is where she is because of the Hamlin case. She took those guys down, and I’m not saying they didn’t deserve it, but as far as she’s concerned, the real perp got away.”
“O’Shea,” I said, without having to.
Fried nodded and leaned back again.
“Now, you got anything on him from Florida that’s gonna help her nail his ass for the killing of Faith Hamlin, I’m more than happy to forward that information along, Mr. Freeman.”
I sat back as well, more than happy to increase the personal space between us. Fried didn’t know that I had once been married to his boss. Uncle Keith had been more circumspect than that.
I stood up and offered my hand.
“If I should come across anything that I think you can use, Detective, you’ll be the first to know,” I lied. “I appreciate the time.”
“Hey, any friend of the sarge. Maybe I’ll catch you out some night, buy me one,” he said, just one of the boys again.
I grinned the guy grin while he showed me out. In the hallway I found myself shaking my head and thinking some line about six degrees of separation. My ex-wife and now my ex-lover had swapped notes on O’Shea and his connection with the disappearances of Faith Hamlin here, and about the disappearances of the women in Florida. They both had the guy’s ass in their rifle sights. I figured I knew that Sherry Richards’s motive was this hell-bent desire for justice for the victims. Meagan’s I was equally sure of: a premier scalp on her already extensive collection, a step up her ambitious ladder to who the hell knew where, and yet another man-challenge to conquer. I didn’t think either had mentioned my name or my intimate connection to both of them.
“Don’t tell me that God has a plan, Mamma,” I whispered to a pale empty wall. “Or he is one bizarre poet.”
I was waiting for the elevator when I heard her call my name and there was no denying the voice.
“Max?”
I looked back down the hall toward IAD and she was standing in a cerulean-colored suit that I could only imagine her coming up with when the dress code said blue. Even from here I could tell the high cut of her skirt was not regulation. Her head was angled slightly with a questioning look and her honey blonde hair took advantage of the tilt to cascade down over one shoulder. She had called out my name once like that when we were married, late one night while she tried to sleep after a SWAT shooting she’d been in on. Her voice had sounded like she’d needed me, so I’d held her in our bed until she stopped shivering. But the next morning she had no recollection of it and I had been wrong about the needing.
“Max?”
I put my hands in my pockets and took a step toward her. The elevator bell rang and I ignored it. I watched her hand a load of files to a man in a suit next to her and wave him into the office, all without taking her eyes off me. As she approached she looked down once, then raised her eyes and reached up and took a strand of hair that had come loose and in one heartbreaking motion that burned in our past, she tucked it behind her ear. We met halfway.
“Max Freeman, holy shit, look at you!”
Her lips were sealed in a barely contained smile but her eyes were undeniably bright. She tossed her arms around my neck and I think I put one hand on her back. Her perfume was new. Her cheek soft and the same. I felt my weight anchor in my heels and the hug might have lasted a second too long for a divorced couple standing in a police headquarters who hadn’t seen each other for more than five years. She stepped back, or I did, and she still held my shoulders.
“Jesus Christ, a beach bum? An oil rigger? A damn boat captain? What the hell have you done with yourself, Max?”
“Hi, Meagan. How have you been?” was all I could manage and my face felt stupid and flushed. She cocked her head. She was one of those women whose eyes told you she was smarter and wittier than you, but she was willing to let you try to catch up.
“It’s the Florida sun,” I said. “Plays hell with a guy’s complexion.”
I wanted to tell her that she hadn’t changed a bit. But she