26.

Andy slumped into Bob's desk chair. It would always be Bob's chair, always Bob's office. No matter how hard Andy tried to pretend he could fill Bob's shoes, the truth was, it would be easier for him to grow gills and swim in the ocean.

Andy felt drained. It was bad timing that Rick had chosen tonight to be in town. Andy was planning to spend the next few nights working late, getting everything organized. If that was possible. After the direct hit the paper had taken from the Irazarian debacle, it would take months, perhaps years, to put the Times Register back on track. Andy was committed to that process; he just wasn't sure he was the man to do it.

Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, wondering if Bob's sage advice, his "West Point Wisdom," would ever seem like something other than condemnation. Isolate the lesson. Every chapter of life is also groundwork for the next chapter. Minimize regret. Grit your way through it. There's no problem that cannot be overcome through a combination of determination and positive attitude.

Bob had been the number-three-ranked cadet in his 1968 West Point graduating class. The world was a solid place to him. He understood his role. He was a player, a strong guy who used every opportunity. He stood for things. Important, honorable values. When all was said and done, what would people say Andy had stood for?

Leaning forward, Andy ran his hand along the curved oak desk drawers. Thinking about his brother always created two reactions in him, both hard to handle. First, Bob's big, bold, successful life made Andy feel small, ineffectual, reduced. But at the same time, Bob's story inspired him, gave him something to shoot for, something to aspire to. Andy had tried as hard as he could to emulate his brother, but somehow it never worked. He could even use the same words as Bob, but coming out of Andy's mouth, they seemed comical. The fact that he was a screwup, a failure as an editor, hadn't truly penetrated Bob's consciousness- not until the last few weeks before his death. When Andy saw in his brother's eyes that he understood the depth and breadth of Andy's betrayal, it nearly killed him.

Andy was weak. He couldn't seem to get a grip on his world. He was a rotten husband, with a marriage that was on the verge of breaking up. Why couldn't he confide in Anika? He knew without a doubt that she loved him, and yet when he was with her, he froze inside.

Well, thought Andy, rising from the desk, he'd better get home and face Rick. He couldn't put it off forever. Not that Andy wasn't happy that Rick had come to town, but in his heart, Andy knew that his pleasure was for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to show Rick that he'd finally made it. He was a success story, just like he always said he'd be. But Rick was a smart guy. It wouldn't take him long to see through the facade. No matter how great Andy's world looked on the outside, it was a disaster on the inside. And unless a miracle occurred, his entire life was about to blow apart. By this time next year, he'd probably be in prison. Perhaps, in the end, that had been his destination all along.

Just as he stood up and turned out the desk light, the phone rang. Andy stared at it, wondering if he should take the call. Oh, hell, he thought. If it's more bad news, he might as well hear it now. He was so weary of hiding.

He picked up the receiver. It was probably just Rick calling to tell him to get a move on. "Gladstone," he said, his voice dull with resignation.

"Well, well, Mr. Gladstone. Hard at work?"

The voice stopped him. "Del?"

"Miss me?"

Acid welled up in his throat. "What are you doing calling me here? We had a deal."

"Didn't some old wise man once say that deals are meant to be broken?"

"Where are you?"

"At the Cross Keys Motel."

"Where's that?"

"South Minneapolis. Just off 35W. It's a dump, but it suits my purposes."

"You're still here? Jesus! I paid you two hundred thousand dollars to get out of town!"

"You know the drill, Andy. Once an investigative reporter, always an investigative reporter."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just quiet down and listen. I need to see you."

"Are you crazy?"

"If I am, it's your funeral. You're a fluke, you know that, Gladstone? You didn't get where you are because of talent or hard work. You got there because of a cosmic accident."

Andy sank down in the desk chair. "What do you want?"

"Like I said, I need to see you. I want you to come to my motel."

"Now?"

"Yes, asshole. Now."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. Just shut up and listen. I'm in room 33. I'll only be here tonight. Tomorrow I move again. But before I do, there's something we need to discuss. One hour, Gladstone. If you're not here by then, I call the police. Are we clear?"

Andy took a deep breath. "We're clear."

The line went dead.

Twenty minutes later, Andy sat in his RAV4 in the parking lot of the Cross Keys Motel, his eyes fixed on Del's room. There was a light on inside, but the curtains were closed. Del was right about one thing. The motel was a dump.

On the drive over from the Times Register Tower, Andy had only one thought. Del Irazarian was a thorn in his side, one that would never go away. Not unless Andy did something about it. With just one phone call, Del could single-handedly torpedo his world. As much as Andy hated himself, he hated Irazarian more. Del's cocky self-assurance, his sweaty, fleshy body, and his swaggering belief that no rule ever applied to him-all twisted something deep inside Andy. There was only one way to deal with Irazarian. Perhaps it was a truth his unconscious had recognized months ago, but it had taken his conscious mind longer to grasp.

Opening the glove compartment, Andy removed the .38. His hand shook as he pressed it into the pocket of his jacket. There was no other way. It was a revelation, but Andy saw now that there was something more basic to his soul than self-loathing. Survival topped everything.

Sliding out of the front seat, Andy left the mini-SUV unlocked. He approached the motel room door with caution, looking around to make sure nobody was watching. Breathing deeply, he gave a soft rap.

"Hey, man, we've been waiting for you!" Rick put his arms around Andy and slapped his back. "We've already killed one bottle of champagne. We were about to start on the second. You got here just in time."

Rick's grinning face and boisterous welcome made Andy feel like he'd walked into a carnival. Lights and sounds assaulted him. He felt that Rick and his wife were leering at him, zooming in and out, like the faces in a distorted, fun-house mirror.

"Hey, pal, you look like you could use a drink," honked Rick. Another slap on the back.

"Is something wrong?" chirped Anika.

Andy took off his coat. "A drink. Yeah. I'd like a drink."

"The champagne's right this way." Rick disappeared into the living room.

"What's that on your cuff?" chirped Anika, pulling him off balance, tugging his sleeve.

Andy looked down. "Nothing. I cut myself. It's nothing."

Jazz blared in the background.

Andy raised his hands to his ears. "Can you turn that CD down?"

"You okay?" honked Rick, adjusting the volume on the stereo. "God, it's so good to see you! You've lost weight." He cackled, his mouth opening wide like a braying mule's.

"We ordered a pizza," shouted Anika. The music swelled again.

Andy dropped into a chair. A glass appeared in his hand. He stared at it a moment before drinking it down like water.

"Slow down," shrieked Anika.

"No, let him drink," yelled Rick. "He needs to catch up."

More champagne appeared in his glass.

The doorbell chimed.

"That must be the pizza," shouted Rick. "The party has officially begun!"

27.

The sound of a car door slamming propelled Chris off the couch. It was going on seven in the evening. She hadn't heard from Phil all day. She assumed that Barbara was on the horn to him as soon as Chris left her house. But Chris was past caring. She'd already packed a bag and after she had it out with Phil, she planned to split for good.

She realized, too late, that she had no job, no apartment, no money in the bank-nothing without Phil. But she did have the diamond ring and the gold band he'd given her, and she planned to hock them, get whatever she could for them. She still couldn't bring herself to believe that he'd had anything to do with Bob Fabian's or Ken Loy's murder, but she did see him now for the lying cheat that he was.

A key was thrust into the front lock, and a moment later, Phil's dark silhouette pushed into the foyer. "Chris, goddamn it! Are you here?"

She'd been sitting in the dark. Snapping on a lamp, she said. "Yeah. I'm here."

He stepped into the room, his face black with rage. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I thought I was your wife," she said, turning to face him. "You lied to me, Phil. You told me Barbara was nothing to you."

"She isn't!" With his heavy work boot, he kicked a wicker chair across the room.

"That's not what she told me."

"Hell, woman, would you give me some credit? Barbara has cancer. She found out two weeks ago. I couldn't just dump her."

Chris stared at him.

"And now you nearly killed her!"

Coldly, Chris replied, "I don't believe you."

"You want the doctor's report? I can get it for you if that's what it will take."

"You've been with her, Phil. You aren't just 'friends.' She has your ring."

"Okay, okay. I didn't tell you everything. I wanted to let her down easy."

"You've had the entire last year to let her down easy."

"You don't understand."

"She said you live in an apartment not far from her house."

Anger rolled off him in waves.

"You go antiquing with her. Is that where you've been when you're not with me?"

He took a step toward her. "You don't want to do this, Chris."

"I don't think I've done anything-except love you. Is this how you repay me for that love? Is it!" And she had loved him, everything about him. But more than anything else, she'd loved the idea of him. And that's where she'd made her biggest mistake.

"Nobody pries into my life."

"You were going to keep Barbara a secret from me forever?"

"Why not? I would have taken care of the situation in time."

"She's a situation? Do you hear yourself?"

Phil's eyes flicked to the suitcase next to the couch. "You're leaving me?"

"I don't think I have a choice." There. She'd said the words out loud, but she felt pulverized by them.

"We all have choices, Chris."

She looked down at the pool of yellow light spilling from the lamp on the end table. "I don't want to go." Admitting weakness was probably a mistake, but she was so tired of his lies.

"Then don't." In an instant, he was by her side, holding her, stroking her back. "Don't leave me, Chris. It would kill me."

She stood woodenly in his arms. "You've lied to me so many times. How can I ever believe you again?"

"Do you believe I love you?"

She felt a tiny crack in her resolve. "Yeah. I thought you did."

He kissed her fiercely, her lips, her eyes, her neck. "Just trust me. I'd never hurt you. If you believe nothing else, believe that."

He pulled her down on the couch.

Pushing away from him, Chris said, "Will you answer one question for me? And . . . will you be absolutely truthful?"

"I promise."

"The night Loy and Fabian were murdered, you never left the parking lot, right? You were just out there sleeping in the car."