
She reached out and punched the radio power button, hit the number one on her presets and settled her hand back on the steering wheel, hoping he would lean back and quietly doze to what had, before, been his favorite music.
His left hand suddenly shot toward the controls, making a different selection, hoping—in light of the fact she still had his favorite jazz station on the same button—that classical music was still on number four. He had heard enough jazz, crooners and show tunes in the past six months to last him a lifetime.
She tensed visibly, and while he would have liked to have had any conversation with her, even—no, especially—the empty nothings they had bantered and bickered over in the past, he recognized the signs. Lisbon was like a startled deer, tensed for escape, her anxiety even more remarkable in a woman he knew personally didn't run from anything but casual relationships that threatened to become more.
Sighing to himself and biting back the sudden surge of frustration, he pulled his jacket tighter about him and lay back in his seat.
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It was the smell that awakened him. The combination of fish and city and sea and salt that wafted in through Lisbon's open window. She took the 7th Street exit off of the interstate and pulled up to an impound lot just as a police cruiser rounded the corner and parked across the street. This time, she gave a more specific "Wait here" and got out to meet the uniformed cop as he approached.
The two greeted one another and proceeded toward the locked gate, the officer withdrawing a large, heavy key from his pocket. He opened the ancient padlock, unwound the thick chain then pulled the gate open before leading Lisbon to an area of the lot out of Jane's sight. Minutes later, they drove out in a rusted out, older model Buick LaSabre and pulled up alongside the SUV. Lisbon rolled down her driver's side window, and when the cop exited the front passenger seat, she indicated with a tilt of her head that Jane was to get in.
"You gonna be all right?" the policeman asked, giving Jane a jaundiced look as he leaned on the window frame at Lisbon's side.
"I'll be fine, Tony."
"Sure you don't need back-up?"
"Nope. Thanks again, Tony. I'll have it back in two hours. Tops."
Jane knew Tony was waiting for an explanation, but Lisbon wasn't offering any and he had to let it go.
"Okay, Detective," he finally answered. "But you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Got it?"
"Got it."
Tony straightened and knocked on the roof twice then stepped back allowing Lisbon to drive away. They headed north and west on major thoroughfares then made a series of labyrinthine turns, ending on a narrow street in what he knew was the center of the Tenderloin, one of the bay city's worst areas.
Lisbon parked the LaSabre at the curb and locked the door, shrugging her shoulders at the amused look Jane shot at her from across the car. They walked a block to a consignment shop then took the narrow stairs behind it up to a locked door. Lisbon used the copied key to open it, and they stepped into a dark hallway, Jane balefully eyeing the stained walls and carpet. Making their way to the end of the hall, Lisbon used the remaining keys to unlock the door knob and deadbolt original to the door and the other two bolts mounted a few inches above and below. Jane made to follow Lisbon into the apartment but pulled up short to watch in bemusement as she halted, yanked a single strand of her hair out and, holding one end tight, wrapped it around the doorknob twice, letting the two long ends dangle on either side. She stepped in and motioned him across the threshold, closing the door behind him without resetting the locks. In spite of the glow of nightlights in living room, bedroom, bath and kitchen, Jane couldn't really make anything out until Lisbon flipped a switch and a lamp across the room flared to life.
The inside of the apartment was as neat and orderly as the approach had been dirty and crumbling with neglect. The sofa, comfortable and well made, sat next to a deep, well-cushioned wicker chair and across from an old lowboy chest upon which rested a small flat-screen television and blue-ray player. A few feet away, an aged leather recliner anchored a set of bookshelves, obviously a favorite reading spot. The whole room was done in neutrals, a deep red throw on the couch's back and the spines of what Jane guessed to be at least a hundred books, all of them hardcover, the only pops of color.
Without thought as to what he was doing, Jane drifted to the bookshelves to peruse the titles and Lisbon made herself at home on the sofa, her voice arresting him as he lifted a hand to withdraw what looked to be a copy of "The Brothers Karamazov" in original Russian.
"You won't want to be caught doing that."
He turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, mouth forming a comprehending "o". She motioned him to the wicker chair next to her, and at the sound of the exterior door opening, turned to look at the apartment door expectantly, a hint of apprehension touching her expression.
Jane listened as footsteps drew close, slowing as they approached, arrested no doubt by the light fanning out from under the door. A rustle of clothes, a click, a pause then the door was suddenly opened.
"Teresa?" a woman's voice, unbelieving, sounded before the apartment's resident cleared the door, the long dark strand clutched in her left hand.
"Hello, Cilla," Lisbon responded.
The other woman studied her, her right thumb engaging the safety on her Beretta 92 as she lowered it to her side. She was on the rough side of her early to mid-thirties and thin, almost too thin even for her small-boned frame, probably Lisbon's height or an inch or two shorter, though it was hard to tell with the impossibly tall, spike-heeled black thigh-high boots she wore. Jane's gaze traveled up, cataloging the rest of her attire: dark gray suede mini-skirt short enough to expose several inches of fair bare skin above the boots, black fitted leather jacket over a cobalt-blue bustier camisole, all meant to reveal more than they covered. Her hair was a deep, unnatural red, slightly tousled, rising from her scalp in soft spikes. Full lips, odd in her small face, were outlined with the same purple that heavily lined her eyes, filled in with a dull blood red. Her only jewelry was a pair of silver stud earrings, a simple band on the third finger of her right hand and a trio of tiny diamonds delineating the curve of her left nostril. After a few seconds, her eyes dropped to the hair in her hand and murmured, "Good thing you remembered."
Lisbon waited, silent and unmoving, and the other woman looked up at her. "How did you know I'd be here?" she asked hoarsely.
"It's Friday," Lisbon answered, shrugging at the apparent obviousness of her answer.
Cilla looked away and swallowed hard, and Jane thought it was because she was moved that Lisbon had remembered that too.
As if to confirm his conjecture, Lisbon said, "I remember a lot of things." At that, the woman swallowed again and nodded, finally turning to look directly at her.
"You look good."
"So do you. Nice outfit," Lisbon smirked.
Cilla smiled ruefully. "What can I say? My acquaintances these days are men of taste and sophistication."
"What name are you using this time?"
"Miranda," she answered, her eyes, as boldly blue as the bustier, flaring open on the middle syllable.
Lisbon tilted her head and thought for a moment before asking, "'The Tempest'?"
"Yeah. It's one of the few viable Shakespeare picks. No way could I get away with 'Ophelia' or 'Desdemona' these days."
"Because you think somebody would catch on?"
"Hey, crime lords read. They think it gives them an air of refinement."
In spite of their banter, Jane could fell the unease, more in Cilla than Lisbon, who he could tell was guiding their conversation, spoken and not, with her soft voice. Moving on through the preliminaries, she motioned toward him.
"Jane, meet Detective Priscilla Craig. Cilla, this is my friend, Patrick Jane."
It was the first time she'd ever introduced him as such, but before he could wonder at it, those unnaturally bright blue eyes turned on him. Where they had been hesitant and searching while she watched Lisbon, now they were sharp and incisive, moving down and back up him once, making him feel as if he were being peeled and left open for later inspection.
"Yeah," was all she grunted before turning back to his partner. She reached up and over the back of her head, fingers digging under the front of what Jane realized was a wig and pulled it off, transferring it to the other hand before repeating the action to remove the tight liner. Nut-brown, jaw-length hair tumbled in fine, unruly curls around her head and when she ran her fingers through it, Jane was surprised to see a few fine silver threads. What he had taken for worn youth was actually well-preserved middle-age, a few years older than Lisbon, one or two older than himself.
"What can I do for you?"
"I just need some information."
Cilla nodded and asked, "You have time for me to take a quick shower? I want to get out of this." She motioned up and down her body vaguely with the Beretta, and Jane knew she was talking about more than the clothes.
"Sure. Take your time."
Cilla turned, heading to the bedroom and through it to the bath when she suddenly spun around in the doorway and pinned Jane again with those eyes.
"Look. But don't touch."
Having looked at her books long enough to see a red leather-bound complete set of Jane Austen novels, he asked, tentative and hopeful, "Tea?"
She looked him up and down again, and he squelched the impulse to check his fly.
"Kettle's on the stove, caddy and honey are next to it, cups and saucers in the cabinet above. Everything you need is right there."
And if it wasn't, he didn't need it. Once she knew that was understood, she closed the door. Jane waited until he heard the shower start before going to the kitchen. He filled the kettle, put it on to boil and reached down a cup and saucer. Wondering whether he would face death or dismemberment, he quickly stepped to the refrigerator and retrieved the milk and splashed a bit in the cup, returning it to its place before closing the door. He chose a fine tea and, thinking he had already taken his life into his hands once, took a second bag before reaching into the cabinet above the coffee maker to find a mug. Lisbon and he hadn't shared tea since he had been back, and he had missed it.
Waiting for the water to well and truly boil, he strolled back into the living room, glancing at Lisbon where she had closed her eyes and laid her head back. Knowing she wasn't asleep, he searched out the situation even as he did the room, beginning with the books, fists jammed deep in his jacket pockets to foil temptation.
"Cilla a former colleague?"
Songs of the Portuguese rested against a set of Louis L'Amour, Harry Potter mingled with Agatha Christie, Tolkein nestled in with Tolstoy and Suzanne Collins coupled with Rudyard Kipling, several first editions—and not a single work of non-fiction—among them.
"Mm. And friend."
"Former friend?" He turned to look at her, and her eyes opened slowly to gaze back at him.
"It's complicated."
Nearly everything about her time in San Francisco was, so he let it go. Her eyes slid shut again, and he moved on to the dvd's, amused to find the complete "Firefly" and "X-Files", as well as screen versions of several of the books in the apartment.
"She's undercover?"
"Mm. Been doing it for years, and she's the best. SFPD loans her out to other California law enforcement, even the Feds."
"You ever work with her?"
He stopped at the desk and leaned over it to more closely inspect what appeared to be an original simple sketch by Manet, a study of one of the figures in a larger, well-known painting.
"A few times."
"Doing . . .?"
He turned around to find her eyes on him, watching.
"It's complicated."
The kettle whistled, and he made the tea, a small amount of clover honey for his and a more generous helping for Lisbon's, taking his seat in the wicker chair as Cilla returned. Her wet hair was pinned and clipped back into a small, unruly bun, and the hooker's attire replaced with pajamas, white with tiny black polka-dots, full-length bottoms and short sleeves to reveal skin as fair and unmarked as her face. Contacts removed, her eyes were a golden hazel, but the look in them was just as sharp as they fastened on his cup then slid to Lisbon's mug and back. She walked into the kitchen and pulled a can of ginger ale from the refrigerator, doing a double-take and adjusting the position of the milk before closing the door and popping the top.
Lisbon turned sideways on the couch, angling one knee towards its back and Cilla sat at the other end mirroring her position. She took a drink then looked at Lisbon expectantly, leaning sideways to put the can on the coffee table as she took a photograph from Lisbon's extended hand.
"You ever seen her before? Might have gone by the name 'Lisa Morales'."
Craig studied the picture for a few seconds before handing it back.
"Yeah, I know her. Knew her. She was a working girl. Called herself 'Lynda'. 'Lynda,'" she repeated. "With a 'y'. Looks like she's had some work done, but that's her. We talked a few times. She started hooking while she was at Cal State to supplement low funds, dropped out after two years and went from job to job until hooking was her primary. She was a loner, stand-offish, thought she was better than the other girls. With a mean streak. Didn't make her any friends. Still, they were all pretty upset when she went missing."
"Missing?"
"That's what I assumed it was. Three years ago, almost exactly. I was working the Ortiz case in the Bayview area. I was late hitting the street, and it all happened before I got there. There'd been this car parked in the next block. Old Mercedes, 'classic' the girls said. All they could tell me about the color was that it was 'dark' and nobody saw the plates. Anyway, a couple of them offered, but the guy said he wasn't interested."
"You get a description?"
"He kept his face turned away, so no. All they could tell me was he didn't seem to be too tall. Not fat but not fit. 'Doughy' one of them called him. But they remembered his voice well enough. High-pitched and kind of nasal. Creepy. They were glad he'd turned them down even if the car did smell like money."
"What happened?"
"Lynda—Lisa—showed up while they were talking about him. She took a look at the car and walked over to try her hand, leaned into the driver's side window. He showed her something, and she drew back, cursing, and started to walk off. They thought maybe he was undercover, wanting information. But he said something to her, and she turned around, went back and talked for a couple of minutes then walked around and got in the car. Left with the guy."
She paused then, contemplating, before she spoke again.
"They said it was like he was looking for a type."
She looked at Lisbon speculatively, the agent returning her gaze evenly.
"Anyway, she didn't come back. And that wasn't like her. Every night, all night, no days off, no holidays. After three or four nights, I stopped by some of the businesses on that street wearing my day clothes. Nobody knew anything, and there are no security cameras in the area. I checked traffic cams, but whoever he was got in clean and out the same way. I would've done a vehicle search, but finding a classic Mercedes in California without a tag number or color? Good luck. Eventually I sent her description out to morgues in California and surrounding, but I never heard anything back. Going by the time stamp, that picture's fairly recent, so I take it she's resurfaced alive and well?"
"She's a material witness in a case we're working. Goes by the name Lorelei Martins now."
Cilla nearly choked on the ginger ale she'd just swallowed before exploding.
"Lorelie!" Her eyes, wide with incredulity, slid to Jane and back to Lisbon. "Your Lorelei? Red John's Lorelei?"
Jane stepped into the conversation at that point. "How do you know about her?"
Her gaze on him was so malevolent, he felt himself trying to shrink into his chair.
"I'm a cop. Word gets around."
Marshaling his manhood, he leaned forward to inquire, "You said she'd had work done. What work?"
"Her nose was wider, lips fuller," she answered, addressing Lisbon and gesturing toward those elements on her own face. "She's been nip-tucked. Features are finer now."
She looked hard at Lisbon again, this time worry mixed with suspicion. "Treese, what's going on?"
"Just trying to get some background, something we can use to open her up."
Realizing that was all the information she would get, Craig looked away, her right hand rising to rub up and down the outside of her upper left arm.
"Well . . . it's been a long night, and I need sleep. So if that's all . . .'
"It is. Thanks, Cill."
Her eyes came back to Lisbon's, hand stilling, and her expression went soft, yielding.
"Any time, Treese. Anything I can do—you know that."
"I do."
Accord reached, they both stood, Jane following suit. Cilla walked to the entrance, undid the locks and opened the door, stepping back, her hand resting on the knob. Lisbon stopped on the threshold and turned to face her.
"Anything I can do for you too, right, Cilla?"
"I'm up for early retirement next year, so if you could make time speed up? Sure would make it easy on me." she answered.
"Sorry," Lisbon managed a small tight half-smile. "But I don't think I would if I could. You know I was never one to make anything easy."
At that, Cilla suddenly stepped forward and enveloped Lisbon in a tight, almost desperate hug. "Be careful, Treese," she whispered. "Please, just . . . be careful."
She released and retreated as abruptly as she had made the first move, one hand going to her hip as the other dashed at both eyes.
"I didn't pull your skinny butt out of the fire all those times to see you jump into it now."
"As I recall, it was me saving your bony ass every time I turned around."
"Whatever, Hot-shot."
Lisbon reached for her hand and gave it a final squeeze before she walked out. Before Jane could follow, Craig stalled him, her hand firmly in the center of his chest. She stepped in front of and into him, head up, eyes boring into his.
"Take care of her."
"I will."
"She'll give everything. 'Til she's got nothing left. Don't take that for granted."
"I won't. I swear."
She raised her hand, giving one hard push with her fingertips before releasing him and stepping to the side. He made his way down the hall to where Lisbon waited for him, hearing the door shut and bolts thrown behind him. Once outside, they wordlessly sank into their respective seats in the LaSabre and made their way to the impound yard.
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Tony was waiting for them at the lot, grousing lightly about getting back to the precinct in time to check in, but when Lisbon thanked him again, he grinned and waved her off with an "Anything for you, Detective."
She got on the interstate to head back to Sacramento, but at the Treasure Island exit, she suddenly pulled off and merged onto the Embarcadero South, driving through the China Basin and across the bridge, coming to a stop in the Pier 48 parking lot, facing the bay. Her hands skittered in opposite directions on the steering wheel to meet at the bottom center then back up to come together at the top. A breath came out on a deep whoosh as she leaned forward and laid her forehead on her clenched fingers.
"That was hard," Jane said quietly, and she didn't deny it. She stayed like that for a few minutes. His hand reached out and, uncertain of how or how much to touch her, settled for resting his hand on her upper arm.
"She was a friend, you said?"
"The best. She really did pull me out of the fire. Lots of times. She was . . . You couldn't get anything past her."
Jane left it at that, giving her arm a soft squeeze before withdrawing. She lifted her head and looked out at the bay, her expression woebegone.
"When I left San Francisco . . . after . . ."
"You didn't part well."
"No . . ." Her eyes roamed across the water as if searching for the words.
"I understand, Lisbon. You don't have to say it."
She turned to him, her eyes so full of awful regret and abject gratitude, the pull in his chest seized hold of him with full force, a strong tug, as if by a cord, somewhere to the left of center and down, from behind his ribs. He felt words well up in him, a dangerous urging, and he remembered the way she had looked at him from the other side of that nine-millimeter—her expression wary and shocked in spite of knowing the plan. It wasn't the gun. It was those words.
He didn't know why he's said it. He had refused to contemplate any outcome but success, but if he had wanted to say something on a last chance, wouldn't an apology have been more fitting? Or perhaps a thank you for all she'd done for him, all she had meant to him? Instead, the words he had never thought to say to a woman again had tumbled out of his mouth, coming from where he didn't know—certainly not his head.
He only knew at the time that he was seeing her the way Dumar Hardy had seen her, the way Craig O'Laughlin had as well. And for the third time since she had known him, she was faced with an agent of Red John pointing a gun at her, death the objective. And though it was feigned, though Red John's man was an imposter, this time it had been him. And, oh how he had wanted to set himself apart, sanctify himself from being counted as one of them.
Later, setting up in the warehouse, when she had asked him, wanting clarification, he had deflected like a master, a mere slight of heart. He did remember, but if he tried to explain or—God help him—repeated it, those words would change everything. For both of them.
The thought of it—the danger she would be in, the hindrance to his objective along with a myriad of other innocuous, infectious tiny things—made him cringe, made him want to pull away and distance himself . . . exactly as Lisbon had done.
Suddenly it all came clear to him, her distance and stiffness of the past few weeks, shutting him out. He had been a fool to think she would believe he had forgotten, and a bigger one to think she would forget about it just because he had refused to talk. Of course she hadn't, in spite of what he knew were her strongest intentions. What he had done seemed cowardly now—that he had made what amounted to a declaration then refused to account for it.
And he owed her an accounting, just like he owed her loyalty and friendship and trust because he had taken so much from her and because here she was yet again, having put herself in harm's way, not contending with a politically ambitious boss or a disgruntled big-wig or even an armed mad man. She had faced her own painful past, reopening a wound from which she would never fully recover, exposing herself and her heart. Just to help him find an answer.
Did he owe her the truth in return? Even if he wasn't sure what it was, even if he feared learning it himself more than anything, except losing what he had with her? A memory flashed through his mind: Lisbon standing and staring at him in the attic, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, calling him an idiot before telling him she would take care of a problem he'd made for himself and turning on her heel to march downstairs and punch Donnie Culpepper. She was right. He had been an idiot to think he was the only one who could have all of the answers. Trust Lisbon to know what needed to be done, to know both their limits.
"Lisbon?"
His tone held question, but she had watched the thoughts and emotions chase across his expression until uncertainty was replaced by determination. And that frightened her. Whatever he was about to say had nothing to do with the woman they had just left and everything to do with the thing they were both running from. But, she had come this far with him and refused to turn tail now. Shifting in her seat had her facing him straight on, her back leaning into the corner formed by her car seat and door, ready to hear whatever he had to say. As usual, he silently applauded her courage while taking the easier way, offering her a broad opening but setting a plausible limit in hopes of avoiding the painful specifics.
"If you could ask me just one question right now, and be assured on whatever proof you might choose that I would answer truthfully and not turn it to another purpose, what might that question be?"
She closed her eyes and sat silently for a moment, the two of them still and waiting. When her eyes opened, she looked at him so directly that he thought she could already read the answer in him.
"When did you know Lorelei was working for Red John?"
He exhaled his own captive breath and squinted out his window. The question was so unexpected that he found himself searching for the answer, even though it was much simpler than what he had been dreading. He didn't understand it, but there was some reason she wanted to know, some reason it was important. He wouldn't question it—he had given her his assurance, something he gave sincerely only to her and her alone. He wouldn't cheapen that, make it of no value to her, of no future value to him.
"The first time I met her."
"When she approached you at the bar?"
"I'd made a routine for myself, stayed at the same motel, ate at the same restaurants, played the same three casinos, drank at the same bar. She served my drinks a few times, beginning weeks before she joined me for a chat."
"Is that when you first talked to her? The first time she served you a drink?"
He had only offered to answer one question but knew now was not the time for chiding her. Besides it all seemed to be part of the same thing.
"Only to order and pay. We didn't actually talk until she approached me just before my arrest."
"She took your order and your payment."
"Yes."
"And you could tell from that? How?"
"Cocktail waitresses flirt, play the coquette. It's their technique. But only the booze is for sale. When she set the drink down on the table . . . it was her body language. She was offering something else."
"That could've been—"
"It wasn't."
"But how did you—"
"I knew Lisbon. I just knew. I wouldn't have . . . I don't think I would've even noticed her otherwise."
She looked at him, that deep searching look again, and his eyes widened in a silent plea for belief. Finally, her face and body relaxed, the sparkle he had missed lighting her eyes. His bones seemed to melt, he was that relieved to have managed to say the right thing.
She ran her hands up the sides of the steering wheel then over the top, extending her arms forward and bowing her back in a stretch.
"I know a place," she said quietly, "that serves the best breakfast in San Francisco. We could watch the sun come up."
"Do they have eggs?"
One hand covered her mouth, and he could barely understand her around a huge yawn. "Would I take you to breakfast some place that doesn't have eggs?"
"Ah, but are they good eggs?"
Her bent arm rejoined the other in the stretch, and she twisted first to one side then the other.
"The owner came over from Eastern Europe about a hundred years ago. Been cooking here ever since. You've never had eggs like this."
"It's been a long time since I've had a good breakfast," he said wistfully.
"About seven months?"
"Something like that," he grinned at her softly. "Will there be tea, Lisbon?"
"Her own secret blend," she assured him before leaning closer and whispering as if offering further inducement. "Serves it out of an ancient samovar."
"Then what are we waiting for, m'dear?"
She fired the ignition and wheeled around to exit the lot. "What indeed, Jane. What indeed."
