The Killing League

10.

Mack

Ellen Reznor ordered a chilled glass of chardonnay and Mack chose a bottle of Heineken. The restaurant was a good one, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., but close enough to Maryland’s seafood suppliers to guarantee the freshest fish and clams in the city.

“You kicked ass today, Mack,” she said. “I wish you had kicked Whidby’s ass, literally.” Mack smiled. She raised her glass and Mack clinked it with his beer bottle. “It’s the new me,” Mack said. “Very restrained.”

“I like the old Mack,” she said. “You’d have been calling Whidby a worthless cocksucker—”

The waiter cleared his throat over Reznor’s shoulder. She smiled at Mack and he thought how some things never changed. Ellen Reznor was legendary for choosing the absolute worst time to make the absolutely most inappropriate comment.

Mack ordered another round. “The problem is, Whidby’s a politician, and one way or another, they usually win.”

Reznor raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I like the new you,” she said. “He’s not a p-ssy is he?”

The waiter came back with their drinks and they both ordered the catch of the day. Bluefish with a roasted corn relish.

“How’s Janice doing?” Reznor said.

Mack sighed. His sister had been diagnosed with Korsakoff Syndrome, a debilitating neurologic condition caused by thiamine deficiency which in turn is caused by chronic alcoholism. Mack’s sister had basically drank a good part of her brain away.

“Some days are better than others,” he said. Talking about his sister always dimmed his good mood. Mack had known about his sister’s drinking problem, it was a family tradition, but he hadn’t known just how bad it was. Maybe if he hadn’t been so consumed with his job, maybe if he hadn’t been so slow, like figuring out Jeffrey Kostner—

“Mack,” Reznor said. He blinked. “Did I interrupt some internal self-flagellation?” she said. “Let me do it. I’m thinking of becoming a dominatrix. I could make some extra money, maybe even get laid once in awhile.”

He let his negative train of thought go and they began trading old stories and anecdotes, things the other had long forgotten, and laughed. After they’d eaten and the dishes were cleared, Mack asked the questions he’d been wondering about.

“So are you seeing anyone these days?”

It was a touchy subject with Reznor and always had been since her husband walked out on her years ago. It was about the only topic that could occasionally stifle Reznor’s biting sense of humor.

“I’m between boyfriends, and unfortunately I’m not talking a ménage a trois,” she said.

He was tempted to ask a time-related question. As in, had she been between lovers for a matter of months…or years? But he held it in check.

“And how about the new Mack?” she said. “Does he have a column of young women’s panties hanging from the flagpole over his Florida estate?”

“No panties, no flagpole,” he said.

She brushed away a stray crumb from the linen tablecloth. “Do you still keep in touch with her?”

He knew she was talking about Nicole Candela. The woman he had tried to protect and failed. He had gotten very close to her on the case. According to some in the FBI, the relationship had become “improper” and that sentiment had played no small part in Mack’s decision to ultimately leave the organization.

“No,” Mack said. “I keep an eye on her, though. She’s opening a restaurant in L.A.,” he said.

“Good for her,” Ellen said. “She’s a survivor.”

Mack nodded.

“Yes,” he said, and drained the rest of his beer. “Yes, she is.”

Every time he thought of Nicole, he felt a cool flutter in his chest. And every time, he tried to determine if it was fear or just the feelings for her that had never gone away. He wasn’t sure why, but tonight, it definitely felt like fear.