Joe said, “I’m going with Knightly, taking Muller in for interrogation. Munder is a good guy. He and a few others are taking a chopper to the Vancouver airport. You’ll go with them. I’ll call you when I can.”
I nodded. There was no point asking him, “Where are you taking her? How long will you be gone?” I took back my gun and holstered it. I let Joe open the door for me and I got out, looking around at this little airfield that had been a shooting gallery a short while ago.
Agent Munder came over and told me there was a bathroom in the hangar if I needed it and that a coffee urn and some rolls had been set out earlier for the crew.
“Help yourself.”
A little while later, he gav
e me a hand up into the helicopter, which was too loud for conversation. I was glad. The flight to the airport was short. I waited in the lounge with Agent Munder for the flight to San Francisco, which was also short.
Conklin and Cindy met me at SFO, and they both hugged me to pieces. I sat in the backseat on the drive into the city, leaning toward them over the seat back so I could tell them about my fifteen hours with the CIA.
I fell asleep while I was talking.
Cindy walked with me upstairs to the apartment and sat with Mrs. Rose and Julie until I’d finished taking the best shower of my entire life. And then everyone left us alone.
I sat in Joe’s chair holding our child, and then I sobbed deeply until she started crying, too. Poor Martha was dumbfounded. She barked and yipped and circled until I was all cried out.
We napped. Then we went to the park, my girls and me.
We sat by the lake and watched ducks and people. I made small talk with Martha and Julie. But my mind was working hard.
As usual, I still had questions.
CHAPTER 98
THE PHONE RANG at seven the next morning while I was brushing my teeth. It was Brady.
“Hah-wo,” I said.
“Are you all right?”
I spat and rinsed. “Good as new.”
“Fine. There’s a car downstairs for you. Go to Mission and Cortland. Two officers are at the scene. They’ll fill you in. Conklin’s on the way.”
Brady hung up. I sang to my reflection, “It’s gonna be another bright, bright, sunshiny day.”
I finished my morning ablutions and welcomed Mrs. Rose, who asked, “How are you?”
Everyone wanted to know how I was. I must look like I’d been dragged up and down Filbert Street behind a garbage truck.
“I’m fine,” I said. “How are you?”
“A little tense. My daughter’s due anytime. She’s packed to go to the hospital. Do you think you’ll be home after work?”
“I’ll be home by six. Or call me and I will relieve you as speedily as the law allows.”
“That’s good enough for me,” she said.
I kissed Julie, ruffled Martha’s ears, tossed her a tennis ball, and grabbed a bottle of tea from the fridge. Then I ran down the stairs.
There was a fire-engine-red Camaro in front of my apartment building with gold hubcaps and matching chains around the plate guards. The envelope taped to the window had my name on it, and there was a set of keys inside, along with a note written in Brady’s block-letter handwriting.
“Merry Christmas from the motor pool.”
It was not Christmas, and this car’s previous owner had clearly been convicted of possession of narcotics with intent to sell. I hated the car on sight. But until Nationwide paid out for my deceased Explorer, it would have to do.