To Catch the Moon (15 page)

The things that woman knew. It amazed him.
She had a lot figured out, even about things she had no business
knowing.

Kip headed for his office, liking Alicia
Maldonado more than he usually did. It saddened him that she wasn’t
in this mood more often. It was nice behaving like real colleagues,
instead of people thrust together by work who hated each other.

*

The next day was Christmas. Alicia spent the
morning in the D.A.’s office, which she had entirely to herself.
She had a few hours to get some work done before starting the
so-called festivities, round one at her mother’s house with her
sisters and nieces and nephews, and round two with Jorge at his
mom’s. She should be happy, she knew; she had family who loved her,
a man who loved her, all her life ahead of her. Well, all her life
past age thirty-five. Yet the only thing she could think was,
Another year down. Another one bites the dust. And what do you
want to bet I’ll be sitting here just like this next year,
too?

After another twelve months of slaving away
for Penrose.

Her stomach knotted at the thought of him. So
pompous, so self-satisfied, so damn lazy. His idea of a rough day
at the office was a few hours schmoozing on the phone, then
entertaining fellow politicos at a boozy lunch and sticking
taxpayers with the bill. He was a master of sucking up, though that
skill vied with his other great talent of getting other people to
do his work.

Yet …

It galled her, but to herself she had to
admit it. Who’d won elective office, him or her? He’d won on his
first try. She’d lost on her first two. And why? Because he did all
the things she didn’t. He networked like a maniac, and played the
name game, and never ruffled anyone’s feathers. Except of those
unimportant birds perched below him on the pecking order.

Like her.

She sighed, exceedingly tired, and not just
from midnight Mass. She was pulling the plastic wrap off a broken
mini candy cane, hoping a sugar rush would lift her mood, when her
desk phone rang. “Maldonado,” she answered.

“Merry Christmas.”

Her heart quickened. It was a male voice. A
male voice that sounded exactly like—

“Aren’t you going to wish me Merry Christmas,
too?” The voice was teasing.

She lolled back in her chair, a smile on her
face. All anger at Milo Pappas receded into the unlit, unprobed
corners of her memory. “I would wish you Merry Christmas but I
didn’t think you big news types celebrated the holidays.”

“We deign to celebrate the major ones.”

“Where are you?”

“Driving south on 101. We just got into
SFO.”

“Oh!” San Francisco airport. “So you were out
of town.”

“Yes, in New York and D.C. But now I’m back,
in your beautiful neck of the woods.” She felt oddly pleased at his
phrasing. “You know,” he went on, “you’re the first person I’ve
called since I got in.”

“I’m flattered. As clearly you want me to
be.”

“Actually, I lied. You’re not the first
person I called.” Small commotion in the car, then he continued.
“The first was my executive producer, whom I detest but to whom I
am contractually obligated to report my every move.”

“What a pain in the ass.”

He laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
More commotion. “So, Alicia Maldonado, why in the world am I
reaching you in your office on Christmas morning?”

She felt a crashing embarrassment. What a
huge smoke signal that she had no life. “Well”—she tried to keep
her voice light—“you’re working, aren’t you?”

“I am, indeed.” He sighed, and to her
surprise she sensed that Milo Pappas—big network-news star Milo
Pappas—might be a little frustrated himself. “That’s why I’m
calling, actually,” he went on, and her heart sagged. Despite their
friendly sparring, their easy familiarity of not even exchanging
names—especially despite that single kiss she was having such
difficulty forgetting—she should know that Milo Pappas was calling
Alicia Maldonado strictly for business reasons. “I was hoping you
could bring me up to speed on the Gaines case. I understand
Treebeard was arrested yesterday, but I have a few questions. For
example—”

“I’m sorry,” she cut in, “but I don’t have
time to brief you.”

“So I’m getting the official brush-off again,
am I?” He chuckled. “What’d I do this time, Alicia?”

He was so personal, so intimate, as if they
were fast friends, or so much more than friends. Using her name so
often, too, which unlike most people he pronounced the way she did:
A-lee-see-uh
. It was part of his charm, she knew, which
apparently he could spin like a web whenever the need arose. Like
when he wanted something. Her back stiffened.

“You can guess from the fact that I’m in my
office on Christmas Day that I’ve got a lot of work to do,” she
told him. “If you have any questions you’ll have to ask our
press—”

“I know, I know, your press officer. But I’ll
bet she’s not working today.” He sighed, then laughed again. “You
know, Alicia, you’re a tough one. But that’s why I like you.
Anyway, Merry Christmas.” Then he hung up.

Slowly she replaced the receiver. Damn that
man. Damn how she always felt when she thought about that man. Damn
how those three simple words
I like you
would bounce happily
in her memory for the rest of the day, then resurface that night
when she crawled between the sheets and stared at the ceiling in
the dark. How could someone she barely knew get such a rise out of
her?

She bit off the curvy end of her candy cane.
She didn’t like a single one of the possibilities.

*

Two days later Milo huddled with Mac and Tran
in the chilly vestibule of a Carmel Valley Episcopal church whose
name he couldn’t for the life of him remember. Episcopal churches
ran together in his mind: all of them massive and dusty and
brooding, like English castles on rainy days. In minutes Daniel
Gaines’ funeral service would begin, and renowned industrialists
and politicians would be forced to speak well of their dearly
departed rival for the first and last time in their lives. And Milo
would be forced not only to listen, but to take notes.

He sighed, cold even in his wool overcoat,
reluctant to take his place among the reporters and photographers
and camera crews in the rear pews reserved for the press. His body
ached from lack of sleep and too many live reports filed from
windblown street corners, and his mind felt unsettled and
distracted. He was loath to admit it, but knew full well the cause
of his disquiet. Today, for the first time since she’d left him, he
would see Joan in the flesh. No more grainy newspaper photos or
slick magazine images; no more videotape; just the woman herself.
True, she would be at a distance, and he would be the last thing on
her mind, but the mere prospect of her physical proximity unnerved
him.

Slowly the media pews filled, their occupants
raucous in comparison to the studied solemnity of the mourners.
No wonder Alicia Maldonado doesn’t like reporters
, he
thought, then corrected himself. It wasn’t that she disliked
reporters; it was that she distrusted them. That was probably
smart, though it didn’t exactly aid his cause.

The question he’d been mulling resurfaced in
his mind. Why not ask Alicia to dinner? Why not pursue the
attraction? Milo had finely tuned antennae when it came to women.
He knew when a woman found him attractive, and he knew that Alicia
Maldonado did. His antennae were fairly vibrating in her case.

So he was reporting on a case she was
prosecuting. So what? Why couldn’t they separate their personal and
professional lives? Of course they’d be treading a fine line, but
he believed them both up to the task. And it would be too late to
get to know her once the case was over. He’d have to move on to
other assignments, and the window of opportunity would close
forever.

Mac, who stood beside Milo in the vestibule,
shuffled his feet. He was loaded with gear, and Milo knew he wanted
to get inside to claim a camera position before all the good ones
were taken. Yet both Mac and Tran seemed to know what it cost Milo
to be there. They’d been oddly solicitous all morning, not razzing
him, not rushing him, not saying much at all. Respectfully quiet,
as if he were grieving.

Mac met his eyes, then cocked his chin toward
the nave. Milo sighed. “Okay, let’s go in,” he said, and all three
made their way deeper into the church.

Milo no longer caused a flurry among his
fellow reporters. He was old hat now. They were used to the star
correspondent being among their ragtag number. He unceremoniously
pushed a few people aside to claim an aisle seat for himself while
Mac staked out a prime position among the jostling camera crews,
though it was really Mac’s height that would give him a superior
vantage point. Milo whipped his reporter’s notebook from the inside
pocket of his overcoat, intending to take a stab at writing a
lead-in to his piece for the
WBS Evening News
. But two
reporters in the pew behind him were whispering so loudly he found
himself listening to every word they unleashed.

“What’s to say she can’t do it?” A woman’s
voice, hissy.

“What’s she ever done except be born a
Hudson?” A man, cocky and dismissive.

“What’s she ever done?” The woman sounded
affronted at the very question. “How about get an MBA at Stanford?
And work on Wall Street? Those are both tougher than anything
you’ve ever done, buddy.”

“Nothing’s tough when you’re born into the
right family.” The man chuckled. “Besides, she didn’t actually get
an MBA, remember? And she worked on Wall Street for about ten
minutes, thanks to Daddy lining up a job for her. My nine-year-old
could do better.”

“But if she has even half her father’s
ability, she could be a fantastic—”

“
If
is the operative word, especially
now that her father’s not around to make things happen. ‘Daddy,
daddy, help me …’ ” The man assumed a whiny falsetto, and the woman
collapsed in giggles, conversation ended.

Milo jabbed his pen through the spirals of
his notebook. Speculation about a political future for Joan had
begun, and not just among the press. The prior night at a
restaurant he’d overheard a conversation among people clearly
jazzed at the idea that Web Hudson’s only child might step up to
the political plate now that both her father and husband were gone.
It was the way Americans looked to every Kennedy, or every Bush, to
see where they might find the next star. The statement Joan had
released on Christmas Eve had something to do with it, and he
wondered if it was a calculated move.

Politics and Joan didn’t strike Milo as a
good mix. She possessed some fine qualities, but a thick skin and
an appetite for hard work weren’t among them. Not to mention that
she didn’t exactly exhibit a lot of staying power. Unless she’d
undergone a radical metamorphosis, he thought she was far better
suited to enjoying the fruits of other people’s labors than to
working in the fields herself.

Milo watched as familiar faces in business
and government filled the pews to capacity. There were a few
hundred mourners already and still more pushing their way into the
church. An organist played something dirgelike, a gloomy
accompaniment to the rain pelting the stained-glass windows. He
recrossed his legs, eager to get the service over with but
reluctant to see it start.

There was a commotion behind him. The organ
music slid into a different, equally funereal melody. As if they
were one, all heads pivoted toward the rear of the church.

Milo turned to see a phalanx of black-clad
men and women slowly move up the central aisle. Pallbearers bore on
their shoulders a dark, gleaming casket on which rested an enormous
spray of white lilies. And there, behind them, was Joan.

She was smaller than he remembered. Slighter.
Paler. She walked beside her mother, who cut the same aristocratic
figure she always had. Both women wore black from head to toe. Joan
sported no jewelry and only the subtlest trace of makeup. To Milo’s
eyes she looked frail and tragic, as though she might shatter at
any moment.

She was a few feet away. For some reason he
stood up. The motion must have caught her attention, because her
gaze traveled in his direction, and her eyes met his. There was a
flicker of recognition, then a small smile. She held his gaze for
so long, with such intensity, that Milo knew his fellow journalists
noticed. He sensed their surprise, then their envy, and was
overcome with discomfort and a strange foreboding.

He hadn’t wanted to see Joan, and now he had.
Or more to the point, she had seen him.

*

It was shortly after noon on Friday,
unrelievedly blustery and rainy. Alicia was working her way through
both a ham and cheese sandwich and a crime-scene report when her
desk phone rang. “Maldonado,” she answered.

“Pappas.”

His calling was both good and bad. Good
because she loved hearing from him; bad because she loved hearing
from him. “What can I do for you?” she asked, her standard opening
gambit for business calls.

His voice was cheery. “You can give me a
sound bite!”

She frowned. Outside her window two older
women she recognized from the Public Works Department trudged up
Alisal Street in bright raincoats, their arms linked, their heads
bent, their umbrellas held low to fend off the wind.
That’ll be
me and Louella in a few years
, she thought.
Hell, that’s
pretty much us now.

“Alicia? Aren’t you familiar with the
term?”

“Sorry.” She’d forgotten to say something.
“Of course I am. But why aren’t you calling Penrose?”

“Anticipating that you’d ask that very
question, I already did. But your boss apparently keeps banker’s
hours, because he’s gone for the day. The press officer put me on
to you.”