big fat one. Harding had been involved with investigating the burning boat. Jo continued to scroll through the article. She stopped. A team from the 129th Air Rescue Wing at Moffett Field was scrambled to the scene, but found the two men aboard already dead. A spokesman for the Air National Guard declined to comment.
Tina continued talking. "And what would be so bad about going on a date? Friendship, that's all I'm suggesting. Jo, it's been two years. You're doing so great, but you don't have to do it all by yourself. Can you see that?"
She did. She saw who she needed to talk to. His name was there in the police department's notes: the pararescue jumper who had been on duty that night with the 129th Rescue Wing. Gabriel Quintana. Tina tossed a sugar packet at her. "I'll pick you up from UCSF." Quintana. She felt a zing in her fingertips. She looked up. "Sorry. What?"
"You're buzzing like a bee caught in a jar. I 'll pick you up tonight.
Eight?"
Unless this case I 'm working on turns into a monster." Tina stood up. "Monster case, ooh. Am I going to see you on
television?"
Yeah, walking through a blood-drenched crime scene with a flashlight, wearing tight jeans and a low-cut blouse."
And packing heat. Promise me you'll be strapped. And you'll whip off your sunglasses and vow to wreak justice. Please?"
"Absolutely. When pigs fly in formation and battle Godzilla." She was smiling, but felt it fade. "I need to talk to the 129th Rescue Wing."
"Tell 'em hey, and a big thumbs-up." Tina stopped. "Wait—"
"Yeah." She shut her computer. "Maybe I'll take a flak jacket."
Worry creased Tina's face. Jo gathered her things, kissed her sister good-bye, and headed out into the bracing sunshine. She knew a flak jacket wouldn't shield her. Kevlar only protects the heart against bullets, not grief.
O utside the coffeehouse, the sky had a silvery shine. She put on her shades. She turned and saw, lumbering along the sidewalk toward her, Ferd Bismuth.
"Shoot," she said.
Bismuth straightened and began to strut. She had no time for a long conversation, but it was too late to turn tail and bolt. He'd seen her.
He waved. "Greetings, neighbor."
Ferd was he who lived behind the crap-covered cupids and twitching curtains in the faux mansion next door to Jo's house. He wasn't obese, but walked like he was, weight back as though to balance a stomach, hands held away from his sides as if propped on pillows of fat. He was knock-kneed and his clothes were generously sized. His hair was lustrous with Brylcreem. He looked ready for his photo at NASA Mission Control, circa 1969.
He trundled toward her, smiling. "I must have just missed you at the cable car stop."
She had to calibrate her response. With Ferd, pleasantries were a Minefield. She hefted her satchel higher on her shoulder to give the 'impression that she urgently needed to get somewhere. Which she did, but need and urgency never deterred Ferd. She could have been
fire and he wouldn't be dissuaded from talking to her. For that Matter, he could have been on fire.
Weather should be a harmless topic. "Beautiful to see the sun- shi ne, isn 't it?"
His smile shrank. "Should I have applied sunscreen? With it being October, I thought I was safe." He glanced at his arms as if cancerous freckles were even now incubating.
She took a step. "Factor twenty, that's always good. But don't hide from the sun—it gives you vitamin D. And it cheers you up."
"Vitamin D? You mean—wait, no, Jo, don't go. Are you saying I could get rickets?"
She'd blown it. Never give 'em an opening—hadn't she learned anything from testifying in court? Don't ever give an open-ended answer, much less a suggestion, that a lawyer can crucify you with on cross-examination. But here she'd gone and given Ferd a bunch of nails and a Physicians' Desk Reference to hammer them in with.
He was the worst hypochondriac she'd ever met.
"Vitamin D? You mean with the rain and fog we don't get enough?" He looked at his knees.
Tina continued talking. "And what would be so bad about going on a date? Friendship, that's all I'm suggesting. Jo, it's been two years. You're doing so great, but you don't have to do it all by yourself. Can you see that?"
She did. She saw who she needed to talk to. His name was there in the police department's notes: the pararescue jumper who had been on duty that night with the 129th Rescue Wing. Gabriel Quintana. Tina tossed a sugar packet at her. "I'll pick you up from UCSF." Quintana. She felt a zing in her fingertips. She looked up. "Sorry. What?"
"You're buzzing like a bee caught in a jar. I 'll pick you up tonight.
Eight?"
Unless this case I 'm working on turns into a monster." Tina stood up. "Monster case, ooh. Am I going to see you on
television?"
Yeah, walking through a blood-drenched crime scene with a flashlight, wearing tight jeans and a low-cut blouse."
And packing heat. Promise me you'll be strapped. And you'll whip off your sunglasses and vow to wreak justice. Please?"
"Absolutely. When pigs fly in formation and battle Godzilla." She was smiling, but felt it fade. "I need to talk to the 129th Rescue Wing."
"Tell 'em hey, and a big thumbs-up." Tina stopped. "Wait—"
"Yeah." She shut her computer. "Maybe I'll take a flak jacket."
Worry creased Tina's face. Jo gathered her things, kissed her sister good-bye, and headed out into the bracing sunshine. She knew a flak jacket wouldn't shield her. Kevlar only protects the heart against bullets, not grief.
O utside the coffeehouse, the sky had a silvery shine. She put on her shades. She turned and saw, lumbering along the sidewalk toward her, Ferd Bismuth.
"Shoot," she said.
Bismuth straightened and began to strut. She had no time for a long conversation, but it was too late to turn tail and bolt. He'd seen her.
He waved. "Greetings, neighbor."
Ferd was he who lived behind the crap-covered cupids and twitching curtains in the faux mansion next door to Jo's house. He wasn't obese, but walked like he was, weight back as though to balance a stomach, hands held away from his sides as if propped on pillows of fat. He was knock-kneed and his clothes were generously sized. His hair was lustrous with Brylcreem. He looked ready for his photo at NASA Mission Control, circa 1969.
He trundled toward her, smiling. "I must have just missed you at the cable car stop."
She had to calibrate her response. With Ferd, pleasantries were a Minefield. She hefted her satchel higher on her shoulder to give the 'impression that she urgently needed to get somewhere. Which she did, but need and urgency never deterred Ferd. She could have been
fire and he wouldn't be dissuaded from talking to her. For that Matter, he could have been on fire.
Weather should be a harmless topic. "Beautiful to see the sun- shi ne, isn 't it?"
His smile shrank. "Should I have applied sunscreen? With it being October, I thought I was safe." He glanced at his arms as if cancerous freckles were even now incubating.
She took a step. "Factor twenty, that's always good. But don't hide from the sun—it gives you vitamin D. And it cheers you up."
"Vitamin D? You mean—wait, no, Jo, don't go. Are you saying I could get rickets?"
She'd blown it. Never give 'em an opening—hadn't she learned anything from testifying in court? Don't ever give an open-ended answer, much less a suggestion, that a lawyer can crucify you with on cross-examination. But here she'd gone and given Ferd a bunch of nails and a Physicians' Desk Reference to hammer them in with.
He was the worst hypochondriac she'd ever met.
"Vitamin D? You mean with the rain and fog we don't get enough?" He looked at his knees.
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