To Catch the Moon (11 page)

“I was born in Bogota but then we moved to
Germany. Then Paris, then Washington when I was ten, Washington all
through prep school.” He paused. He should have said “high” rather
than “prep” school. Suddenly he found himself reluctant to provide
copious details on his background.

She cocked her head, her eyes curious.
“Pappas is a Greek name, right?”

“That’s right. I have dual Greek and U.S.
citizenship.”

“What did your father do that you moved
around so much?”

He hesitated. Then, “He was in the diplomatic
corps.”

“What did he do in Washington?”

No way around it. “He was ambassador.”

She fell silent and looked down at her lap.
Milo shifted in his chair.
She thinks her background’s so
different from mine. And she’s embarrassed about it, though she
needn’t be
. For a moment he saw a vulnerability in the
hard-boiled prosecutor and found himself touched. How surprised she
would be to learn the truth about his family history. Alicia
Maldonado had more in common with Milo Pappas than she realized.
“What did your father do?” he asked, suddenly curious.

She raised her eyes. “He was a long-haul
trucker.”

“So he was away from home a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Just like mine.”

She gave him a look that said,
No,
different from yours
. “Did you grow up in California?” he
asked.

“Yes. Not far from here.”

“Have you lived here all your life?”

Again she dropped her eyes. “Sure have.”

He watched a flush rise on her cheeks.
“You’re lucky,” he said, then added, “It’s a beautiful part of the
world.”

“Well, I guess I have to take your word for
that. You’ve seen a lot of the world, so you would know.” Then she
raised her head again, and it pained him to see both the sadness
and the hint of defiance in those lovely dark eyes.

He leaned closer to her across the table.
“You’ll travel, Alicia. You’ll see the world.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m just stating a fact.”

“You can see into the future?”

“Yes.” Then he laughed, and that got her to
smile. “Yes, I can.”

They stared at each other. At that moment
Milo could actually imagine showing this woman his favorite places.
Bangkok, where crossing the street without getting hit by a
three-wheeled
tuk-tuk
taxi was a daredevil exercise. Maui,
for the sunset, where the sky glowed pink and purple and you could
swear you’d glimpsed heaven. Even his favorite Upper West Side cafe
with the endless Sunday brunch lines, where snow or sun you’d stand
outside waiting for a table because the prospect of buttermilk
pancakes and the
New York Times
was just too good to pass
up.

Some of the football watchers let out a
cheer, dragging Alicia’s eyes away from his. “Game’s over,
apparently,” she said.

“Judging from the reaction, I guess the good
guys won.”

“I wish it was always that easy.”

“Come on.” He smiled at her. “Is that Alicia
Maldonado talking? Or the cynical prosecutor?”

“They’re one and the same.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.”

She rolled her eyes. Milo realized he was
enjoying himself more than he’d expected to. He didn’t know quite
what to make of this woman. She didn’t fit into any of the usual
categories. “I’m glad,” he said, idly trailing a finger through the
condensation on his beer bottle, “that you’ve realized I’m not the
enemy.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You thought you
were?”

“Well, you gave me kind of a hard time at the
press conference.”

“No, I didn’t. I just treated you like any
other reporter. That’s what you didn’t like.”

He laughed so loudly some of the football
watchers looked over. “You’re right! You’re absolutely right.” He
lowered his voice. “I was hoping you might give me special
treatment.”

“You flatter yourself.”

“That’s a lot easier than waiting for
somebody else to do it.”

Then it was her turn to laugh, and he
watched, pleased to have been the cause. They were silent for a
while, sipping their beers, then he spoke up. “Well, I suppose I
should ask you at least a few probing questions about Daniel
Gaines’ murder.”

“Aren’t you done with that yet?”

“Not yet.” He shook his head. “I have to
stick to my game plan even though I don’t much feel like it. I’m
having too good a time.”

“Well, that’s too bad. For you, anyway.
Because I could tell you a thing or two.”

He was surprised. Apparently he had succeeded
in warming her up a bit. He forced himself to climb out of the
pleasant stupor created by beer, repartee with a beautiful woman,
and a roaring fire. He decided to ask a stupid, leading question,
which occasionally elicited a valuable, explanatory response. “So
isn’t this about the most boring case in the world? I mean, apart
from the fact that the victim was a candidate for governor of
California, isn’t it just so obvious who did it?”

She sighed. “You know the first people the
police look to in a murder?”

“Tell me.”

“Spouse. Family. Friends. Almost always it’s
somebody close to the victim.”

He’d known that. “But that’s not true
here.”

She frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Well...” He laughed. “
Spouse?
You
think Joan Gaines would shoot her husband with an arrow?”

“Why not? Is she somehow less likely than
other spouses?”

“Well, frankly, yes.” He hesitated, then,
“People like Joan Gaines don’t go around murdering their
husbands.”

He watched Alicia narrow her eyes at him. The
fire in the grate roared as fiercely as ever, yet all at once the
air seemed to chill. “You mean because she’s from a wealthy family?
Because she’s the daughter of a governor?”

That was pretty much what he’d meant, but he
hesitated to spell it out. While he was debating what to say,
Alicia resumed speaking.

“You know, murderers come from all walks of
life. It’s not just the poor who kill.”

“I’m not suggesting it is. I’m merely
pointing out that Joan Gaines is a good woman from a good family
and she would never—”

“How do you know she’s a good woman?”

Damn
. This was the last thing he
wanted to get into.

“Do you know her?” she demanded. Milo had a
sudden understanding of what it would be like to be cross-examined
by Deputy D.A. Maldonado.

He thought fast. He didn’t want to lie. Nor
was it advisable, since his history with Joan was hardly secret. “I
know her,” he allowed. “More to the point, I know the family. And
when I compare Joan Gaines to Treebeard it looks to me to be pretty
cut and dried who’s the more likely suspect.”

Silence. When Alicia finally spoke, her voice
was cold. “It surprises me that you’re not even willing to consider
the possibility that this case might not be all sewn up. I thought
reporters were supposed to keep an open mind. Naive of me. But then
again, what do I know? I’ve never been off the peninsula.”

She glanced at her watch then abruptly stood
up, reached into her purse, and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the
table. “I have to go. Good night.” She grabbed her overcoat and
headed for the door.

Damn
. “Alicia …”

But she was already gone. He grabbed his own
overcoat and pulled out his billfold, extracting a twenty. The cold
air when he exited the bar hit him like a slap.

He followed her across the parking lot at a
half run, then reached for her arm when she stopped at a car. She
shook him off, digging into her purse, apparently for her key. Her
breath rose like a soft white cloud in the chill air.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I certainly
didn’t mean to. And let me pay for our drinks. Here ...” and he
tried to hand her the twenty.

“Forget it.” She ignored the outstretched
bill. “And you didn’t offend me. I’m just surprised you have such a
rosy view of the rich and famous.” She found her key and poked it
into the lock. “Though I shouldn’t be, since you’re one of
them.”

“Hey, now, wait a minute.” He stepped between
her and her car, its door still closed. “That’s not fair. You talk
about me having a closed mind?” He reached out and made a brushing
motion on her right shoulder, as if he were trying to get something
off.

They were standing so close together, her
breath puffed in his face. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to knock that chip off your
shoulder.”

She pushed back hard against his chest, her
eyes angry. “You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

There was no thought on the path from impulse
to action. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her body toward his
own, swiftly capturing her mouth. Her lips resisted at first, then
parted, and he felt her body meld into his own. Not soften; it was
far too passionate a motion for that. Vaguely he wondered what had
possessed him to do what he was now doing, and with such enjoyment.
Admiration, attraction, sheer curiosity had pooled to form a crazy,
mixed-up brew that had gotten the better of his common sense, yet
he couldn’t say he was sorry. His hands were in her hair, he
realized, as he twisted her head this way and that to get his fill
of her. He had the fleeting idea that would not happen soon.

All at once she pulled back and stared at
him, her eyes flaring and her mouth almost swollen from the
ferocity of their kiss. She held up a warning finger and opened
that delicious mouth as if about to say something, but then
abruptly shut it again. Words failed her, apparently. They failed
him, too.

He stepped back to allow her room to get into
her car. She turned the ignition and revved the engine, backing out
soon and driving away just as fast. He watched her, unable to look
away until at long last her taillights disappeared into the
fog.

“This is a hell of a way to spend Christmas
Eve, Alicia.” Louella Wilkes sat in the passenger seat of Alicia’s
silver VW bug, staring out the window and complaining. “This is
pointless. Carmel PD already did this interview. What do you expect
to get that they didn’t?”

“It’ll only take a few hours. I’ll get you
back to the office by three.”

“Does Penrose know about this?”

“Of course not.” Penrose would have a cow if
he thought Alicia was spending one second on ground already
covered, particularly such sacred ground as Joan Gaines’ alibi for
the night her husband was murdered. Alicia pushed her foot down
hard on the accelerator and the VW surged forward. “Anyway, I
completely disagree that it’s a bad idea. Carmel PD isn’t exactly
experienced when it comes to homicide investigations. Besides,
don’t you think it’s weird that Joan Gaines went shopping two days
after her husband died?”

“She needed something for the funeral.”

“And got her hair dyed? And her nails done?
In San Francisco, no less, because that’s the nearest Neiman
Marcus? It’s not her wedding day coming up, Louella—it’s her
husband’s funeral.”

The scenery whizzed past. Their destination
of Santa Cruz lay about forty-five miles north of Carmel on Highway
1, the Pacific Coast Highway, a narrow thoroughfare that twisted
along California’s shoreline. Much of the scenery was gorgeous.
Twenty miles south, around Big Sur, it was spectacular. But this
stretch of PCH wound inland toward Watsonville, known as the
strawberry capital of the world. As an agricultural outpost, it was
less than scenic and less than fragrant. Kind of like Salinas.

“So maybe she didn’t love him,” Louella said.
“Did you ever think of that? Maybe she didn’t feel so bad he got
offed. So she still wanted to go shopping, kind of show him up by
looking fabulous at his funeral.”

Alicia chuckled. “It’s not like he’ll be
there to appreciate it, Louella.”

“No, but she can still get the satisfaction.”
Louella toyed with her bleached-blond hair, again staring out the
passenger window. “How’s Jorge, by the way?”

“Oh, he’s great.” Alicia didn’t bother with
the smile, since Louella wasn’t looking.

“What are you guys doing tomorrow? Or do you
do Christmas tonight?”

“We’ll go to midnight Mass tonight but get
together at my mom’s tomorrow. Then at Jorge’s mom’s later.”

Yet even as Alicia talked about Jorge, she
knew the man most on her mind was Milo Pappas. What was it about
that guy? First she broke her “Keep reporters at arm’s length” rule
by agreeing to meet him. Then she laughed in the rule’s face by
kissing him. And why? He’d dazzled her. It was so humiliating.
Despite the fact that he was full of himself, and had pissed her
off by saying she had a chip on her shoulder, he’d dazzled her. He
was gorgeous and exciting and moved in a big, wide, important world
she was dying to know more about. And dying to enter, though she’d
have an easier time catching the moon.

That morning over cereal she did what she
never did. She watched TV. She’d turned on her rinky-dink set in
the kitchen, set it to the WBS station, and watched its morning
show for almost an hour. She didn’t even flip to other channels
during commercials for fear she’d miss him. She’d seen him twice,
though only on taped stories. The fact that he wasn’t doing live
reports like before upset her. Maybe he’d already gone? Though he’d
be back, right?

Then again, what did it matter? As her mother
would say, he wanted her for one thing and one thing only. Well,
two things in this case, but that was no less an insult. She raised
her chin in defiance, though Milo Pappas was nowhere in the
vicinity to witness her resolve. She would refuse to provide either
inside info or a roll in the hay, despite how tempting the latter
prospect might be. She had her pride. She would not be some
jet-setting newsman’s Salinas squeeze, then be tossed away like
yesterday’s newspaper when he was done with her.