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T-BONE WAS IN THE KITCHEN when Nash stumbled in the next morning.
“Hope you don’t mind I made coffee,” his partner said.
Nash helped himself to a cup, sipped, and grimaced. “Thanks,” he said, heading for the fridge for milk. You could chew T-Bone’s coffee.
“Sleep okay?” T-Bone gave a pointed glance toward the schoolhouse clock on the wall.
Ten? Nash scratched his stubble. “Yeah.”
T-Bone refilled his mug and sat across the table from Nash. “Now that we’ve disposed of the pleasantries, it’s time to talk about your future.”
“What future? My life is totally screwed up.”
“Doesn’t mean you stop living it. How’s the leg? It seems better.”
Nash bent and straightened his leg under the table. “Yeah. I haven’t paid much attention to it—or anything—these last few days. It’s not the leg as much as the kidney. Or lack thereof. I’m not whole, never will be. Sure, there are countless people walking around with one kidney, living normal lives, but they’re not combat operatives.” He ducked his head. “Walking out now, after all the support from the company—it doesn’t seem fair.”
T-Bone folded his hands on the table, leaned forward. “So, don’t walk out. Walk sideways.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s a lot more to Blackthorne than covert ops. Surely you remember the requisite year in Security and Investigations before you could even apply for a spot on the covert side.”
Nash groaned. “Yes, I remember. I also remember counting every day of every assignment as being one day closer to joining the teams.”
“If you remove covert ops from the equation, you can still work for the company. Plus, working on the public side, there’s the bonus of fewer people shooting at you. You can still do good. That is what gets your juices flowing, isn’t it? Helping people in distress. Like the woman in my cabin—what was her name? Donna?”
“Danika,” Nash said. He shivered with awareness. Pushed away from the table. “Dammit, I never called. What day is today?”
“Saturday.”
A week? Nash patted his pockets, looked on the kitchen counters. “Where’s my phone?”
“How should I know?”
When had he last used it? Nash couldn’t remember, not since calling Mrs. Obut when he’d landed at the airport. He scrambled to the bedroom, rifled through his clothes, to the bathroom, checked drawers. Back to the living room, digging through couch cushions. No phone.
“You want me to call you?” T-Bone asked, a smile teasing at his lips.
Nash slapped his head. “Duh.”
T-Bone poked at his cell phone, and Nash strained to hear the hooting owl ringtone. Nothing.
“Dead battery?” T-Bone said.
“Quite possible, if I haven’t used it since I got here.”
“We’re now officially on a search mission.” T-Bone got up. “You take the bedrooms, I’ll take the kitchen and living room. What do I get if I find it?”
“Not a damn thing.” Nash headed for the bedrooms.
He’d already searched his room. T-Bone had used the guestroom. Nash couldn’t remember going in there, except last night to make sure there were linens and towels. Which left his father’s room. Nash knew he’d have to go in there eventually, to sort his father’s things. Maybe it would be easier if his mission was finding his phone.
“Got it.” T-Bone’s shout spared Nash having to deal with Dad’s room. He rushed out and found T-Bone in the kitchen, phone in hand, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Battery’s dead, though.”
“I’ll get my charger. Where did you find it?”
“Pantry. Behind a box of cereal.” He tossed the phone to Nash.
Nash didn’t bother trying to figure out why his phone was in the pantry. He got the charger and plugged it in, knowing it would be at least fifteen minutes before he had enough of a charge to make a call.
“Speaking of cereal, how about breakfast?” T-Bone asked.
*****
BY THE TIME THEY’D eaten, showered, and dressed, Nash’s phone was ready for limited business. Texts first. Seventeen? He scanned the list. The first two were from Grinch, one saying the creeps were locked up and not going anywhere, the second saying he’d watch over Danika. More from the team, folks in Intel, all offering condolences. Nash typed in a thank you, copied and pasted it into all the messages until he got to the last one—Danika’s.
Sorry about your father.
He stared at it for a good long time, as if more words would appear.
Why should he expect more? He’d deserted her.
Not able to deal now with whatever they had—or didn’t have—he pasted in his thank you. He should call. He would call. Later.
T-Bone rushed into the room, go bag in hand. “Sorry, man. I’ve been summoned. Need to be at HQ by oh six-hundred tomorrow. There’s a flight at sixteen hundred hours.”
“I’ll drive you to the airport. What’s the op?”
“Intel has a line—a thin, dotted line—on the next Russian gun shipment. Nothing the authorities would spare manpower to investigate. We don’t have to leave yet. What do you want to do?”
Go along.
*****
THAT EVENING, WITH T-Bone off to HQ, Nash returned to rattle around in the condo. Time to face his father’s things. Clothes first.
He’d emptied the dresser of socks, undershirts, sweaters. His father wore boxers, Nash discovered. Did charities take used underwear? He stacked everything into piles on the bed. His phone buzzed from his pocket.
HQ?
“Hanley.”
Jinx’s voice. “Courtesy call, Rambler. We might have the key to encoded messages about times and places for gun deliveries. If the lead pans out, we’ll turn things over to the authorities. Something your friend said to Emiko last week tugged on a thread.”
“My friend? Danika?”
“I believe that’s her name.”
Dammit to hell, even Danika was of more use to Blackthorne than he was. “Thanks for the update.”
Nash tried to piece together what information Danika had been able to give Blackthorne. One of her articles? Or one of her shot down proposals?
“Can you tell me what Danika said?” Nash asked.
“Bowling and bridge scores,” Jinx said. “Gotta run. Sorry about your father.”
“Thanks,” Nash said absently as he listened to nothing but silence. Bowling? Bridge?
*****
TIGHTENING THE BELT of her robe, Danika stood in her closet, trying to decide what image she wanted to project. She considered her options. Professional, but not too formal.
Mr. Gerard had called, apologizing for the abrupt way he’d let her go and wanted to meet for lunch. His standard western look pushed the limits of business casual. If she wore her best professional outfit, he might think she was trying to be better than him.
As if he’d even think of wardrobe as competition.
She laid several potential outfits onto the bed, finally opting for navy slacks and a beige and blue sweater atop a pale blue blouse. Would she accept a job offer? Not in the Living section. No, it was the News or nothing. And a raise. A substantial raise. Although her hospital stay had been covered by her insurance, they didn’t pay everything. Deductibles, copays, procedures not accepted would have her paying off the bill for months to come. More months than her severance package would cover.
Or should she refuse any offer to work at the Gazette and insist Mr. Gerard undo whatever he’d done to have her blacklisted? And write her glowing letters of recommendation?
She was getting way ahead of herself. Lunch and an apology was all he’d offered.
Meanwhile, it was time for her morning video call with Emiko Miyake. Ever since Grinch had connected them, Emi had checked in daily, sometimes to chat, sometimes asking questions. Emi’d seemed particularly interested in the Community Scoreboards, although she hadn’t said whether they’d proven useful. Knowing her hunch might have even the slightest merit made Danika feel like a reporter again.
She moved to her laptop and logged onto her video app. Emi was already there. Danika still startled every time the rainbow-haired Asian woman appeared on her screen. Although, Danika admitted to herself, she’d been tempted to add brightly colored highlights to her own hair.
What would Mr. Gerard think of that?
“I have nothing to report today,” Emi said. “Barinov and his buddies’ lawyers are pushing for release, but it’s not going to happen.”
Although Emiko had assured her the men wouldn’t get out of jail, Danika couldn’t help but worry fancy legal footwork would have any—or all—of them back on the street. Emi probably sensed this, because their calls always started the same way, with Emi bringing her up to speed on the legal proceedings.
“Might have more news for you tomorrow,” Emi said. “Same time.”
“I’ll be here.”
Emi had never revealed who she worked for. She’d admitted to being a friend of Grinch, so Danika suspected there might be a Blackthorne connection, but for now, Danika was glad to have someone she’d come to consider a friend. She powered off her laptop and got dressed for her lunch appointment with Mr. Gerard.
Sliding her feet into comfortable shoes, she assessed herself in the full-length mirror and stuck her tongue out at her image. As long as she didn’t look homeless, why should she care? She was meeting with the man who’d fired her.
When Danika arrived at the restaurant Mr. Gerard had chosen, she still hadn’t decided on her approach. Might as well wait to hear what he had to say. She stepped into the entryway, inhaled the aroma of smoky barbeque. She’d never been here, but from the filled tables and people waiting to be seated, it was a popular place.
Glancing around the crowded room, Danika spotted Mr. Gerard’s white cowboy hat. He caught her eye and waved her to his table. He stood at her approach, helped her off with her coat, and waited until she took the seat opposite before sitting down.
“Thanks for making the drive.” He motioned to two steaming mugs. “I took the liberty of ordering spiced ciders. A weakness of mine in cold weather.”
Danika cupped her mug, warming her hands.
Mr. Gerard sipped from his, and she followed suit. The hot beverage warmed her insides as well as her hands. She waited. The first move was his.
Before the man spoke, a server appeared with menus.
Danika had barely glanced at hers when Mr. Gerard said, “I highly recommend the baby back ribs. Messy, but they’re the best in town.”
Danika agreed, and Mr. Gerard ordered two rib platters. The server promised to be back soon with their meals.
“As I said on the phone,” Mr. Gerard began, “the abrupt way you were let go doesn’t reflect well on me or the Gazette.”
What was she supposed to say? You’re damn right? Danika sipped her cider while she waited. If that was his first move, the second one was his, too.
“What would it take for you to come back to work?” he asked. “Quite honestly, we’ve had calls and letters from people who miss your columns.”
Score one for Team Danika. Leverage.
Mr. Gerard leaned down, and brought a file folder to the table. “I have a proposal for you.”
He slid the folder closer. Inside was what looked like a contract. The fine print and legalese blurred. He’d said proposal, though, not contract. She tried to make sense of it. Three years, renegotiable annually.
She gazed at Mr. Gerard. “New Mexico is an at will state. Can this be binding?”
“As you can see, our legal department drew it up so you have a guaranteed job for the next three years.” He took the pages, flipped through them, and tapped a paragraph. “Of course, we have to protect the paper, so I will point out this section, which in a nutshell, says if you do anything that would have a negative impact on the paper, we can suspend you and renegotiate the terms of the contract.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You wouldn’t be doing that, though, would you?”
“I report the truth.” Danika ran a finger around her neckline, aware that the restaurant had its heat set much higher than a room filled with warm bodies warranted. Discreetly, she undid the top button of her blouse. Her mouth had gone dry at Mr. Gerard’s proposal, and she finished her cider, which had cooled.
“I would want my own lawyer to look at this first,” she said. As if she had a lawyer. She’d ask Emi to recommend one.
“By all means,” Mr. Gerard said. “Ah, here’s our lunch. Enjoy.”
Danika ate, thinking about the contract. If it was a contract. Mr. Gerard had praised the ribs, and she agreed.
They finished, he left cash on the table. He helped her on with her coat. She followed him to the door.
“Come with me,” he said. “You’re not looking well. I hope it wasn’t the ribs. They were excellent, weren’t they?”
She nodded. “Excellent.”
He opened the passenger door of his Escalade. “Get in, Danika. We can talk some more.”
“Sure.” She climbed in. Let him help her with the seat belt when her hands fumbled with the buckle.
“You seem tired, Danika. Why not close your eyes for a few minutes. You can adjust the seat, too.”
“Sure.” She found the lever, tilted the seat back. A short nap would be nice.