Death Come Quickly by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

was planning to talk to you. I hope he’s pleased.”
    â€œ
Dazed
is more like it,” McQuaid said with a chuckle. “His boys are grown and he could be a grandfather. Now
this.
” Blackie has two sons from an earlier marriage, one in Dallas, another in the air force. “A baby is going to be a big change for him.”
    â€œIn more ways than one,” I said, thinking that babies were entering into the day’s conversations a little more frequently than I was accustomed to. I began dicing the tomatoes. “Sheila is going to have to juggle her workload. And Blackie might not be so willing to take cases that involve travel.” I put the tomatoes into the salad. “I hope they know what they’re getting into.”
    â€œDoes anybody?” McQuaid asked thoughtfully. “I mean, you can look only so far ahead. The rest . . .” He shrugged. “But that’s life. You just have to take it on faith.” He held up his wineglass, studying it. “But they must have wanted a baby. Otherwise—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
    â€œMistakes happen,” I said. I chopped the green onions, dumped them into the bowl, and found the salad tongs in the drawer.
    â€œMistakes don’t happen to Blackie and Sheila,” McQuaid said with a confident chuckle. “They’re careful. And deliberate.”
    â€œAlso maybe passionate,” I said, amused. “Just a little.” He was watching me speculatively, one dark eyebrow quirked. I frowned, thinking of Sheila. And Sylvia Banner. “You don’t . . . I mean, you’re not wishing that we . . .” I got the dish of beans—canned pork and beans with some added garlic and chopped onions—out of the microwave. “That it was happening to us?”
    â€œNooo,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “The thought did cross my mind a while back. That it might be nice for us to have a child of our own. But that was before Caitie came along. She’ll be with us for at least six more years, and by that time—”
    â€œAnd by that time Brian may have given us a grandchild,” I said with a little laugh.
    He pulled his dark brows together. “Brian? You’ve got to be kidding, China. He’s . . . he’s just a kid! He—”
    â€œI’m willing to bet that the kid has the right equipment,” I said equably. “And that it’s in excellent operating order. Let’s just hope his head overrules the rest of him—and whatever might be going on between him and Jake.”
    McQuaid scowled. “I’d better have another talk with the boy. Make sure he understands the ground rules.” He finished off his wine. “Oh, by the way, we picked up a new case this week.”
    â€œThat’s good, isn’t it?” The “Associates” part of the agency name is wishful thinking. There are just the two of them, McQuaid and Blackwell. Sometimes they’re stretched, and sometimes they get cases that have to be worked when the only people on the streets are the law and the outlaw. They can end up working twenty-four/seven. I couldn’t begin to imagine what Blackie was going to do when there was a baby in the house. He and Sheila would have to have live-in help, wouldn’t they? No wonder they were thinking of getting a bigger house.
    â€œDefinitely good,” McQuaid replied. “And definitely better than the alternative. But Blackie still has his hands full with that situation in San Antonio, so this one is mine.”
    I eyed him. “Care to tell me about it?” Sometimes he will; mostly he won’t.
    â€œIt’s a bee in Charlie Lipman’s bonnet.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t have a client—it’s something he wants to look into for his own reasons. It’s personal.”
    Ah,
personal
. Which meant that McQuaid wasn’t going to give