A Triple Thriller Fest (23 page)

“I’ve got an appointment near my residence this afternoon. Let me give you my address in Walnut Creek. Where did you want to eat?”

“There’s only one place suitable, in my humble opinion. In Chinatown. The Empress of China.”

“I love Chinese. I’m at the River Oaks Apartments, Unit
Esperanza
, off Sycamore Street in Walnut Creek. We can take BART into the city and then walk to Chinatown. Seven-thirty too early?”

“Seven-thirty’s fine, Nicole. See you then, and thanks for allowing spontaneity to prevail.”

“Seven-thirty, then.” She gave him her phone numbers in case he got held up. “I’m looking forward to it, Dan. Bye.”

“Thanks, Nicole,” Dan replied, replacing the receiver, leaning back in his chair, and locking his fingers behind his head.

* * *

Dan had no trouble finding the River Oaks Apartments, which mirrored the thousands of other Spanish architecture apartment complexes scattered throughout California cities. It was nestled in a grove of Manzanita trees and surrounded by a high-security fence veiled in foliage. The rustic wooden sign out front advertised a pool, spa, training room, tennis courts, and even an on-site film viewing room with a large screen.

After his car was cleared by the security guard who checked Dan’s name against his list of expected guests, Dan read the unit names on each of the buildings and parked the car next to the one marked
Esperanza.
Nicole answered Dan’s buzz almost instantly, smiling warmly and offering to shake his hand. She closed the door behind her, and together they descended the one flight of stairs and walked toward his car.

Like a schoolboy getting ready for his first date, Dan had wondered what he ought to wear. He and Nicole hadn’t discussed it, and he hoped his slacks, sports coat, and buttoned-up, open necked shirt wouldn’t be too casual. He was relieved to find Nicole informally dressed as well, and pleased to see that she apparently knew the vagaries of weather they might encounter in the city, since she was carrying a jacket on her arm.

Remembering her in a navy-blue business suit from their first encounter under the bridge and her professional demeanor, Dan now saw her in a different light, relaxed, jovial and in fact, beautiful. Since their previous meeting, Nicole had cut her dark hair and was wearing it in an attractive, shorter style that flattered her face. Flat shoes, for walking, he assumed, and a long-strap purse completed her outfit, which Dan found flattering to her athletic body. While opening the car door, Dan caught a whiff of the pleasant, subtle fragrance she was wearing and wondered what it was called. He stifled a passing thought.
Beautiful or not, does she carry a pistol in her purse?

It was only a six-minute drive from her apartment to the BART station, where, after a short wait, they caught the next train to San Francisco. At eight o’clock in the evening, the commuter rush was over, and the train was nearly empty with only two other couples sharing their car. Initial chitchat consisted of comments mainly about Nicole’s apartment complex and Dan’s condo in Davis. They were silent as they passed though several above-ground BART stations on the Oakland side, with passengers entering and leaving at each stop. Dan watched Nicole’s reflection in the train window until her reflection smiled at him, and he became aware that she was familiar with his surveillance technique.

“Caught me.” He laughed. “But I presume, based on your acceptance of this dinner offer, that I am neither a suspect, a material witness, a person of interest, or even an investigative source any longer.”

Nicole looked at Dan for a moment, a smile growing on her face. “Whether you are
a
suspect, or just
suspect,
has yet to be determined. I seldom make snap judgments, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Nope, you agreed. It’s Dan.”

“Okay. So,
Dan
Rawlings—Rumsey Valley, Woodland High School, UC Davis, and Stanford Law—with honors, no less. Very impressive.”

Dan looked at her with surprise, and Nicole smiled all the more. “I confess, I’ve done my homework. All in the performance of my professional duties.”

“Of course,” Dan allowed. “Reciprocity, if you please,” he prodded.

“Norwalk, Connecticut; a B.A. from Vassar in English literature; an M.A. in psychology from Northwestern, and then Columbia Law. Straight into the FBI afterward.”

“That’s a rather impressive bio, Nicole. But why—”

“Why the FBI?” Nicole interrupted, then snapped, “Why not?”

Taken aback, Dan retreated. “Excuse me if I was intrusive; I didn’t mean to be.”

Dan could see Nicole was embarrassed by her sharp response to his question.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I just hear that question all the time. In one fashion or another, it’s
‘Why would an intelligent, attractive woman choose the FBI?’
and I guess I’m tired of it.”

“I can understand that.” Dan laughed. “The intelligent, attractive part, I mean.” The lights on the train flickered briefly as they entered the tunnel, and their ears popped as the train dropped down under San Francisco Bay.

Nicole continued, changing the subject. “When I was first assigned to work in San Francisco, I was told that the minutes spent under the Bay while commuting to work were the most dangerous I would encounter. I guess that’s right. If the so-called ‘Big One’ were to occur while we’re under here, there would be no hope of getting out alive. I kind of count the minutes I spend under the Bay as the sacrifice I make for being able to live in such a beautiful place.”

Dan thought of the newspaper report he’d read of her instant response to the hostage situation, feeling that being in the line of fire from bank robbers was certainly more dangerous than riding BART under the Bay.

“Have you seen much of California?” he asked.

“Mostly the cities, and usually on business. Al and I …” she paused and lowered her eyes. “… Al and I used to take turns driving to assignments so the other could take more time to view the scenery. Al was from Iowa, and while he’d been with the Bureau for fifteen years, he’d only been in California about six months longer than me.” After a pause, she added, “He used to beg me to get take-out when we were out of the office so we could sit in the car by the ocean while we ate lunch. He was awed by the majesty of the ocean.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence until the train exited the tunnel on the San Francisco side of the Bay and stopped at the Embarcadero Station. At the Beale Street Station they got off and made their way up to Market Street, beginning the fifteen-minute walk to Chinatown.

At The Empress of China, on the sixth floor of the building, the maître ’d found Dan’s reservations and seated the couple at the table Dan had requested, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. Full dark having descended over the city, the lights on the bridge glowed brightly over the dark expanse of the entrance to San Francisco Bay. It was a spectacular view, and Nicole and Dan gazed at it without speaking while a cadre of waiters scurried about, working to change the settings on the table.

When he could do so unobtrusively, Dan continued to steal glances at the very attractive woman seated across from him. He hadn’t noticed it before, but she was wearing a pair of small silver earrings and a matching thin necklace. The jewelry caught the light from the candle on their table, and the glint framed her face nicely as she sat looking out the window, resting her chin on her folded hands.

Dan was taken—not only by her beauty, but by the way she carried herself. At their previous meetings—at the murder scene, the National Guard Armory, the funeral, and the restaurant—she had been thoroughly professional. Cordial, maybe, or perhaps a bit aloof, especially in General Del Valle’s presence, but each time professional. So far this evening, she had been considerably warmer and more open. He was intrigued by her personality in that she was very self-assured but not arrogant. It was a combination Dan found fascinating. It was very pleasant to sit across from her and to contemplate having her for a dinner companion. He congratulated himself for acting on the impulse to telephone her.

After placing their order, they sat in silence, continuing to admire the view. Finally, Dan said, “So, where did you grow up?”

“New England. My father was a captain in the Connecticut State Police. When I was fifteen, he was killed by a young kid with a shotgun who was trying to rob a bank. Dad was only forty-three and had a wife and three children. The kid got five to twenty and was back on the street in seven years. I hadn’t even graduated from college yet, and he was out, doing his thing again. He was killed two years later in a drug deal—ironically, by a shotgun wielded by one of his partners.”

Dan listened quietly. Following her explanation, Nicole unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap. Reaching across the table, Dan gently placed his hand over Nicole’s, and she turned her palm up, underneath his hand, clasping his fingers as she offered a small smile. With their fingers interlocking, Dan briefly remembered that despite his wife’s death—a fact he felt Nicole’s background check must have disclosed—one outward symbol of his previous life remained: his wedding band was still on his finger. They sat for a moment, each looking at their clasped hands, until they were interrupted by three waiters, a particular affectation to the Empress of China, which made their establishment present a restaurant of first order.

Dan spoke. “Have you eaten here before?”

“I’ve had several Chinese dinners in town, but not here.”

“Well, then, Nicole Bentley, this will go into your journal, if you keep one. You’re about to experience the finest Chinese food in San Francisco … in my humble opinion, of course.”

“Great—I’m starved,” Nicole said.

Dan was pleased to see that Nicole ate with good appetite. When she was finished, she pushed her plate away, emitting a small exhale to represent satisfaction with her meal. Surveying the mostly empty serving platters, she said, “Well, I made short work of that. Did you eat anything, Dan? I didn’t notice.” She laughed.

He grinned and patted his stomach. “I’ll say I did.”

Smiling, she stared into Dan’s eyes, holding his gaze longer than was comfortable for him. When she saw him become nervous, she began to laugh.

“What?” he finally asked.

“What, indeed. What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Counselor. You’ve got my
Vitae.
Let’s hear a bit about you.”

Nicole continued to look softly into Dan’s eyes, her face framed by her dark hair and highlighted by the reflection of the candle on the table.

Dan looked out the window at the Golden Gate Bridge, remaining quiet for several long moments. Not once since the accident had he confided to anyone the details, or even the generalities, of Susan’s death—especially not to a woman he was dating. But the memories were always there, close to the surface, and even after two years, still painful. The awful scene flashed through his mind—the bright-green ski jacket, the red hair flying as she danced through the moguls, the sudden veering off into the stand of trees—and the hideous aftermath.

“We married after I finished law school,” Dan said softly, “and I took a job as deputy county attorney in Susanville, up in the mountains close to Nevada, because Susan loved to ski, and she still had dreams of making the Olympic team. We were married for about a year and a half when she was killed in a skiing accident,” he said.

Now it was Nicole’s turn to reach for Dan’s hand across the table. “I’m sorry, Dan,” she said tenderly.

“It’s been over two years, but …”

“I understand,” she responded softly.

The train ride home was filled with quiet, continuing conversation about jobs, families, and California’s secessionist movement. Neither of them felt up to any further in-depth conversation about the tragedies in their lives.

“When you called, you mentioned that today held a high and a low point,” Nicole said.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Dan responded. “I thought it was a high—until tonight, that is.”

“Oh, Mr. Rawlings.” She laughed, turning her head toward the roof of the train car and rolling her eyes. “Methinks thou serves it up well.”

Dan laughed out loud, prompting the only other passenger, a black woman in a nurse’s uniform, to glance up briefly to see what caused the commotion.

“Well said, Nicole, well said. The low,” he began, “came early this morning when three of the county supervisors visited me to determine for themselves where I stood on the secession issue. They were none too subtle, and I got the point. Roger Dahlgren, Woodland’s city manager, has been talking to many of the businessmen in town about standing up for Senator Turner and his secession mania. Rumor has it, Roger’s also a captain in the Shasta Brigade. But then, you probably know that already. Anyway, it was clear that Roger put these board members up to the visit. They intimated that my job could be in jeopardy if I didn’t take a public stand in support of secession.”

“I take it, then, that you’re against it?” Nicole queried.

Dan looked out the window of the train as they surfaced near Oakland. “Nicole, my family has been in California for over a hundred and thirty years, but we’ve been in America nearly four hundred.”

“That puts your family in New England with the early colonists,” Nicole said.

“1630 in Fairfield, Connecticut.”

“Hey, that’s my old stomping grounds, although a bit before my time,” she laughed.

“Anyway, my grandfather, Jack Rumsey, is a grandson to the first family member to come west—the one who settled Rumsey Valley right after the Civil War. Jack’s as much as told me that my ancestors, to use his words, ‘would rise up and stomp me, if’n I ever forget that I’m an American.’”

“Sounds like a great guy.” Nicole chuckled.

“Usually,” Dan said with a laugh, “but the jury is still out among most of Yolo’s residents, and he’s lived there over eighty years.”

“
Have
you taken a stand, Dan?”

“It’s going to be impossible not to, I think. As I said, I’m an American, and if that requires that I oppose some of my lifetime neighbors … well, so be it. It’s a choice we’re all going to have to make, isn’t it?”