The first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be able to come over for a family dinner.
"Soon, Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old homestead in Arlington at least twice a month.
The next voice was Gerry's.
"Hi, Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the way I'd hoped for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excuse?
"But I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that we'll have to eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet at a, uh, Taco Bell? There's one up your way on Connecticut, near Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all when you get there. If you get there. Which I hope you do. But if you can't make it I'll understand. Just let me know if you're not gonna show, otherwise, see you there at six. Hasta la vista." Gin pressed the repeat button. Yes, she'd heard it right, Taco Bell.
Truth was, she liked Taco Bell, but it didn't quite make her short list of restaurants for a rendezvous with an old high school crush.
On the bright side, at least he hadn't stood her up.
But Taco Bell?
Gin hunted for a parking space amid the flow of D. C. workers heading home to Maryland. Connecticut Avenue was mostly residential at its northern end, strips of street-front shops interspersed with low-rise apartments and an occasional office building, all flanked by magnificent oaks and elms. Only three or four miles from Capitol Hill but like another country.
She found a spot up the street from the Taco Bell and turned off the engine.
Now what?
She scanned the curb and sidewalk around the storefront. No sign of Gerry. She didn't know what his car looked like. She didn't feel like going inside just to stand around, waiting. In fact, she didn't like any of this. Where was his wife, if he still had one? Why Taco Bell?
Why had she even come?
Lighten up, Panzella.
Five minutes of watching a steady stream of bodies of all races and ages in and out of the door and no Gerry.
All right. Let's get this over with.
She went inside and looked around. This storefront Taco Bell wasn't as heavy on the southwestern motif as its freestanding kin she'd seen in Louisiana, it sported a few adobe touches, but the service counter, the soft drink machine, the booths and tables were all generic fast-food decor. Nothing generic about the aromas, though. The air was redolent of onions and spices. Gin realized how hungry she was.
She heard her name, turned, and saw Gerry waving from the other side of a partition. He stood as she approached but when she reached his booth she saw that he wasn't alone. Another female occupied the opposite bench. She was adorable, with short, wavy blond hair and huge blue eyes.
She looked to be about five and was working on a burrito half the length of her arm.
"I'm really sorry about this," Gerry said. "My sitter had unbreakable plans for this evening. This is my daughter Martha. Martha, say hello to Gina, I mean, Dr. Panzella." Martha waved and smiled around a mouthful of burrito.
'"Martha's a vegetarian," he said.
Gin stared at her. "Get out."
He raised his right hand, palm out. "True. I swear. I could put you on and say it's an ethical position but the fact is she just doesn't like meat. Never did. Even as a baby she used to spit out her junior foods if they were so much as flavored with meat."
"But she'll eat tacos?"
"Bean burritos. Loves bean burritos, with green sauce and extra cheese. Right, Martha? " The little blonde looked up and nodded vigorously.
Obviously she'd been following every word. "And hold the onions," she added in a squeaky voice.
Gerry beamed at her. "Right. Always hold the onions. So that's why we're here. Miss Fussy-tummy has a very limited palate, so there was no point in bringing her anywhere else. I’ll hope you don't mind. I'll make it up to you, I promise." Gin had been taken completely by surprise by Martha but was charmed and touched by the warm father-daughter bond she sensed.
"Don't be silly. I'm glad you brought her. In fact, I'm honored to meet her."
"Great. What can I get you?"
"How about two bean burritos with extra cheese . . . " She winked at Martha. "And hold the onions." Martha grinned and scrinched up one side of her face in a grotesque attempt to return the wink. Gin laughed and sat down opposite her.
"Are you a real doctor?" Martha said, cocking her head and looking up at her. Her cheeks were pink roses, her skin flawless.
'"Yes, I am."
"Do you give shots?"
"Sometimes."
"I don't like shots." She held up a pair of fingers. "I had to get two shots before they let me into kinnergarden." What a darling. So relaxed, so comfortable with a stranger. Obviously she liked people, and that spoke volumes about her home life.
"Shots keep you from getting sick." She gave a Jackie Mason shrug.
"I still get sick!" Gin was saved by Gerry's return.
'"I brought you a Mountain Dew. Through extensive research and experimentation, Martha and I have determined that Taco Bell food goes best with a Dew."
"Mountain Deeeew! " Martha said and raised her cup. Gerry clicked his own against it, then Martha waited, eyeing Gin expectantly. She clicked her own cup against Martha's, then they all sipped.
"Sorry there's nothing higher octane available," Gerry said.
"Since I have to play doctor in less than two hours, Mountain Dew has all the octane I need." Gin watched across the table as Gerry slid in next to his daughter.
She saw the resemblance between the two, same blond hair, same blue eyes, same nose and smile. And the way that little smile flashed for Gerry . . . here was a little girl who loved her daddy.
Gin was intrigued, maybe even fascinated. She'd been looking forward to this time with Gerry as a way of tying up one of her life's loose ends. A date, if you could call it that, with the big man on campus, something she'd dreamed of all through high school. But Gerry was so much more than she'd expected. He was warm, he was open, and he was a doting father. She liked that. Liked it a lot. She wanted to know more about him. The closure she'd sought here was opening to something new.
Between bites and sips they caught up on the decade or so since high school. Gerry told her about joining the PBI after graduating U.V.A with a criminology degree but never mentioned marriage or where Martha came from. It took all her will to keep from asking. He nodded encouragingly as Gina took her turn and skimmed through her education, but his head snapped up when she mentioned Duncan Lathram.
"You work for Lathram? The celebrity surgeon?"
"He's not the celebrity, just his patients."
"Yeah," Gerry said sourly. "And you've got to be a celebrity to be treated by him."
Gin wondered at the sudden note of hostility in his voice.
"Every day he treats people no one's ever heard of." Gerry leaned forward and pointed to the hairline scars on his face.
"He wouldn't take me."
"How . . . ?"
"M.V.A." He glanced quickly at Martha. "Tell you about it sometime." Motor vehicle accident. So that explained the scars.
"Whoever worked on you did a nice job."
"Dr. Hernandez is tops. But I requested Lathram first and he wouldn't even give me a consultation."
"Duncan takes only certain kinds of cases."
"The insurance company was footing the bill, so it wasn't a question of money. Why wouldn't he help me?" She was tempted to say, Because he won’t operate on anyone who needs him, just people who want him. Just vanity surgery, the more famous and narcissistic, the better. No trauma repair. But how could Gin explain what she herself didn't understand? Better not to get into it.
"I don't know, Gerry. He's got some strange ideas about who he takes as patients."
"And some of his patients have had some bad luck lately."
"You mean like Congressman Allard?" Gerry stiffened in his seat. "That guy who fel
l this morning? On the Capitol steps? He was a Lathram patient too?"
"What do you mean, too?"
Gerry didn't answer immediately. His eyes took on a faraway look. What was he thinking?
And how did the FBI know, and why should they care, who was and wasn't Duncan's patient?
His mind racing, Gerry stared past Gin at the chicken fajitas poster on the window behind her.
Allard was a Duncan Lathram patient too. That made three . . . three Lathram patients with fatal or near-fatal accidents in the past month or so. What could,?
He shook himself free of speculation and focused on Gin again.
God, he was drawn to her. All that glossy black hair and deep brown, almost-black eyes, and he loved the way her mouth curved up at the corners when she smiled. He'd never noticed any of that when she was an overweight kid. But then, he'd never looked at her much when she was Pasta.
That had to be part of it. They had a history. He'd known her when, back in the Bad Old Days when she was a homely chubette, and again, now, when she was sleek and turning heads.
But he hadn't known her then, not really, and he certainly didn't know her now. But he sensed things about her, strength and confidence surging within her, and that was as sexy as anything external.
She'd remade herself, decided how she wanted to be, who she wanted to be, and become that person.
And now that person was waiting for an answer.
He said, "Two powerful legislators have died in the past month. Congressman Lane and Senator Schulz. Both were,"
"Patients of Duncan Lathram. I know. But they were accidents. Weren't they?"
"That's what they appear to be so far."
"How did you know they were both Duncan's patients?"
He narrowed his eyes and said, "Vee haf ways . . . " while his mind ranged ahead, calculating how much he should and could tell her.
"I'm serious, Gerry." She seemed upset. Why? Lathram was just her boss. Or was there more to it?
"It just happened to come up in the investigations."
"I heard about the investigations. Why?"
"Two political bigwigs? Violent deaths within a few weeks of each other? The Bureau investigates. If there is a connection, we want to be the first to know."
"Oh," she said, leaning back. "I guess that makes sense."
"Allard's accident wasn't fatal, but he won't be doing much legislating for a while."
"What do you mean?"
"Apparently he's been babbling nonsense since he came to in the hospital."
"Really?" she said, her brow furrowing. "Must be some sort of postconcussion syndrome. Poor guy."
"Must be." Three disabling mishaps, two permanently so, and all patients of Duncan I'm sorry - but - the - doctor - doesn't handle post-trauma Lathram.
Gerry wondered what other links the three men might have to the good doctor.
" ‘Scuse me, Dad." Gerry looked around as Martha nudged him with her hip.
"Where do you think you're going, miss?"
"Need another Mountain Dew."
"Think you can handle it yourself?"
She rolled her eyes. "Da-deee!"
"Okay, but only half a cup." He slid off the bench to let her out.
"Got enough money?"
Another roll of the baby blues. "Free refills, Dad!"
"Right. I knew that." He sat down again but never let her out of his sight as she made her way to the drink dispenser. She knew exactly what to do, and half of her fun in coming here was holding the cup under the ice dispenser and letting the cubes clunk into it, then filling it from the Mountain Dew spigot. So he let her do it on her own. But Gerry was watching her and everybody around her. Anybody got the least bit frisky with Martha and he'd been on them like a pit bull on a T-bone.
"She's a doll, " Gin said.
That she is," he replied, never taking his eyes off her.
'"You never mentioned her mother." He glanced at Gin's intent expression, then back toward the drink dispenser.
"Remember Karen Shannick? The tall blond?"
"The cheerleader? Sure."
"Well, she went to U.V.A too. We got serious in college and were married right after. Martha came along about a year later."
"You still together?" He pointed to the scars on his face and spoke quickly to get the story out before Martha came back.
"These are from a windshield. A rainy night on 50. Truck jackknifed in front of us. I was driving, Karen was in the passenger seat, Martha in her car seat behind me. We slid right into the truck. Martha was fine, my face was hamburger, and Karen . . . Karen didn't make it." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gin's hand dart to her mouth.
"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry!" Not as sorry as I was.
"The really sad part is, Martha doesn't remember her mother. We have pictures, but that's all Karen is to Martha. I wish . . . " His throat constricted. Karen had been the careful one, and she'd been wearing her seat belt, Gerry hadn't bothered with his that night. Yet Karen was dead and Gerry was alive.
Wasn't fair.
He saw them sliding across the wet pavement, swerving out of control, his hands hauling on the steering wheel as he rammed the brakes to the floor, watching the rear corner of the truck loom in the passenger window before It smashed through the glass into Karen. . . .
Not fair.
He'd been an emotional basket case afterward, and his cutup face only added to the misery. Martha hadn't recognized him, screamed whenever she saw him. He looked like the Frankenstein monster. And Dr. Duncan Lathram had refused to treat him . . .
He blinked and saw Martha hurrying back to him with her brimming plastic cup of Mountain Dew clutched between her little hands. She'd never finish it all, but so what? She'd gone and filled it herself.
'"So Martha and I are managing on our own, " he said as he helped her back into her seat. "And trying to spend as much time together as my schedule permits." Which wasn't nearly enough for him. But what could he expect as a field agent? This wouldn't last much longer, he hoped. As soon as he was offered an S.S.A spot, he was taking it, no matter where it was, so he could get on a nine-to-five schedule and be with her more.
Right now she went to kindergarten, then after school to Mrs. Snedecker's. Thank God for Mrs. Snedecker.
He smoothed Martha's blond bangs and adjusted her Minnie Mouse barrettes. Incredible how much he'd learned. He could bathe Martha, shampoo hair, wash clothes, iron dresses, buy tights. His mother had helped some, but last year her heart had given out.
So it was Gerry and Martha. And God he was glad to have her. She'd filled some of the void Karen had left in his life. He might have gone to pieces but he'd had to hold together for Martha.
He still saw Karen. She came to him in his dreams. He'd ask her how he was doing with Martha but she never answered.
How was he doing?
Martha'smiled up at him and he kissed her forehead.
"But enough about me," he said to Gin. "What were you doing in the Hart Building today? It's not exactly a doctor hangout." She told him about her quest to have a say in the Guidelines bill, her lackluster interview with Senator Marsden's chief of staff, and her aborted interview with Allard.
"All that medical cramming and you want to hang with the pols?" She laughed, "You sound like Duncan."
"Well, maybe he's got a point."
"It's not all I want to do, just a part. And I am going to do it. All of it." She rattled the cubes in her cup. "I think I could use a refill too."
Gerry reached for her cup and started to rise. "Let me,"
"Thanks, " she said, holding it out of his reach, "but I may want a different flavor this time" Gerry watched her stroll to the drink dispenser, watched most of the other guys in sight follow her progress.
Yes, she was definitely worth a second look. Even a third.
And I am going to do it. All of it.
The fiery determination in her eyes made her even more attractive. A self-made woman. She'd gone from a girl wh
o could only be described as a schlub, to a woman with limitless possibilities. "Martha, " he whispered, "I do believe I'm becoming infatuated."
Martha didn't look up. "That's cause there's beans in this stuff.
Gerry laughed out loud.
"But don't worry, " Martha said. "We can tell Gin about it. She'll make you better She's a doctor."
"No, no, " Gerry said, gently pressing a finger over her lips. "We won't tell Gin anything about it. At least not yet."
9
DUNCAN
DUNCAN AND BRAD STEPPED OUT OF IL GIARDINELLO INTO the sulfurous air of Georgetown's M Street. The traffic streaming in from Virginia was stop-and-go, and the carbon monoxide from the idling cars mixed with the light fog drifting up from the nearby Potomac. The concoction hung in the still fall air like a toxic pall.
They turned east and headed back toward the car, passing a gallimaufry of restaurants, bars, bistros, upscale clothing and jewelry stores, alternative music shops, and, yes, even a condom shop.
"Not a bad meal," Brad said.
"No, not bad at all if you like your pasta overcooked, your veal practically raw, air thick with smoke, and acoustics so bad you can barely hear yourself think. The service was dilatory and indifferent at best, the decor was like one of the Borgias' bad dreams, the wine list wouldn't pass on the Bowery, and the espresso . . . " He shuddered.
"Execrable." Suddenly he smiled. "I must remember to recommend the place to your mother."
Brad gave his father a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Come on, now. None of that."
"All right."
"I guess we won't be back here real soon."
"Of course we will. As soon as it changes its name, owner, and chef."
Brad only shook his head, smiling.
Duncan loved this boy, this young man, this good-natured twenty-something with his open face and guileless blue eyes, his long, lean body, his too-long brown hair, the way he never wore socks and never cinched his tie all the way up and never fastened the top button on his shirt.