Grave Phantoms
Page 29
Hadley gave her a soft smile. “Maybe she is.”
ELEVEN
Bo sneaked a glance at Astrid when he was waiting to pull out of the Anthropology annex parking lot. She was upset, but he couldn’t figure out why. Only that she’d been distressed when she was speaking privately with Hadley . . . and that she’d been speaking privately with Hadley. Since when had the two of them become confidantes? Though he’d come to know and appreciate Hadley’s cool demeanor—which was not as cool as she wanted you to believe—he couldn’t for the life of him think what the two of them were discussing.
“Planning on following in your brother’s footsteps and digging up mummies?”
“What’s that?”
“You and Hadley.”
“Oh no. That was nothing.”
“The same kind of nothing that is bothering you now?”
She nodded and stared out the window.
After several blocks of silence, he said, “You used to talk to me about those things.”
“Yes, well, everything I do or say is likely to be reported to Lowe or Winter, so . . .”
“That’s not true. I didn’t tell Winter about Gris-Gris last night. And I damn well should have, because a man attacked you, and what would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”
“He didn’t have a weapon.”
“So he couldn’t have possibly hurt you.”
“Magnussons don’t cower. That’s what Pappa always told me.”
“Cower, no. But chucking caution out the window is just plain stupid. I don’t want you going out alone in the city until we find out who the hell Max is and what he wants. It’s not safe.”
Anger tightened her eyes. “Since when did you become the boss of me?”
“Since when did you stop caring about my opinion?”
Sulking, she turned her head and ran a gloved finger over her fogged-up window. After a long moment she said, “We never finished our conversation last night.”
Yes, he knew. He hadn’t forgotten for even a moment. “Mm.”
“Is Sylvia your girlfriend?” she asked calmly.
“I already told you. She’s just a friend.”
“Have you slept with her?”
He paused too long. He knew it, and yet . . . he didn’t know what to say. She’d never asked him anything so personal.
He slowed at a stop sign and turned the corner. The flooding was worse here, so he drove in the middle of the road to avoid pools of water. “I shouldn’t have brought her to Gris-Gris. I was . . . I don’t know. There was the wristwatch, but then you were going dancing, and I was confused. You always confuse me.”
“You always confuse me.”
He slanted a glance toward her face and restrained a smile. “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“That depends,” she said, adjusting the fit of her glove. “Am I the chicken or egg?”
“I think maybe we’re both chickens.”
She snorted a little laugh and relaxed against the seat. “You might be right.”
Neither of them said anything else until he pulled into the Magnussons’ driveway. He put the car in idle and they both stared ahead.
“I guess I better be heading to work now.” He considered telling her that the nurse at the hospital had given him Mrs. Cushing’s address, but she’d want to accompany him if he admitted that he was heading over there to see what he could find out. The protective part of him worried that it wasn’t safe for her to be seen there. So he said nothing.
“Bo?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s what?”
“Pardon?”
“Last night you started to say something to me. You said ‘Let’s,’ and then Greta . . .”
The screen door on the side porch slammed. Winter was heading toward the car—probably wanting a ride to the warehouse. Bo cursed the big man’s timing.
“Never mind,” Astrid said glumly.
“Wait.” Bo grabbed her arm as she reached for the door handle. “Let’s pretend we’re other people. That’s what I was going to say.”
She stared at him for a long moment, lips parted, cheeks stained pink. His wildly beating heart felt as if it were trying to outpace the quick rise and fall of her chest. And as Winter strolled around the front of the car, she slid her hand over his for a fleeting, impossibly brief moment (soft skin, slender fingers, gentle squeeze).
It was the smallest thing.
It was everything.
Permission.
Bo squeezed her hand in reply, and then she let go and exited in a whirl of flowing coat and skirt. The last things he saw were the delicate lines that ran down the backs of her stockings.
—
Mrs. Cushing lived in a grand sandstone-faced manor overlooking the Presidio. An hour after dropping off Astrid, Bo stared up at the manor from his car and knew he had no chance of getting inside. An ornate iron fence and sculpted bushes blocked most of the home’s entrance from the street, and standing guard at the gate beneath a gated portico were two bulky men.
Were the guards just to keep reporters at bay? Bo didn’t know. He also didn’t see any automobiles. No license plate numbers to trace. No sign of anyone at all, except for the guards.
And yet.
One of those guards looked familiar. Bo pulled up to the gate and rolled down his window. “Little Mike?”
A tall, bald man leaned down and squinted into the car. “I’ll be damned. Bo Yeung,” he said with a wide smile. “What you doin’ down here, son?”
ELEVEN
Bo sneaked a glance at Astrid when he was waiting to pull out of the Anthropology annex parking lot. She was upset, but he couldn’t figure out why. Only that she’d been distressed when she was speaking privately with Hadley . . . and that she’d been speaking privately with Hadley. Since when had the two of them become confidantes? Though he’d come to know and appreciate Hadley’s cool demeanor—which was not as cool as she wanted you to believe—he couldn’t for the life of him think what the two of them were discussing.
“Planning on following in your brother’s footsteps and digging up mummies?”
“What’s that?”
“You and Hadley.”
“Oh no. That was nothing.”
“The same kind of nothing that is bothering you now?”
She nodded and stared out the window.
After several blocks of silence, he said, “You used to talk to me about those things.”
“Yes, well, everything I do or say is likely to be reported to Lowe or Winter, so . . .”
“That’s not true. I didn’t tell Winter about Gris-Gris last night. And I damn well should have, because a man attacked you, and what would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”
“He didn’t have a weapon.”
“So he couldn’t have possibly hurt you.”
“Magnussons don’t cower. That’s what Pappa always told me.”
“Cower, no. But chucking caution out the window is just plain stupid. I don’t want you going out alone in the city until we find out who the hell Max is and what he wants. It’s not safe.”
Anger tightened her eyes. “Since when did you become the boss of me?”
“Since when did you stop caring about my opinion?”
Sulking, she turned her head and ran a gloved finger over her fogged-up window. After a long moment she said, “We never finished our conversation last night.”
Yes, he knew. He hadn’t forgotten for even a moment. “Mm.”
“Is Sylvia your girlfriend?” she asked calmly.
“I already told you. She’s just a friend.”
“Have you slept with her?”
He paused too long. He knew it, and yet . . . he didn’t know what to say. She’d never asked him anything so personal.
He slowed at a stop sign and turned the corner. The flooding was worse here, so he drove in the middle of the road to avoid pools of water. “I shouldn’t have brought her to Gris-Gris. I was . . . I don’t know. There was the wristwatch, but then you were going dancing, and I was confused. You always confuse me.”
“You always confuse me.”
He slanted a glance toward her face and restrained a smile. “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“That depends,” she said, adjusting the fit of her glove. “Am I the chicken or egg?”
“I think maybe we’re both chickens.”
She snorted a little laugh and relaxed against the seat. “You might be right.”
Neither of them said anything else until he pulled into the Magnussons’ driveway. He put the car in idle and they both stared ahead.
“I guess I better be heading to work now.” He considered telling her that the nurse at the hospital had given him Mrs. Cushing’s address, but she’d want to accompany him if he admitted that he was heading over there to see what he could find out. The protective part of him worried that it wasn’t safe for her to be seen there. So he said nothing.
“Bo?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s what?”
“Pardon?”
“Last night you started to say something to me. You said ‘Let’s,’ and then Greta . . .”
The screen door on the side porch slammed. Winter was heading toward the car—probably wanting a ride to the warehouse. Bo cursed the big man’s timing.
“Never mind,” Astrid said glumly.
“Wait.” Bo grabbed her arm as she reached for the door handle. “Let’s pretend we’re other people. That’s what I was going to say.”
She stared at him for a long moment, lips parted, cheeks stained pink. His wildly beating heart felt as if it were trying to outpace the quick rise and fall of her chest. And as Winter strolled around the front of the car, she slid her hand over his for a fleeting, impossibly brief moment (soft skin, slender fingers, gentle squeeze).
It was the smallest thing.
It was everything.
Permission.
Bo squeezed her hand in reply, and then she let go and exited in a whirl of flowing coat and skirt. The last things he saw were the delicate lines that ran down the backs of her stockings.
—
Mrs. Cushing lived in a grand sandstone-faced manor overlooking the Presidio. An hour after dropping off Astrid, Bo stared up at the manor from his car and knew he had no chance of getting inside. An ornate iron fence and sculpted bushes blocked most of the home’s entrance from the street, and standing guard at the gate beneath a gated portico were two bulky men.
Were the guards just to keep reporters at bay? Bo didn’t know. He also didn’t see any automobiles. No license plate numbers to trace. No sign of anyone at all, except for the guards.
And yet.
One of those guards looked familiar. Bo pulled up to the gate and rolled down his window. “Little Mike?”
A tall, bald man leaned down and squinted into the car. “I’ll be damned. Bo Yeung,” he said with a wide smile. “What you doin’ down here, son?”
