Liz awoke, surprised to find herself refreshed and rested, having slept the entire night through. She had, last night, instantly melted into the plush warmth of the most comfortable bed she had ever known.
She reluctantly sat up, stretched, throwing the back the blankets, she padded to the bathroom. Forty minutes later, dressed and famished, she headed out, fastening the watch on her wrist. She followed the smell of delicious food down the corridor and the foyer steps.
She found Red and Dembe in the kitchen. Dembe looked up from his coffee and Red, sleeves rolled up was slaving over a hot stove.
He sat a plate with a fluffy omelette beside Dembe, waving his spatula with a flourish. "An Army travels on its stomach." he declared with a finality that she found amusing.
"Are you going to attack someone today?" she jested, taking her seat, the fantastic aroma of the food making her mouth water.
Dembe shifted his eyes in a non-committed manner. Liz's smile slipped a tad then craned her neck searching out Red Reddington. "You aren't, are you?"
"What time is it?" Red asked absently, sitting his pan aside, going to pour everyone a fresh cup of coffee.
"Almost ten." Dembe answered smoothly, his nose seemingly buried in the morning headlines.
Liz bolted upright. "Oh my God, I am so late."
Red hands cupped her shoulder gently receding the woman, "Everyone has the day off. Except me, of course." he pointed at Dembe who had glanced up surreptitiously. "And him."
Dembe's scowl deepened.
"Sorry big guy, you're needed." Red placed cream and sugar in Dembe's cup. "I'll buy that new Ducati you've been pestering me to get." Dembe's frown disappeared. The man went back to his newspaper.
"And what do I do?" Liz wanted to know. "What are you gonna buy me?"
"Do you want a new Ducati too?"
Red sighed, seeing the woman's expression had not changed one iota. "Read a book, do yoga, take up water coloring." He exasperated. "What do you usually do on your days off?"
She pouted effectively, her tone sullen. "None of the above."
Then Red sighed again, pulling her along, making his way to his office. Liz pulled away quickly, hastily retracing her steps, grabbing her plate and coffee.
After finishing her book, Liz toured the house walking room to room.
The place was enormous. Just on the east side of the two story building she had found two sitting rooms, two bathrooms, a game room, an entertainment room and an atrium. In her search, she found Red Reddington sitting in a semi-enclosed porch, drink and cigar in hand, enjoying the evening air.
"There you are." she said as she neared him. "I've been looking all over for you."
"What did you need?" he reached to roll the cherry off the end of the fragrant smoke.
"That smells good, please don't put it out."
He put the tip back to his lips, tonguing the end then drew on the cigar, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream.
"Anything new on the western front?"
"No, nothing yet." He waved his cigar aimlessly, "Not that I mind, to be honest."
"Tired?"
"Yes."
She was a little shocked that he had answered her so simply.
"There's something to be said for the quiet before the storm."
"There's something about this one that's bothering you, isn't there." Elizabeth stated.
"From what I know of Carver, when he does surface, it'll be messy and eventful." he rubbed his eyes tiredly, "I'm not looking forward to it."
"We've dealt with worse, haven't we?" Something was making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
"There are too many unknown variables in play." he thought aloud.
"And Tom isn't helping any."
"He needs to get the Fulcrum and will do whatever it takes."
"I don't know anything about the Fulcrum." she exasperated.
He lifted consoling eyes, "That's enough for today, Lizzy, not to worry. I have it covered."
"He won't give up."
"He'll get it or you," Red mumbled, puffing on his cigar, "over my dead body."
Liz had spent the last two days with Red and Dembe. The only development so far, was that Edward Costa had been found, in New Jersey of all places. Red's crew kept tabs on him and now it was a waiting game.
Red had scheduled a meeting with the man for the following night via an associate.
During her time with the two men Liz had smiled frequently at the lively discussions concerning books and music. Both men were well read, versed in many different subjects. Liz was fascinated by the array of knowledge Red Reddington possessed. The man had scattered a potpourri of weird facts throughout any narrative he undertook.
Liz found herself laughing out loud on many different occasions. As for Red, his thoughts often turned to Carver. The itch under his skin grew each day that the bastard was not found.
This guy was like Houdini.
Red settled back into to the comfort of his dining room chair, shifting his body, lifting his chin regally. Tonight they dined on amazing Mexican dishes from one of Reds favorite 'hole in the wall' establishments. And he had to say, he was enjoying watching Liz enjoy the meal. Truth told, he had enjoyed each meal with her. She had taken such pleasure in each and everyone.
"Do you have copies of the Stewmaker's victims on your computer?" Red asked, before sipping from his beer.
"I do, yes." Elizabeth sat her own beer aside. Focusing her attention. "Why?" she enquired.
"I thought I might be able to assist you with identifying a few." Red waved his hand casually about. "Narrow down your search."
The woman eyed him warily, and Red saw her hesitation, perplexed by it.
"Lizzy, I assure you," Red assured her, leaning forward slightly, his arm resting on his thigh, "I have nothing to gain by offering my assistance." his brow furrowed slightly, "Although, perhaps I did."
He had her full attention. "About five years ago I was having a minor rivalry with a man named Hector Pineda." his chin heightened, his eyes narrowing into a slight slit. "We were both vying for a large deal, his supply was closer... my shipment arrived first." he shook his head and leaned forward slightly. "Because I'm just that good." the man leaned back totally satisfied himself. "I didn't hear anything out of him after that."
His mouth pursed thoughtfully and he seemed in deep concentration for a long spell.
"You gained a financial boost from his disappearance." It was summed up.
"A very large one, yes."
The woman stuck her fork in her mouth as she stood, gesturing for Red to wait and took off to her bedroom. Several minutes later she returned with her lap top. Red held his smile, reaching behind him for a ream of paper and a couple of pens.
"I'll look, you write." He said as he pulled out the seat next to him and slid her plate across the table.
"The pictures are numbered." She explained. "If you recognize one, I need the number and the name, I guess."
"Eat." he directed, sliding her computer closer. The man scrolled through the photos rapidly, his movements finally slowing by degrees. "Number eleven, Josef Nance."
For the next fifteen minutes the routine was unvaried. Except when they reached...
"Number thirty-two is William Kelley and he is not dead."
"But... he's in the book."
"Doesn't mean he's dead. I saw him, a month ago in Macao."
"You're sure?"
"I sat across from the man at a poker table."
"Why would he be in the book then?"
"Proof of death."
"Again, if he's not dead...?"
Red shrugged. "If there was a hit out on him, he could have bought his way out. Because of the Stewmaker's reputation, his word that Kelley was dead was good enough proof." Red smiled wryly, "There isn't supposed to be a body left, after all." It was reminded needlessly, "Trust me, he's very much alive."
Liz watched him scroll through the photos, bypassing some, hesitating on others. Red's eyes skimmed the page moving slowly downward, then hastily revisited one photo after another, his photographic memory coming to the fore.
"Number forty-eight, Sasha Valencia." Red frowned, then reached for his beer.
She watched his face closely, the handsome profile allowing anger at first then oddly, sadness. "You knew her." She surmised.
"Yes, I knew her." his tone was resigned. "We were romantically involved at one point."
The woman mulled over such a simply stated revelation. "Maybe she's like William Kelley."
"No, she's dead. I would have crossed paths with her by now."
"I'm sorry." And she was. It was one thing to end a relationship, another to know the woman you'd made love to was discarded in such a manner. It bothered her to see Red so upset by it, as well.
"Red, out of all these people," Liz had to ask, "how many would you consider a friend?"
"I've said before, I don't have friends."
"You do." Liz reminded hastily. "Dembe."
"Dembe is more than a friend... " the simple statement seemed a form of prose coming from this man. To be considered 'a friend' in Red Reddington's world was quite a concept in Elizabeth Keen's universe.
"Would you like another beer?" He arose, awaiting the reply.
"Uh, sure." The man returned with two chilled bottles, handing her one as he sat back down.
"... Me." Elizabeth shyly offered.
"Excuse me?" The penetrating eyes sought her out instantly.
"Granted, I am your handler and you're my CI, but I consider us friendly... friends."
"Do you normally go about sticking pens in friends' necks?"
"When the occasion calls for it, maybe." She teased right back, "When I say, don't drink and drive, I mean it."
The silence came then an odd thought struck the woman, "Red, you know I don't have any friends."
"You do. Aram, Dembe... me." he corrected easily. "Number sixty." he sing-songed his head, "Well, he had it coming."
After twenty minutes of Red throwing out names, she sagged in her chair, sliding her empty plate away.
"I can't move." she suddenly realized then glanced down, "I'm just going to slither to the floor and sleep right here." the woman pointed to the Oriental rug beneath her feet.
Her phone rang, and Red recognized Ressler's ring tone. "No sleep tonight." he smiled around the bottle at his lips.