“We were married fifteen years, divorced for four. Isabel stayed in New York when I started work in Washington. At first, it was just an assignment. Anyway”—he smiled wistfully—“like many things, I would do it differently if I could. How about you, Lindsay?”
“I was married once,” I said. Then I found myself telling Molinari “my story.” How I was married right out of school, divorced three years later. His fault? My fault? What difference did it make? “I was close again a couple of years ago…. But it didn’t work out.”
“Things happen,” he said, sighing, “maybe for the best.”
No,” I said. “He died. On the job.”
“Oh,” Molinari said. I knew he was feeling a little awkward. Then he did a lovely thing. He simply put his hand on top of my forearm—nothing forward, nothing inappropriate—and squeezed gently. He took his hand away again.
“Truth is, I haven’t been out much lately,” I said, and lifted my eyes. Then trying to salvage the mood, I chuckled. “This is the best invitation I’ve had in a while.”
“It is for me, too.” Molinari smiled.
Suddenly his cell phone beeped. He reached in his pocket. “Sorry…”
Whoever it was seemed to be doing most of the talking. “Of course, of course, sir…,” Molinari kept repeating. Even the deputy director had a boss. Then he said, “I understand. I’ll report back as soon as I have anything. Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”
He flipped the phone back into his pocket. “Washington…,” he apologized.
“Washington, as in the director of homeland security?” It gave me a bit of a kick to see Molinari as part of a pecking order.
“No.” He shook his head and took another bite of his fish. “Washington, as in the White House. That was the vice president of the United States. He’s coming out here for the G-8.”
Chapter 51
I CAN BE WOWED.
“If I wasn’t a Homicide lieutenant,” I said, “I might believe that line. The vice president just called you?”
“I might press *69 and show you,” Molinari said. “Except that it’s important we begin to establish more trust.”
“Is that what we’re doing tonight?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.
Whatever was starting to happen, those little pinballs pattering inside were now crashing around my ribs like the drums in “Sunshine of Your Love.” I was aware of the tiniest film of sweat at my hairline. My sweater was starting to feel prickly. Molinari reminded me of Chris.
“I hope we’re starting to trust each other,” he finally said. “Let’s leave it at that for now, Lindsay.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” I said.
He paid the check, then helped me on with my jacket. I brushed against his arm and, well, electricity flared. I glanced at my watch. 9:30. Forty minutes to the airport to catch that flight I needed to be on.
Outside, we walked a block or two along Vine Street. I wasn’t really paying attention to the shops. The night was cool but very pleasant. What was I doing here? What were the two of us doing?
“Lindsay”—he finally stopped to face me—“I don’t want to say the wrong thing….” I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say next. “My driver’s down the block if you want…. But there’s always the six A.M. flight.”
“Listen…” I wanted to touch his arm, but I didn’t. I’m not even sure why not.
“Joe,” he said.
“Joe.” I smiled. “Was this what you meant by being out of the field?”
He took my bag and said, “I was just thinking it’d be a shame to waste a perfectly good change of clothes.”
I do trust him, I was thinking. Everything about Joe Molinari inspired trust. And I definitely liked him. But I still wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, and that told me all I needed to know for right now.
“I think I’m just gonna let you think I’m a bit harder to get than I really am”—I bit my lip—“and make that flight at eleven.”
“I understand….” He nodded. “It doesn’t feel right to you.”