“What’s in there?” she asked, glancing at the bag. She’d been curious earlier, when they met on the beach not long ago, he knew. Purposely he hadn’t told her.
“Just some things we needed. And some food.”
Jennie blinked in surprise. “You bought food?”
What, was this the first time her man had bought her groceries?
“I could’ve done that,” she said quickly. Then nodding at the kitchenette, she added a perfunctory, “So.
I’ll cook you a meal.”
Odd phrase. She’s been taught to think that. By her ex, or one of the abusive boyfriends. Tim the biker.
Shut up and go cook me a meal….
“That’s okay, lovely. I’ll do it.”
“You?”
“Sure.” Pell knew men who insisted that “the wife” feed them. They thought they were kings of the household, to be waited on. It gave them some sense of power. But they didn’t understand that when you depended on someone for anything, you were weakened. (Also, how stupid can you be? You know how easy it is to mix rat poison into soup?) Pell was no chef but even years ago, when Linda was the Family cook, he liked to hang out in the kitchen, help her, keep an eye on things.
“Oh, and you got Mexican!” She laughed as she pulled out the ground beef, tortillas, tomatoes, canned peppers and sauces.
“You said you liked it. Comfort food. Hey, lovely.” He kissed her head. “You were real steady today at the restaurant.”
Turning away from the groceries, she looked down. “I got kind of freaked, you know. I was scared. I didn’t mean to scream.”
“No, no, you held fast. You know what that means?”
“Not really.”
“It’s an old expression sailors used to say. They’d tattoo it on their fingers, so when you made fists, you’d see it spelled out. ‘Hold fast.’ It means not running away.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t run away from you.”
He touched his lips to her head, smelled sweat and discount perfume.
She rubbed her nose.
“We’re a team, lovely.” Which got her to stop rubbing. Pell noted that.
He went into the bathroom, peed long and then washed up. When he stepped outside he found a second surprise.
Jennie’d stripped down. She was wearing only a bra and panties, holding a cigarette lighter, working on the candles.
She glanced up. “You said you liked red.”
Pell grinned, walked to her. Ran his hand down her bony spine.
“Or would you rather eat?”
He kissed her. “We’ll eat later.”
“Oh, I want you, baby,” she whispered. It was clearly a line she’d used often in the past. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true now.
He took the lighter. “We’ll do atmosphere later.” He kissed her, pulled her hips against him.
She smiled—a genuine one now—and pressed harder against his crotch. “I think you want me too.” A purr.
“I do want you, lovely.”
“I like it when you call me that.”
“You have any stockings?” he asked.
She nodded. “Black ones. I’ll go put them on.”
“No. That’s not what I want them for,” he whispered.
Chapter 18
One more errand before this hard day was over.
Kathryn Dance pulled up to a modest house in the netherworld between Carmel and Monterey.
When the huge military base, Fort Ord, wasthe industry in the area, medium-rank officers would live and, often, retire here. Before that, in the fishing and cannery days, foremen and managers lived here.
Dance parked in front of a modest bungalow and walked through the picket-fence gate and along the stony path to the front door. A minute later a freckled, cheerful woman in her late thirties greeted her.
Dance identified herself. “I’m here to see Morton.”
“Come on in,” Joan Nagle said, smiling, the lack of surprise—and concern—in her face telling Dance that her husband had given her some of the details of his role in the events of today, though perhaps not all.
The agent stepped into the small living room. The half-full boxes of clothes and books—mostly the latter—suggested they’d just moved in. The walls were covered with the cheap prints of a seasonal rental. Again the smells of cooking assaulted her—but this time the scent was of hamburger and onions, not Italian herbs.
A cute, round girl in pigtails, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, was holding a drawing pad. She looked up and smiled. Dance waved to her. She was about Wes’s age. On the couch, a boy in his midteens was lost in the chaos of a video game, pushing buttons as if civilization depended on him.
Morton Nagle appeared in the doorway, tugging at his waistband. “Hello, hello, hello, Agent Dance.”
“Kathryn, please.”
“Kathryn. You’ve met my wife, Joan.” A smile. “And…hey, Eric. Put that…Eric!” he called in a loud, laughing voice. “Put that away.”
The boy saved the game—Dance knew how vitalthat was—and set the controller down. He bounded to his feet.
“This’s Eric. Say hello to Agent Dance.”
“Agent? Like FBI?”
“Like that.”
“Sweet!”
Dance shook the hand of the teenager, as he stared at her hip, looking at the gun.
The girl, still clutching her sketchbook, came up shyly.
“Well, introduce yourself,” her mother urged.
“Hi.”
“What’s your name?” Dance asked.
“Sonja.”
Sonja’s weight is a problem, Dance noted. Her parents better address it pretty soon, though given their physiques she doubted they understood the problems she was already facing. The agent’s kinesics expertise gave her many insights into people’s psychological and emotional difficulties, but she continually had to remind herself that her job was law enforcer, not therapist.
Nagle said, “I’ve been following the news. You almost caught him?”
“Minutes away,” she said, grimacing.
“Can I get you anything?” his wife asked.
“No, thanks,” Dance said. “I can only stay a minute.”