They're on the road again, coursing down the Expressway towards Montauk in Jamie's Mustang. Eddie's got the wheel, feeling like she's galloping a thoroughbred mouthing at the bit for the signal to make for the finish line. If her Silver Belle is a beloved, retired racehorse who still loves a hard sprint, the Mustang is a fresh young colt with amazingly good manners.
It's the night after Solstice. The longest night of the year but one, with a bare sliver of moon, and no falling stars anymore. But they don't need celestial objects anymore to lend them luck and show them the way. They know exactly where they're going, now, even if they don't know where they'll end up. The nighttime highway is like their own private causeway through the universe again, Eddie thinks. Returning to Montauk so soon, and to the very same room where their relationship finally burst its restraints, is a gift indeed.
"What'd Dianne say? About us only needing one room now?" Eddie asks.
"She's a professional. She just asked if we had a preference for which one. But I could tell she was smiling, even over the phone."
"I think she likes us."
"I think we should come back and stay with her every winter," he says, and she gives him a quick, brilliant grin and turns back to the road.
"Hey, if this gig works out, we might be invited back to work. Paid getaway."
This is the twelfth year of a very closed, invitation-only get-together for thirty or so musical luminaries of the world jazz scene. It began, as these things often do, as a weekend getaway for a few friends, and it's grown. Some of the guests don't even admit to attending; they say they've come to Christmas-shop in Manhattan before flying home in their personal jets.
These people are well-known, incredibly rich and talented, and strong targets for ransom or stalkers or bizarre paparazzi tactics. They want to let their hair down and enjoy not being in the public eye for a little while. For three days and two nights, they eat, drink, sleep and make music together, at an industry billionaire's five-acre compound with secrecy and luxury as the first priorities. Then, over the next year or two, some of the finest innovative recordings and collaborations will slowly be released by the participants' music labels.
She and Jamie will be part of a team of day-and-night security patrols, reporting to the compound's permanent Head of Security. The billionaire host somehow knows Eddie's father's real-estate developer friend, through some complicated web that Eddie isn't sure she wants to know. There will be uniformed and plainclothed police and security inside and outside every building, monitoring the garage, the grounds and especially the front gates.
The permanent home security team is an elite, paramilitary- trained group of ten, and there will be thirty extra police officers and military on the extended team this weekend. She and Jamie, as the members with the least experience with this level of international high-stakes security, will have to step up and learn fast to avoid embarrassing themselves. It's a favor to them that they were even asked to play a role, and Eddie's kicking herself that she didn't see she'd likely end up owing something instead of letting an old man pay off some karmic debt.
Dianne and Harold, however, greet them like old friends, as they check in at the front desk of the Inn. Dianne's even put some fresh fruit and a Tupperware container of her blueberry scones in their room, the one that used to be Jamie's, along with her usual cookies and chocolate and Keurig coffee supplies.
"We didn't know what time you'd get in tonight, or if you'd need to leave for work right away," Dianne explains, leading them to the familiar little cottage to make sure they have everything they need. She's only been told that they're doing another security weekend at a low-key celebrity Christmas party, and she knows enough not to ask any names. "We thought maybe you'd have to work overnight or something, the way those parties go on out here."
"That's super nice of you," Eddie says, dropping her tactical bag and small suitcase next to the dresser, "And a good call. We're working late nights, until ten o'clock or a bit after, but not till tomorrow. We'll try to come in quietly."
"You just get home safe, that's all," Dianne says. "All set? Then sleep as late as you need. We won't bother you with breakfast. And look, there's nobody booked in the other side of the cottage this weekend, so if you need to spread out your things or use both bathrooms, go right ahead."
She waves as she leaves, and Eddie has the distinct feeling she was about to hug them goodnight. She has the energy of someone for whom hugs come naturally, and she's awfully happy for them.
Left alone in the room where they finally stopped running from each other, they share a smile. Jamie holds out his hands, and Eddie takes them willingly and stands on tiptoe to kiss him.
"I think she just told us not to worry about making noise," Jamie says, amused. Eddie thinks he's probably right, but also that Dianne knows very well that couples who work together sometimes need space.
"Feels like it's been a lot longer than not-quite three weeks," she says, slipping her arms loosely around his waist. He rests his arms over her shoulders and kisses the top of her head.
" 'Cause it has been," he points out. "According to Danny, it's been four and half years and not-quite three weeks."
"I like how your brother thinks. Sometimes." She slides her palms around and up his chest, the muscles and planes becoming ever more dear and familiar to her. "I remember what it was like just to stand right here, in this spot," she tells him, "and just know that we were gonna end up kissing."
"You told me to. It was pretty much 'kiss me or else' at that point."
"Did I? I guess I did. I was really fucking turned on, okay? It was hard to pretend to focus on work or anything."
"Were you now," he says. "What got you turned on so bad before I even kissed you?"
"Just things. The drive up. Talking with you, like we hadn't done in ages. Mmm. Oh, that's good."
Jamie's mouth is tracing a slow, whisper-soft path down along her throat and up under her sensitive earlobe.
"Are you telling me," he murmurs, "you weren't making yourself all happy in the shower that night, all by your lonesome?"
"Maybe," she sighs, leaning her head back. "Weren't you?"
"Maybe," he says. "I asked you first."
"What if I was?"
She flashes back to a night in a noisy bar, and the plummeting of her heart as she spotted him come towards her, all dressed up to go out with Jen the doctor. She'd asked him then: What if I was? She was more than jealous, she realizes. He'd broken her heart a little, even though she'd pushed him to accept Jen's offer. How far they'd had to come, from dancing always just out of arms' reach, to here.
He nips her earlobe, and she sucks in a breath with a shiver.
"You gonna tell me what you were thinking about in there?"
"Think I should?"
"I totally think you should."
"What if you don't like it?"
"I would say," he replies, sliding his hands under her sweater, and tugging her t-shirt out of the waistband of her jeans, "That the chances of that are slim to absolutely none. And also – "
"Mm?" she asks, as his fingers find the warm sensitive skin up her spine.
"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
"Well, how can a girl turn down an offer like that?"
"Arms up." He pulls her sweater and shirt both over her head, and drapes them over the nearest chair. "This is nice," he says, tracing a finger over the edge of her bra, a soft creamy color in printed cotton, with small lilac and blue flowers on curling green vines.
"You've seen it."
"Have I?"
"Eh," she wrinkles her nose. "Actually, it ended up on your floor in like five seconds."
"Oh, I'm sorry." He dips his head and brushes kisses over the tops of her breasts, cradling them in his hands. "It's really pretty. Want it off?"
"Uh huh."
She turns around so he can unclasp it, and he keeps going, stripping her down to the skin with an unhurried pace. He plants little kisses here and there as he does. Between her shoulderblades. The curve of her hip. The inside of her knee, as he crouches to help her out of her jeans, with one hand on his shoulder. It's exquisite.
"Now I'm all turned on and cold," she complains, turning back to him. "Not a good combination."
"Shower?" he suggests, cuddling her close. Her eyes light up. They haven't done that yet.
"Then you can do a little more than tell me yours," she murmurs. "I'm gonna want a live demonstration."
In a very few minutes they're under a steamy hot spray, crowded into the little stall, but it hardly matters.
"In my car?" she repeats, a little breathlessly. She's had a few vivid car fantasies herself involving Jamie, and she's not surprised it's mutual. It's a good thing they hadn't shared that bit of information before. The drive up might have taken a lot longer and involved a frantic search for hidden off-road spots.
"Mm hm," he admits.
"And I'm doing this?" she asks, stroking his hard length from balls to tip in her hand. He fucking loves it when she goes light and easy with him, as much as it drives him crazy.
"Yeah," he barely breathes.
"And then this," and she somehow finds room for her knees underneath her, between his feet. As her tongue flicks out to taste him, her hand comes up to cradle his balls, stroking here and there, and his eyes slam shut, and all he can do after that is groan and brace himself upright.
"Don't come," she whispers, "You better not come all over my car."
It's going to be a long, slow night, she decides.
The Jam, as it has become known, takes place at the summer home of a music industry magnate with the very mundane name of Sam Delamont. He started as a small-time producer, promoter and general band babysitter in Texas in 1975, and hasn't stopped working since. His summer compound is estimated to be worth $200 million in land and amenities, and his total net worth is well into nine figures. He's especially famous for not sleeping around on his first and only wife, with whom he has five unusually well-adjusted adult children. He first hosted The Jam in 2005, and nobody who asks for an invitation is ever invited.
Jamie and Eddie's arrival at the main gate of the five-acre, pine-encircled compound causes some initial confusion. The guards at the gate were expecting a 2017 Mustang to contain more guests, not a pair of cops reporting for duty. Their identifications are carefully scrutinized, and they even take the precaution of calling Renzulli to confirm their legitimacy before they're let in. Jamie's surprised they haven't called the One PP to speak to his father, until he sees an image of his family scrolling past on the guards computer screen. They're doing their due diligence, all right, no matter that he and Eddie had sent in their credentials ahead of time.
Apparently, between Renzulli vouching for both of them, and the number of Reagan family photos that have appeared in the media over the years, they pass muster.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," the older of the two guards says, handing back their ID tags. "You wouldn't believe how many paps and party crashers pretend to be law enforcement following up on some bogus call. Follow this road as it swings to the right, quarter mile and you come to the staff lot and apartments. Ask for Augustus, at the concierge desk."
"Thanks," says Jamie.
"The staff have their own concierge?" Eddie asks, as they drive off.
"I guess they have a lot of staff who travel here with their bosses, and they need a central place to ask all the things their bosses might need them to know. And they probably get days off themselves, to shop or whatever. They've got to keep themselves looking sharp, too."
"Different world. Even for a country-club brat. This is next-level living."
"Yup."
They round the corner, and Eddie gasps out loud. The main building is magnificent. It's not ostentatious or over-landscaped, but it's a massive, sprawling, comfortable looking stately home meant for housing multiple families and guests. The central building of white stone is three storeys high, with modest but genuine gray slate roof tiles. It's built around a large, glassed-in performance conservatory at ground level, which can accommodate a small chamber orchestra and a hundred guests. Above this are the Delamont family's living spaces, with the large dining room and kitchen around the back, overlooking the sea. To either side are curved residential guest wings clad in the same stone, both two storeys high. Past these are a series of one-story bungalows and buildings that appear to be custom built spaces for recording, working out, fine arts studios, or just privacy from the main buildings. There's an outdoor swimming pool at the back, covered for winter, and two clay tennis courts.
"Good God," Jamie says flatly. "And this is just the summer house. I hear they live in their own apartment block in Manhattan, rest of the year."
"There's the staff apartments, look. Nicer than what we've got at home."
The staff apartments comprise two chunky three-storey blocks with twelve fully-equipped apartments in each, which can house up to four people at a time comfortably, and more at a pinch. They are very grateful that they made their own arrangements at the Inn, because these apartments are an anthill of activity as temporary staff move in to the lesser-used block, and permanent staff pile in together to make room. It's a combination of the arrival of the personal maids at Gosford Park, and move-in day at a university residence. Many of the staff greet each other as returning colleagues, while others hang back or bluster their way through, according to their attitude and the Q-ratings of their bosses.
They find a large black man they assume is Augustus, waiting for them in the parking lot as they pull in front of the apartments. He whistles happily at the sight of the Mustang, and sort of pats the roof as he leans in to Jamie's open window.
"Reagan and Janko! They told me you were coming down. Nice wheels, man. Saleen, huh? New model?"
"Yup, it's a 2017. Had it six months or so now."
"Now that's a vehicle with legs plus all the new techno-shit. Feel like Iron Man yet?"
Jamie grins. "It is a bit like having Jeeves around, gotta admit."
"Not just for city driving, though."
"Nah, I try to get out and stretch her legs now and then. Part of the draw of coming out here."
"I hear that," Augustus says. "I'm sorry, Officer Janko, we're going on like a pair of stereotypes here."
"No, no. You should see my baby. 1999 Porsche Boxter, silver with the black canvas top. Custom mahogany wood dashboard," she tells him, like it's a secret.
Augustus takes a harder look at her, impressed. "You don't say."
"She's pretty sweet."
"She really is," agrees Jamie. "We brought the Porsche out here a few weeks ago. Smooth as skating."
"So," Augustus rests his considerable forearms on the windowsill and asks them seriously, "Which one's faster?"
"This one," says Jamie, "I mean, Eddie's is nice, but getting on in years."
"So you say," retorts Eddie, "We've never raced them, so there's no evidence either way."
"Aw, c'mon, Eddie. This car has a tested top speed of two hundred miles per hour. Silver Belle had what, one-fifty when she was new."
"Silver Belle has been meticulously maintained, and you know a lot of those published tests are in closed treadmill chambers, not real roads. I'd bet Belle – including, of course, my handling of her in real-world conditions – against this gorgeous piece any day."
Eddie pets the butter soft leather armrest. Augustus bellows appreciatively and Jamie just puts his head to one side and gleams at her.
"We'll see," he says. "One day."
Augustus reaches a hand into the car and shakes both of their hands "Welcome to The Jam. My name is Augustus Timmins, head of private security. Please call me Augustus. I will be your supervisor and chief menace this weekend. You can park over yonder, and get changed for duty at the staff gym over there. There are lockers, if you don't want to leave anything in the car, but this place is crawling with cops and forces. Come find me in the lobby of Block A when you're ready."
Augustus is well over six feet, approaching two-fifty of solid muscle under gleaming chocolate skin, and carries himself like the champion quarterback he was in college. It's impossible to tell how long ago his college days were. He might be forty or sixty. Either way, he is also packing a lot of heat on his person, and his biceps are the girth of Eddie's thigh. He's dressed for outdoor patrol work in non-insignia TACAM-print fatigues and black boots, a black knit cap, and a black windbreaker overtop with many waterproof zippered pockets. Jamie's certain Augustus is ex-US Army, but he wouldn't be surprised if he did some training with the Israeli Defense Army for a while, too.
They like him instantly.
Their first shift on Friday night begins in a glittering whirl as the guests arrive, by car and helicopter and private jet. Jamie, Eddie and four other uniformed NYPD are assigned, at first, to escort guests and cases of jewels, watches and multi-million dollar musical instruments between cars and the large locked safes in each of the guest residences. Several of the guests do not even acknowledge them, letting their assistants do any necessary talking, but others are friendly and curious about everyone they meet.
One enchanting older Brazilian lady with a mass of rich black curls laughs at them, as she walks in between them, assuring them she's never felt safer in her life. Her voice, she explains, is her instrument, and it's insured for more than Wynton Marsalis' third-best trumpet. She even shows them why, belting out a few bars of scat rhythms that bedeck the air with jewels, even though she's clearly only at half-power and having fun.
"Oh, Dad's second-best trumpet, Junia, surely," compliments Wynton's son Brandon, from behind them, carefully watching his own pair of saxophone cases roll ahead on a cart. "We can always make another trumpet. We can't make more of you."
When everyone is settled in, the work turns to patrolling the perimeter of the property and each of the buildings. They have to memorize the names of each of the guests, which car belongs to them, and who is supposed to have access to their cars. It's not always clear. Some of the guests are siblings or cousins or lifelong friends, and treat each other's property in common. Others require thumbprint identification even for their personal assistants to collect so much as a forgotten eyeglass case.
Working the perimeter as a paired unit, they are startled more than once by the sudden appearance of a grinning permanent member of the house security team, who they took for part of a tree or a natural shadow. These people know their stuff.
It's a good thing they do. Even with the warning from the gatehouse, they're surprised at how many opportunists try to sneak over the ten-foot electric fence, using the trees on either side. Some offer flimsy excuses to the gatehouse guards instead, in the hopes of securing even a fuzzy image of one of the guests. The longer they can engage with the security staff, the better chance they have. The only thing to do is to bounce them out as quickly as possible.
Jamie hears a few yelps of pain and curses as these interlopers are plucked out from among the trees or marched out of the front gates, and suspects he doesn't want to know what tactics the house security team are using to eject them. But if he doesn't witness anything and nobody complains…it's a fine line between playing dumb and acknowledging the reality of invasive paparazzi tactics.
The thirty guests, who have each brought two or three staff but no plus-ones to this working weekend, don't need to be introduced to each other. They aren't concerned with ego-posturing in this glitzy band-camp environment. Once they've eaten a good sit-down dinner of steak and seafood, and caught up on the year that's past, it's time to get the instruments tuned up and not waste a single moment. This is their brief interval between the performance season and family holiday parties, and they get to remember their musical roots and consider why music comes through them the way it does. Some head in clusters of twos and threes to the small studios. Others stay in the residential suites, avoiding the cold.
Near eight o'clock, Jamie and Eddie have a few minutes to breathe. They pause their patrol near the swimming pool, tired but happy. They sit on a concrete bench, as cold as it is, and listen to the music swirling all around them.
"This is a fairytale," Eddie breathes, looking around at the compound, glittering with soft golden orb lights all over, in the deepening night. "I mean, I like good jazz and all, but I had no idea."
"Well, don't record any of it. They're checking everyone's phones going in and out, even with the NDA's we signed. And monitoring the wifi."
"I should hope so. This is literally priceless stuff they're creating."
They sit together in silence for a minute or two, both of them contemplating asking the other for a very quick dance, but knowing it's not the time or place.
There's a muffled sound of something in the trees, from behind them, and then a hollow thud.
They're on their feet instantly, the two of them moving wide apart and pincering in on the sound from either side. Behind the trees is the tall electric fence. There's still space for whoever, or whatever it is, to slip out between the trees, but the beams of their superbright flashlights cut right down to the fence, and nothing has crossed either beam.
They sweep in closer together. At ten feet from the trees, Eddie loudly identifies them as NYPD and commands anyone there to step out. There's not a sound.
"Definitely heard something. Animal?" Jamie suggests.
"Late December, out here? Not even racoons."
"A bird? Could have been bird-sized."
"It was more of a 'thump', like something falling. Not heavy, but I didn't hear a bounce."
They both feel it then. A whisper in the breeze, a prickle at the neck.
"Jamie..." Eddie's eyes are huge.
"GO."
They sprint back towards the pool and around to the east wing of the guest residences. Jamie's got his site radio in hand and manages to tone up the call button just as the gas canister hisses angrily with a rising whine behind them.
It's tear gas. They can smell it. It's just blind luck they had their backs turned and covered thirty feet of ground in seconds, or they'd have been temporarily incapacitated. Someone knew they were sitting there, or passing near the trees. This was carefully executed.
"Reagan to Augustus. CS gas deployed behind the swimming pool. Intrusion imminent. Someone's trying to divert patrols to this location. Send teams either side of pool along perimeter. Repeat, send teams either side of the pool. We are unharmed, we reached safe distance. We're monitoring here."
"Copy, Reagan," Augustus says. "Stay on your feet. Keep scouting. Over."
"No rifle fire. Gas canister must've been thrown," Eddie says, panting, "Not too hard to throw a can over a ten foot fence. Someone must've volleyed it over and run the hell along the fence before it went off."
"Which way, though, and why? Paps or party crashers, you think?"
"Let's let the others figure out where they are. We're better positioned to find the can, see what it can tell us, but we're gonna have to wait."
There's a faint sea breeze, but the gas doesn't appear to be drifting towards the house. It's going to take a good hour or more to dissipate enough for a search, unless they can get some masks out here. Water hoses would help, but the cold makes freezing up a real risk. For now, they work their flashlights again over the area, from a safe distance. They try to triangulate the location from the angle of the sound from where they were each sitting near the pool.
It's no use, in tree-thickened darkness. They either need floodlights or to wait for daylight.
They still end up coughing badly by the time Augustus comes back on the air. "Two more intruders detained and under escort to the gatehouse," he reports. "Neither has knowledge of any CS gas, and they weren't anywhere near to it. Nothing else out of the ordinary out there. A diversionary attempt, like you said. Maybe a prank."
"10-4. We can try again in the morning. Unless you want to get some lights up and work overnight?" asks Jamie.
"Let's give it another thirty. We may know more by then. Night patrols will be all over the fence till dawn, anyway."
"Copy that."
They have to find the can. They're the new kids out here, and the last thing they want is to look incompetent. But after half an hour, Augustus, meeting them in person in the pool area, tells them to call it off. They can come back before their shift in the morning, if they want, to lead a daylight search, since they were the two witnesses to its location.
"Someone was waiting for a patrol to get to the pool area at that time. This wasn't about you. Don't sweat it," he tells them. "You bounced as many looky-loos as the rest of us, and I got a couple great reports of you interacting with the guests. That's not easy. They don't even notice staff most of the time."
They have to be satisfied with that, for now.
"One more hour of regular patrols before you switch off," Augustus goes on. "Stick around after you get changed, and come meet me on the east side of the Conservatory. Trust me, you don't want to miss it."
There are three Ford F-150 trucks parked in a tidy row in the shadow of the glass performance conservatory, all forest-green. They're used for general transport on the property. Right now, they're at rest. Three or four anonymous lumps of people huddle together under blankets in the bed of one truck, and Augustus sits on the tailgate, his powerful legs swinging like a little boy's. There's an aroma of coffee in the snappingly cold air, and every now and then a small puff of a cigarette from someone in the truck bed. Just tobacco, Jamie notes. He has no illusions of what's getting smoked inside the building, but that's not his business.
"Shush. Work perk," Augustus whispers to them, with a finger on his lips. "This time of night, any security staff off duty is allowed to come and listen for a half hour or so. You've been vetted to hell and back already, so unless y'all are secret musical geniuses, we're not too worried. But I need your phones and any other transmitting gear in that bin."
He points to a white plastic storage bin with a lid, in the bed of the second truck. The bin is lined with corrugated rubber mats four inches thick all around and under the lid, to stop the smallest soundwave in its tracks.
"No way," Eddie breathes. Jamie just grins, and hands her his phone to drop off along with her phone and Fitbit. In seconds, they're climbing up into the truck bed, and someone's handing them a couple of rough wool Army blankets.
They wrap up together. Jamie pulls Eddie sideways across his stretched-out legs, and she curls up against his chest, because nobody in this crew cares if they're partners or lovers, as long as they do their job. They're pressed up against two more security crew who are total strangers to them, but that's all to the good. It's freezing cold and people are warm. And in this atmosphere, the easy camaraderie feels right. Someone waves a thermos of coffee at them, and they gratefully drink deep of the strong, hot brew.
"Y'all okay?" their nearest neighbor asks. "Heard y'all got gassed."
"We ran, we're fine," Jamie whispers back. "Gonna look again in the morning."
"Not by far the weirdest shit I ever heard out here."
He leans back against the rear window of the truck cab, Eddie in his arms, feeling as good as it's possible to be with such an incident hanging unsolved over them.
Three different high-level, impossibly complex jazz jam sessions in one performance space should sound like a riot of clashing noise, but instead it's layered, textured. Jamie realizes it's a conversation between old friends. Each small trio or quartet is calling and responding to the other, in its own way. It's instinctual, unscripted. He can't see her, but he recognizes Junia's joyful, powerful voice, hollering and teasing and praying along with the woodwinds and keyboards and muted brass.
He's not a jazz person, really, though like Eddie he enjoys it now and then. He's certainly never played in a jam session before, and he's momentarily confused at his own understanding of what's going on.
Then he remembers listening to a new jazz CD with his father, sitting over whiskey, four or five years ago. Frank, sitting back in his chair with his eyes closed blissfully, picked out most of the instruments, even identified a couple of the groups of instruments that were playing together as opposed to those playing off each other. Jamie remembers being impressed but hardly surprised at Frank's knowledge.
It sounded just like this, he thinks.
He wonders how you could ever capture something like this sound on a recording. It had to have been a live recording. You couldn't splice it together, or have the different groups playing against pre-recorded tracks of each other, not with the laughing and the sarcastic split-second mimicry that's so clear that even he can hear it. To get the spatial effect he heard on the recording, you could only have one microphone in one place, just like he's sitting still now.
Then he remembers his father's comment about The Jam itself: "That's quite an event. Some great recordings have come out of that." Was his father referring to that same CD they'd listened to together? Why didn't he mention it, if so?
He sits up a little. Maybe he could learn something useful here. Here, at this event, everyone's phones are turned off, in a soundproof bin. He'll ask Augustus about bug-sweeps and personnel-vetting later on.
"What is it?" Eddie murmurs into his chest.
"Tell you later. Just a thought."
It's late when they get back to the inn, and they're cold and tired. Hot chocolate and Dianne's scones hit the mark.
Jamie warms up one hand around his mug, and taps out an e-mail to his father with his other thumb.
"You gonna tell me what's going on, or am I gonna have to interrogate you?"
He looks up, realizing he hasn't said much in some time. Eddie has her chin resting on her folded arms on the little table, gazing at him curiously. "Maybe something interesting, or it may be nothing. I just wondered how Dad got hold of a recording that sounded almost exactly like that session tonight."
"Huh." Eddie rolls her head to one side, sleepily. "Are there other events like The Jam?"
"I have no idea. Augustus might know, just from being around the scene, even though he's military."
"And this has what to do with tear gas landing a few feet away from us?"
"Again, maybe something, maybe nothing. That still might've been a prank. You see any connection?"
She thinks, her forehead crinkling a little. "Not yet. If there is one, it'll come. C'mon, let's warm up in the shower and hit the sack."
"Long as it's not my sack you're hitting."
"Hitting wasn't anywhere near my plans," she assures him seriously, her eyes twinkling deeply.
"Really, now."
"You liked that thing last night?"
He glances down at his already half-hard self. "Very much. But you're tired. Why don't you," he stands up and comes around to her side, bringing her to her feet with his hands linking around her ribs, "Just let me do for you tonight. Then I'll tuck you in all nice and warm and happy."
"But you?"
"Will survive." He nuzzles into the side of her neck and starts her walking towards the bathroom. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah."
He does indeed tuck her in, squeaky clean and very happy indeed, half an hour later. He's not unhappy himself, and Eddie has some new visual fantasy material to sleep on. He kisses her heavy eyelids as they fall closed, telling her he's just going to see if his dad's e-mailed back and then he'll come to bed. She nods, and is asleep almost before her next breath.
Five minutes later, he's scrabbling through his bag for his ear-phones. Frank had ripped the first track of the CD to an audio file, and attached it to his e-mail.
"I didn't ask as many questions as I should have," Frank had written, "because the recording was given to me at a house chamber concert by the host, Hunter Mills. NYPD donor politics, I'm afraid. My understanding was that Mills was part of the jam session, but I realize now that I have nothing to base that upon. Have a listen yourself and see if anything jumps out at you. Remember, jazz is a conversation, often a game of challenge. When you're at the event, listen for someone that sounds self-conscious. You know what people sound like when they're thinking about something and trying not to say it out loud. That's the person with something to hide."
What jumps out at him from the track is not self-consciousness at all, but Junia's soaring, laughing tones. Junia spends most of her year in Brazil. So his father's recording may well be from an earlier year of The Jam, as he thought.
Junia's voice is insured for as much as Wynton Marsalis' third-best trumpet. How much is that?
A cool few million at least, he thinks. Would she, perhaps, take a gamble on the terms of her recording contract if she knew something was happening with her voice? Would she put her friends' contracts at risk by helping someone make bootleg recordings of their private jams? He doesn't think so, but this is a whole new world for him.
He closes his laptop and gets undressed, sliding under the quilt next to Eddie. He's not in the least tired now, but he's got to try to rest, at least.
He turns his thoughts, instead, to what it means that hypervigilant Eddie lets herself fall asleep so easily in his presence, letting down her guard completely around him. That she trusts him so deeply with her body, that's she's always had to defend. The thought makes his chest tight with a fierce love he doesn't know how to contain or express. He fits himself around her limbs as best he can without waking her, and carefully drapes an arm over her waist. Inhaling the scent of her, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift and free-associate ideas, knowing his mind will have put a few puzzle pieces together by morning.
By seven o'clock, they're both awake, fed and on the road to the Delamont compound. They want to get there as soon as there's the least daylight to work with. The tear gas ought to have dissipated from the air by now, though they make sure they have plenty of medical gloves for combing through the area.
Augustus is not at all surprised to see them so early, and he's happy to let them on site ahead of schedule. "Something ain't right about that whole thing, and it kept me up thinkin'," he admits. "We've had pranksters, and a pile more gatecrashers overnight, but that tear gas didn't feel like a prank."
There's no sign of a tear gas canister on the ground under the trees, anywhere near the area they heard the sound and saw the gas emerge. After an hour of careful searching, including checking for footprints, dust scraped off the electric fence or anything else, they find nothing. Just the lingering smell of CS gas.
They report to Augustus, discouraged. But this time, they also take him aside where nobody else can hear, and Jamie outlies the facts at his disposal about the CD of some previous Jam event, the high-rolling NYPD donor Hunter Mills having a copy and giving it to Frank, and most importantly, Junia being recorded without her knowledge (he thinks). Augustus listens in stony silence. Then he asks to hear the clip of the recording, and Jamie plays it for him through his phone.
"It's a good thing you told me about this," Augustus says. "If they'd listened to this at the gatehouse on your way out, they'd have assumed you were recording last night. It's that similar."
"So it's not just me? I don't know much about jazz, only I remembered Junia's voice."
"It's not just you. I don't know what year this is from, but I'm betting Junia will. We'll find her as soon as she's up and around. I'll get her PA to let us know."
"You think this has anything to do with the CS gas incident?" Eddie asks. Augustus crosses his arms and thinks.
"Yes, but I can't see how yet. And I don't mind telling you, that's troubling. It's my freakin' job to see these things."
An hour later, Junia joins them in one of the small studios, and listens to the clip. Her eyes closed, she smiles and sways, even snaps her fingers a little. "Yes, that's me, and that was here. I can tell you it was three years ago. I know because Paulie Peterson is playing oboe, and Kelson Jones is playing double-bass. Paulie hasn't been able to make it since then, and we lost Kelson a few months after that. But how did you get this? These are supposed to be private and unrecorded sessions. You haven't got audio on the security cameras, Augustus?"
"Only at the gatehouse and in the lobby of the two staff buildings, Ma'am. Everywhere else is video only."
"Well, this is serious. A whole lot of the same crowd are here now, but there's some you really don't want to upset, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, Ma'am, I do," agrees Augustus. "Would look real bad, and only a few musicians were on this recording anyhow."
"I'm going to have to let my management know there's at least one illegal recording of my voice, and we'll have to identify the rest."
"Would Mr. Delamont be able to help identify anyone?" Eddie asks, "I know he's management, not a musician, but he probably recognizes everyone's sound?"
"Oh, yes, he can," Junia says. "I'll go see him now. Augustus, will you come? And these two officers should come, too, since the Commissioner's already involved somehow."
It's basic human hubris that resolves it all, in the end. In a truly mythological sense, thinks Eddie, since there was actual flying and warnings involved.
She and Jamie had repeated every word they could remember of their conversation by the pool to Sam Delamont, in his office overlooking the Conservatory. At Jamie's suggestion that the first sound they heard might have been a bird, Delamont looked up sharply.
"Did you check the trees?" he asked Augustus, who nods.
"Yes, Sir. My people shinnied up as high as a Marine can climb, and had a good look round on both sides of the electric fence."
"Go higher. And check everything between the tear gas site and within twenty feet of the Conservatory windows. Look for something perched on top of every horizontal, invisible from the ground. The gas canister may be hanging high up, too."
Jamie's eyes widen. "A drone? Or drones?"
"That's what I'm thinking," Delamont says. "A remote mike attached to a drone. Bird-sized or smaller. Might even look like one from the ground. Easy to lift an empty tear gas can with a small drone, too."
Augustus breaths deep, his chest heaving with anger, "So they send the drone with the mike into position, just before the open jam session. Then they heard Reagan and Janko talking, got spooked, and set off the tear gas. They could either hit you, and you'd call for assistance, or you'd radio across for backup. Either way, while everyone was on the ground looking around, the mike drone would be flying right overhead in the dark."
"Black drone, black sky, no moon," intones Junia, poetically.
"They didn't expect Reagan to send everyone away from the site, knowing it was a diversion. That would've spooked them," says Delamont.
"You think they'll try to reposition the mike drone again tonight?" Eddie asks Augustus. "Would they be that reckless?"
He nods.
"I'm counting on it. They got so close once, they'll try again. Who knows how much they're being paid, and from where? You were right, Officer Janko, nights like that are priceless. They'll know we're watching, but they don't know where. They'll have to stay close to that section of the fence, though. Drones that size don't have a long range, and that bit of fence is the closest to the Conservatory."
"As the drone flies," says Delamont. "Right. Act as if this is really happening, Augustus. We'll tell everyone afterwards that it was just a practice-drill now that the drone age is upon us. Junia, let's you and me listen to this track again and see who we can pick out. They'll have to know they were recorded."
"Sir, I can have my father send over his CD," Jamie offers. "This is just a short clip I have on my phone. The whole recording's nearly an hour."
"Will he be heartbroken?" Delamont cracks a grin. Jamie manages his first smile of the day.
"He will. He's more of a jazz guy than even I knew, but he'll be glad to have it out of his hands once he knows where it came from."
"I'm glad to hear both of those things. The One PP has a helipad on the roof, correct?"
"Yes, Sir. Let me give you my father's Executive Aide's direct line to arrange that, and I'll call him myself to grab the CD from home."
"Well, then," Delamont rubs his hands together and blinks behind his glasses. "It looks like all there is to do is wait. Let's order lunch. You are all my guests."
It's over before eight p.m. on Saturday.
As soon as it's properly, deeply dark, the evening ground patrols begin along the perimeter, like always, but a little more frequently tonight. Nothing unusual for the day after a prank.
Except high in the trees above the fence sits the smallest and lightest member of the security team, secured in a sling harness, thanking her lucky stars she has no fear of heights.
"In position," Eddie whispers into her wrist, from under a non-reflective black balaclava cap.
"10-4," Augustus' voice sounds in her earpiece.
It's not a long wait. In about ten minutes, she sees a tall, slender figure approaching, in the lenses of her infrared-vision binoculars. Just one, with a battery pack glowing warm from inside the backpack slung over his shoulder as he walks carefully between the trees outside the fence.
"Fifteen feet from fence. Ten. Backpack is on the ground. He's looking around. He's pulling out the unit. Go. GO. Light him up," she hollers, finally.
Three Marines, who looked like tree-shapes and rock-shadows a second ago, emerge from the trees, and a fourth drops nearly on top of the kid, who screams.
"Lookin' for this?" one of the Marines asks, holding up the remains of a crushed drone, the approximate size of a small blackbird.
The kid's whining for his father before anyone lays a finger on him.
That would be Sam Delamont, the father of five unusually well-adjusted children, who have always been told they'll have to learn to make their own fortunes, though they can always depend on their father's support and guidance and a reasonable living allowance.
His youngest, clawing his way through the bottom rungs of a cut-throat digital era in the music industry, doesn't hold with that philosophy, after all.
The card arrives at the One-Two two days after The Jam. It's from Sam Delamont's Manhattan office. It's addressed to both of them, but it lands on Eddie's desk, as "Janko" is sorted first in the mailroom.
Admiring the fine cream stationery, she decides not to rip open the envelope as she normally would, and fishes her knife out of her tactical bag instead. "I don't think we're in trouble. Any bets?"
"Christmas card," Jamie shrugs. It's the most likely answer, after all.
She slides her knife under the envelope seal, and it gives way easily, with the satisfying creaky scrape that comes from textured linen cardstock. She pulls out the matching card, and a folded, printed page comes with it. She spreads it out on the table and reads first the card and then the paper, eyes widening.
"What? Note from Delamont for being discreet about his kid's arrest? Letter of commendation? Complaint?"
"You're not going to believe it," she says, her eyes dancing. She reads the printout again to be sure. Yes, it's true. Somehow, a distant dream right off of her no-chance-this-lifetime list has come true. "We're going to Monticello, Jamie. Next May, as the Delamont's guests. And we're bringing the Mustang and Silver Belle."
Monticello Motor Club in upstate New York is the country club for sports car people, kart racers and auto enthusiasts in general. The Gold membership tier to which their host belongs begins at $13,000 per year, with a $150,000 initiation fee, plus extras. Among other country club amenities, full-service garage, car showroom and auto event days, the club has its own indoor and outdoor tracks. Members and guests can legally bring their personal vehicles and drive them to their technical speed limits, under professional instruction.
Jamie's only ever heard about the club from his father, who was once invited to attend a fundraising day of kart races by the extremely wealthy children of even wealthier members. After that, Jamie and Joe used to pore over the website with something approaching actual lust. Even visiting as a guest required higher access than they could imagine for themselves.
He looks stunned, and then, as the idea settles in, like a kid in a candy store with a hundred dollar bill in hand. "No way."
"Way," she shows him the card as he jumps up to stand behind her, reading over her shoulder. "Augustus must have suggested it to Delamont. Is that not the ultimate dream date? They're gonna love a twenty year old Boxter in top condition, and your new baby Mustang. And just think – we may finally prove once and for all which one's faster."
"Or who's the better driver."
"Or whose car handles better on whatever track conditions we get that day…"
"Okay, it's a draw, already." He picks up the printed sheet and scans it quickly. "Eddie, Eddie, this is amazing. A tune-up and cleaning service, a race lesson, two hours of track time, lunch and dinner at the club, a demonstration race in the evening..."
"We are going to be so freakin' high on adrenaline, we're gonna be racing all the way home. Better bring your dad's courtesy card."
She flashes back to gregarious Officer Wong, explaining how he knew he'd marry his wife when he saw her going full-bore in police war games. Whatever idea she had about finding a public racetrack or a stock-car rally date for she and Jamie has nothing on a day at Monticello.
"You sound pretty high already," he teases, his voice sweet and sandpapery in her ear, the way it gets when he can barely contain himself.
Jamie's phone buzzes on his hip, and he reaches for it. Scrolling through an e-mail, he shakes his head, still beaming, as if he can't quite believe it.
"It's Dad," he says. "Delamont's attaché just delivered a whole box set of legit recordings from the last twelve years of The Jam to his office, in return for him giving up his bootleg CD. Says that CD helped a whole lot of artists prove they had no knowledge of being recorded, and saved them from massive contract fines."
She arrives in Katonah at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, to find the house awash in light. Clusters of icy-blue dangling lights frame the front of the house, and the two bare-limbed Japanese maples out front glitter with tiny golden flickering ones that twinkle off a few large gold and silver orbs suspended from the branches. Through the living room window, a Christmas tree trimmed simply with white lights and gold ribbon bows shares space with a large ginger cat blinking at her from the sill. It's far more tasteful than the display across the street, which involves an entire garden of inflatable reindeer and snowmen, and flickering flight lights and a red neon arrow on the chimney. The neighbors appreciate each other's efforts. Katonah likes competitive displays.
"Eddie! Come on in. Merry Christmas." Bradley kisses her cheek in greeting at the door. "Just you? I heard there might be some extra company this year."
"Oh – no," she says, "Jamie's with all four generations of his family. Sort of hard to compete with that, but I hope you guys can meet soon."
"Well, we'll see what we can do to make up for our small numbers."
Eddie, thinking of all her parents did to make up for their small numbers, merely smiles and lets Bradley lead her to the guest room. She's glad that she's their guest, and that this isn't the house where she grew up. Had she known how many family ghosts were lingering in that house, she wouldn't have been nearly as content there. But here, everything is modern and new, and Bradley adores her mother with an uncomplicated, undemanding affection that is exactly what Mira needs.
"Eddie?" her mother calls, coming down the hallway. "Xristos se rodi, darling."
"Vaistinu se rodi, Mama. The place looks great. And smells great."
"You are just in time to test the hors d'oeuvres for tomorrow."
"Oh, good. I've been fasting since I left Manhattan."
"A whole hour! You poor thing," her mother smiles. Ever elegant, she looks younger than her years, in slim blue jeans, a white blouse and a classic fawn crew-neck sweater in good cashmere. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, is loose around her shoulders, cut almost exactly like Eddie's is now. They both notice this and laugh. "If your hair was still brown, we'd look even more alike," Mira notes, stroking Eddie's hair as she pulls her into a hug.
"Yes, but you've got the height in this family."
"Ah, well, your Nagymama Edit was only five feet, so you're still taller than her. Now come into the kitchen and see what I've got waiting."
Following the tantalizing scents of cinnamon and orange, pastry and butter, Eddie follows her mother. She thinks, for a moment, that Mira seems a little distracted, but that's only to be expected, with all of the upheaval and extra work of Christmas.
As they round the corner, Mira takes a breath and calls out, "Su svi spremni?"
"Is who ready?" Eddie asks, confused. The kitchen seems dark, and yet –
"Xristos se rodi, rođaka Edit!"
Mira flicks the kitchen lights on. On the counter are her laptop and Bradley's, side by side and angled slightly toward each other. Each one shows a beaming face, about Eddie's own age, that seem familiar to her, but she can't place them. Apparently seeing her on their own screens at home, the man and woman wave to her.
"Cousin Edit, hello! I am Jelena. I am grandchild of Lizzie. That is my cousin Bojan. He himself is grandchild of Andrej. He is also police constable here in Belgrade! How small is the world!"
She's speechless for a moment. "Hello!" she manages. "I had no idea I would be meeting you! Vaistinu se rodi!"
Jelena, whose English is apparently quicker, translates for her cousin, who is currently across town from her in Belgrade.
"Told you we'd see what we could do about our small numbers," Bradley says, putting a glass of red wine in her hand.
"Thanks," she says faintly. She pulls up one of the kitchen stools and sits down, angling the two laptops so both of her cousins can get a decent shot of her face. Jelena definitely looks like a cousin, but Bojan looks like he might be her older brother, with the same short, round chin, the same nose and eyebrows.
"Tako je lepo videti te," she says. "It's so good to see you. I can keep up with you in Serbian if we go slowly. Tell me all about yourselves!"
And for the next hour, they do. It's not a time to dust off old family secrets, but to reach out and connect. Eddie's never known any family members of her own generation, and it's a strange sensation to think of these two growing up as cousins, playing in each other's houses at the same time she was growing up here in Katonah. By the time they've gotten through a rapid retelling of each other's life stories, mutual invitations to visit and two glasses of wine apiece, it's three o'clock on Christmas morning in Belgrade, and her cousins are giddy with exhaustion. They'd stayed up all night just waiting for her to come through her mother's door.
Jelena is an administrative assistant at a medical school. She's married and has two small girls, aged seven and ten. She studied to be a biologist, but fell in love with a doctor, and so they could afford for her to stay at home with the children. She has recently returned to work, and thinks she might take some medical courses. She's an avid reader, and she and Eddie share the same taste in international spy thrillers, to their amusement. The children are asleep, but Jelena shows photographs of them: solemn miniatures of their mother. Their father, the doctor, is a gentle bear of a man, bearded and smiling.
Bojan is a constable in the national police force, stationed in his hometown of Belgrade, but he's worked all over the world as a UN peacekeeper, since Serbia joined the UN. He's never married, but, he says, he is sure the right woman is out there waiting for him. He's fascinated that she is dating her old police partner, and wants to know all about the NYPD's system of partners. In Belgrade, he says, they work alone or in teams if the case requires it. He's never considered asking one of the female constables on a date, he says, because they are very tough and they scare him.
At that, Eddie howls with laughter and explains that she's tougher on the outside than Jamie, but he's more resilient on the inside. Bojan listens attentively, and thanks her most courteously when she finishes.
After they end the call, with promises of another early in the New Year, Eddie turns to her mother, shaking her head in wonder.
"Mom, how did you even…"
"I told you I had two names. You're not the only detective in the family – and the Internet is very fast these days. I e-mailed six people that I thought might be the ones. Bojan and Jelena wrote back right away and said they'd been hoping to find me for years. They, too, have family stories they have heard only small pieces of. Maybe the three of you can solve some mysteries. Two of you are police officers and one works at a medical school attached to a university – think how many resources you have between you!"
"You sure you want us to do that?" Eddie asks. "You can't un-know things once you've found them out."
"Volyenitchka, it's time," says her mother. "You want to bring your Jamie into the family, you should both know what that means."
I met my cousins! Jamie reads, just before he leaves the back seat of his father's car. We Skyped. They're awesome. Have a great service. Love you.
He sends a string of hearts back to her, and steps out into the frosty night outside St. Xavier's Church. The security detail nods a friendly reply to his thanks, closing the door behind him, and he falls in with his family, assembling together from three different vehicles.
Jack is standing on the street talking with his old friend Tasha, each of them obviously admiring the other's dressed-up Christmas look. He's finally taller than Jamie this year. Sean is nearly at his eye-level. Erin and his father will always tower over the rest, due to whatever quirk of genetics they inherited. He thinks of Eddie's mysterious cousins, and wonders what she might be learning, right now, about her own family.
Their family. Nothing's been said between them about that, not yet, but it's clear they're not planning on anything temporary. It might almost be worth it for the look on her face to spring a proposal on her on New Year's Eve, but they've got enough major changes to deal with for their first year as a couple. He's struck by a thought, though, and as he herds the younger Reagans in front of him, he turns it over in his head, and likes it more each time.
Not a proposal of marriage, not yet, but a promise of one to be made next New Year's Eve, or put forward to the next New Year's Eve, depending on where they are with their relationship. They're cops, and they don't like big surprises much, but they do like having the next step up to work towards.
"Oh, I know that look," Danny says, beside him.
"What look?"
"That's the look of a man looking around and wondering how he got so damn lucky."
"Ah. Well, I can't deny that."
"I mean, she's not even here with us, and you're still looking like that."
"We didn't have smartphones when you and Linda were dating," Jamie points out. "I've got her right here in my pocket."
"Tasha's family's gonna sit in the pew front of us," Jack informs them, with a slightly dazed look of his own. Sean groans as the sappiness of it all, and Erin and Nicky throw Tasha matching approving smiles.
And two hours later, Jamie does, in fact, hold down the number "1" on his phone, in the pocket of his wool overcoat, as they rise for the Doxology. He knows Eddie will hear the music, and the entire congregation singing together as they have for decades, most of them. She'll know that he wants to share a little of why Church is important to him, especially tonight, and what it feels like to be sitting in the middle of it. Sometime she might want to feel it for herself, but if not, that's something they'll deal with.
For now, he knows she's listening, right there with him every second as the confounding mysteries of difficult human journeys, strife, family and future swirl around them in the music.
…et in terra pax,
homínibus bonæ voluntátis.
...to be continued in the New Year!