“I can be an asshole, too. You ain’t had that pleasure yet.”
“Thank you for giving me something to look forward to.
Snatching a pen out of his breast pocket, he tossed it boss tile table. “Better start writing. Wouldn’t want you t quote me wrong.
Abby glared at him.
“Stop it,” I said angrily.
They looked at me.
“You’re acting no better than the rest of them,” I added
“Who?” Marino’s face was blank.
“Everybody,” I said. “I’m sick to death of lies, jealousy, power plays. I expect more of my friends. I thought you were my friends.” I pushed back my chair.
If the two of you wish to continue taking potshots at each other, go ahead. But I’ve had enough.”
Without looking at either of them, I carried my coffee into the living room, turned on the stereo, and closed my eyes. Music was my therapy, and I had been listening to Bach last. His Sinfonia Two, Cantata No. 29 began mid flight, and I began to relax. For weeks after Mark left, I would come downstairs when I couldn’t sleep, put the, headphones on, and surround myself with Beethoven Mozart, Pachelbel.
Abby and Marino had the sheepish expressions of a squabbling couple that have just made up when they joined me fifteen minutes later.
” Uh, we’ve been talking,” Abby said as I turned off the stereo “I explained things as best I could. We’ve begun W reach a level of understanding.”
1 was delighted to hear it.
“May as well pitch in, the three of us,” Marino said.
“What the hell. Abby ain’t really a reporter right now, anyway.” The remark stung her a little, I could tell, but they were going to cooperate, miracle of miracles.
“By the time her book comes out, this will probably be over with. That’s what matters, that it’s over with. It’s been almost three years now, ten kids. You include Jill and Elizabeth, we’re talking twelve.”
He shook his head, his eyes getting hard. “Whoever’s whacking these kids ain’t going to retire, Doc. He’ll keep on until he gets nailed. And in investigations like this, that usually happens because someone gets lucky.”
“We may already have gotten lucky,” Abby said to him. “Aranoff’s not the man who was driving the Lincoln.”
“You sure?”
Marino asked.
“Positive. Aranoff’s got gray hair, what little hair he has left. He’s maybe five-foot-eight and must weigh two hundred pounds.”
“You telling me you met him?”
“No,” she said. “He was still out of town. I knocked on the door and his wife let me in. I was wearing work pants, boots. I told her I was with the power company and needed to check their meter. We got to chatting. She offered me a Coke. While I was inside, I looked around, saw a family photograph, asked her about the photo to be sure. That’s how I found out what Aranoff looks like. It wasn’t him, the man we saw. Not the man tailing me in Washington, either.”
“I don’t guess there’s any possibility you read the plate number wrong,” Marino asked me.
“No. Even if I had,” I said, “the coincidence would be incredible. Both cars 1990 Lincoln Mark Sevens? Aranoff happens to be traveling in the Williamsburg – Tidewater area around the same time I erroneously record a plate number that just happens to be his?”
“Looks like Aranoff and me are going to have to have a little discussion, Marino said.
He called my office later that week and said right off, ‘You sitting down?”
“You talked with Aranoff.”
“Bingo. He left Roanoke Monday, February tenth, and hit-Danville, Petersburg, and Richmond. On Wednesday the twelfth, he was in the Tidewater area, and this is where it gets real interesting. He was due in Boston on Thursday the thirteenth, which is the night you and Abby was in Williamsburg. The day before that, Wednesday the twelfth, Aranoff left his car in long-term parking at the Newport News airport. From there he flew to Boston, was up in that area buzzing around in a rental car for the better part of a week. Returned to Newport News yesterday morning, got into his car, and headed home.”