Ocean Beach (22 page)

“What?” he asked after she’d taken a first sip of the crisp Chardonnay then considered him closely.

“You’re a wine connoisseur
and
a foodie.” It wasn’t a question but an observation, one she was having trouble coming to terms with. “Did you take James Bond classes at FBI school or something?”

“Hardly.” His laughter lit up his eyes and softened the harsh angles of his face. “And I almost never chase down bad guys in a tux or ask for my martinis shaken, not stirred. I just like a good meal and a nice bottle of wine now and then. It’s not a calling or anything.”

Nikki settled back in her chair and smoothed the cloth napkin the maître d’ had placed in her lap. “Fine. Then tell me about your business trip. Who do you have in your crosshairs now?”

He smiled. “No one in particular at the moment. I’m actually part of a new unit working on profiling potential financial criminals.” He didn’t add “like your brother,” but then, he didn’t need to. “There are indicators that can be identified if you’re looking for them.”

It took her a while to realize that that was all he was planning to give her as he smoothly changed the subject and began to ply her with questions about the house and the show. With his attention riveted on her, Nicole found herself telling him things she hadn’t even realized she’d been thinking about: the unexpected bond between Max and Dustin; how Kyra and the Lifetime cameraman locked horns at every turn; what it was like to watch Avery hold off Deirdre. Even the way Maddie got quiet when her husband’s name was mentioned.

She nattered on all the way through the fabulous appetizer and her second glass of wine, stopping just long enough to listen to the waiter describe the entrées and the day’s special. The dining room was tastefully decorated, the atmosphere upscale. The service was impressive but not intrusive.

Giraldi ordered a second bottle of wine, but it was the way he focused on her, how carefully he listened, that kept the words flowing. Over a main course of hogfish with a romesco sauce and baby-arugula-and-artichoke salad, she told him about Parker Amherst IV, relieved as she did so that she was still clearheaded enough to edit out her desperation to land this client who wasn’t technically a client yet. “I’d love to relaunch Heart, Inc.,” she said as she practically lapped up the meal. “At least to a certain extent.”

Giraldi didn’t scoff at the idea, nor did he offer false assurances. But his attention remained riveted on her, his dark eyes telegraphing his interest.

“Here, try this.” Giraldi placed a forkful of grilled Bûcheron on the edge of her plate. “But save some room for dessert. They serve a deconstructed tiramisu that is completely worth running an extra couple of miles to work off.”

Nicole savored each bite of the hogfish, which she was glad was not as large as its name implied. “This is delicious,” she said, enjoying the moment almost as much as the food. “But I don’t know about dessert. I think the last time I ate this much was Thanksgiving. Maddie invited me to Atlanta and practically force-fed me one great meal after the other the whole time I was there.” She looked down at her plate and was shocked to find it empty. Ditto for the wineglass, though it didn’t stay that way for long. “I went with them to the hospital that night when Kyra went into labor.”

She had been ridiculously grateful to be so welcomed into the Singers’ home and included in the holiday that she’d so often spent alone. But it had made her realize just how disconnected she was in the world. Especially with her only living relative in jail. Where unfortunately, he belonged.

Under Giraldi’s warm gaze, Nicole almost told him about Max’s missing son and even Deranian’s reappearance, neither of which was her story to tell. She stopped talking, appalled at the amount of information she’d divulged and how much more she wanted to share; she whom her first husband had referred to as “the Sphinx.” “I can’t tell if I’ve had too much to drink or you’re the best interrogator ever,” she said, glad that her words remained unslurred.

“I’m thinking it could be a little bit of both,” he replied easily in that straightforward manner that had once pissed the hell out of her but that now seemed oddly attractive.

“Are you an interrogator?” Nicole asked.

“I have some training,” he replied. “But I try not to use it on the civilian population. And I rarely use it on a date.”

“You’ve got skills all right,” she said, intentionally ignoring the word
date
and only realizing after she’d spoken how her observation could be interpreted.

He didn’t leer or turn her comment into a double entendre like so many men would have. Nor did he try to rush her through the rest of the meal and out of the restaurant to claim what some men might have thought of as their due after an expensive meal.

But as he joked with the waiter and introduced the chef when he came out of the kitchen to say hello, and even as she gave in and shared the dessert that was every bit as heavenly as he’d promised, Nicole couldn’t help thinking
about those other skills Giraldi undoubtedly possessed. And if she dared allow herself to experience them. Or whether his pursuit of her could possibly be as straightforward as he professed.

Maddie brewed a large pot of coffee and pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. A box of donuts, Mario Dante’s contribution, sat on the counter. He had presented them to her with a flourish when he’d arrived to walk through the house with Deirdre and finalize the plans for the tile floors, which he insisted he could either walk them through or handle himself. His son, Donatello, and a nephew were up on the roof with Avery. She could hear them tromping around even down here.

He’d also handed her a carefully wrapped container. “This is the pasta Milanese I told you about,” he’d said. “See what you think of it. The recipe has been in my family for a very long time. But if you like it, I would be more than happy to share it with you.” His smile had grown warm. “Or perhaps I could make it for you one night.”

“Why, thank you, Mario.” His admiring gaze had made her feel unaccountably attractive despite this morning’s lack of hot water and the humidity that had enlarged her hair so that it floated around her head like a mushroom cloud.

Kyra appeared now with the baby riding on her hip and went into the refrigerator for a glass of orange juice. “When did you have time to go out for donuts?” she asked, helping herself to one.

“Mario brought them,” Maddie said. “He’s very thoughtful that way.”

“Ha,” Kyra said, settling Dustin into his high chair. “I
think he’s got a crush on you. Dad better watch out.” She laughed as if Steve would find this amusing; they’d had so little contact Maddie wasn’t sure he’d notice if Mario went down on one knee and sang “O Sole Mio” to her right in front of him.

Max shuffled into the kitchen and took a seat at the banquette within reach of Dustin.

“Good morning,” Max said jovially as Maddie brought him a cup of coffee. “Thank you.”

He blew a raspberry at Dustin. The baby laughed and reached toward the old man’s lips.

“Are you hungry?” Maddie asked as the comedian and the baby communed. “I was thinking I might scramble up some salami and eggs.”

“Thank you,” Max said, sipping his coffee contentedly. “You’re spoiling me,” he said. “And I’m enjoying every minute and morsel of it.”

“My pleasure,” she said as she began to crack the eggs into a bowl. She’d sliced the salami earlier and turned the electric skillet on to warm; Max had not yet refused an offer of food or drink.

“Is it okay if I leave Dustin with you all?” Kyra asked.

“Absolutely,” Maddie and Max said in unison.

A few minutes later Maddie plated the salami and eggs, added a piece of buttered rye bread toast and a slice of cantaloupe, and put the dish in front of Max. The old man was shaking a rattle in front of Dustin, much to the baby’s delight.

“He’s a beautiful boy,” Max said. “And he hardly cries at all.”

“He is wonderful, isn’t he?” Maddie agreed, sliding onto the opposite side of the banquette. She had a small plastic
plate of scrambled egg and toast for Dustin. “But then he has no real reason to cry, seeing as there’s always someone here ready to feed him, entertain him, or pick him up.”

She went back to the pantry for a napkin and brought it to Max, who tucked it into the open collar of his shirt. “I’ve even seen Troy down on his hands and knees in front of the playpen when he thinks no one’s watching.”

She fed Dustin tiny bits of egg while Max tucked into his meal. Although the morning paper and that week’s
Variety
sat on the table awaiting him, Max kept his gaze on Dustin. His forehead was furrowed in concentration as if he were memorizing the baby’s features. Or perhaps remembering another’s.

“Tell me about your son,” Maddie said softly when Max put down his fork. “If it won’t upset you too much to talk about him, I mean.”

Max took a long sip of coffee. When he set the cup down, his face was set, his eyes filled with regret. “Millie always wanted to talk about him. But it was so painful that I wouldn’t let her.” He shook his head then looked up at her. “I can’t believe how selfish I was. As if the pain I felt in talking about him somehow trumped the pain she felt in not being able to. I don’t know what I was thinking. Or why she let me get away with such awful behavior.”

He wiped his mouth again and tucked the napkin under the edge of his plate.

“Losing him was like having my gut ripped out. Everything about it was just…I kept thinking I’d wake up and we’d find out it was some awful nightmare and not real at all. But it was real all right. And the pain never goes away.”

“What happened?” Maddie asked. “Do you know who took him or why?”

“No,” he said. “There was no ransom. No demands. No explanation.” He swallowed and looked away. “No body. He was just gone. Forever.”

“What did the police say? Did they have any ideas at all?”

“No. I think they tried their best. They brought in the FBI, searched every inch of The Millicent for clues or fingerprints. They interviewed us, our friends, our family, the neighbors, the deliverymen…” His voice trailed off.

“But it wasn’t like today. There was no such thing as a registered sex offender, no databases to check. For a few days I prayed that he’d just wandered off somehow. But no one ever reported seeing him anywhere. It was like he went up in some puff of smoke.

“And Millie always felt responsible.”

“Why?” Maddie asked.

“Because she was out in the front yard with him when she got nauseous. She was pregnant and still had morning sickness. She ran inside into the bathroom. We have a big gate and it was closed. Aaron…” His voice broke. “He was playing in the sandbox right near the front steps. Millie was only gone for a few minutes.”

“Did anyone ever find anything at all?”

“No. When the police gave up I hired a private detective. But there were no clues to follow, no leads, no suspects. Nothing to go on. No one saw anything out of the ordinary.” He swallowed. “A few days after we lost Aaron, Millie had a miscarriage.”

“I’m so sorry,” Maddie said, even though the words were completely insufficient. “That must have been so horrible for both of you. I can’t even imagine…” She looked at her
grandchild and couldn’t finish the sentence. She’d barely made it through her husband’s breakdown and wasn’t doing all that well with their current standoff; she didn’t know how she would have survived the loss of Kyra or Andrew.

“Have you thought about trying to look now? With all the new technology and the cold-case units, maybe…”

“The original detective retired a long time ago. When I contacted the police department, they told me the only way they can reopen a case is if there’s something new to justify taking another look.” His sad brown eyes grasped hers. “I promised Millie I’d look for him. I promised her on her deathbed. So I hired another private detective. I spent close to everything I had and there’s still no trace of Aaron.”

“Oh, Max.” Maddie put a hand over his and squeezed gently.

“I promised Millie I’d get the house ready for him. That his old room—the one upstairs at the front of the house that you’re using—would be waiting for him if someone could find him and bring him home. But he’s gone.” Max sniffed and swiped at his eyes with the back of one wrinkled hand. “I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”