The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(74)

“Let’s try it.”

She liked the SUV but found it a bit on the masculine side. She was curious about its cost. Through some quick research she had learned that the current starting salary for a special agent was $52,000. Allie had been with the bureau for five years, so she figured they were earning about the same. He had commented on how nice her apartment was, and said he was sharing one with another agent. Reassignment was a way of life in the bureau, and he was hesitant to buy a place.

They waded through the background pleasantries, though each knew the other had dug through the Internet. He grew up in Omaha; college and law school at Nebraska. Off duty, he had the relaxed easiness of a midwesterner, with a complete lack of pretension. Her undergraduate degree was from William & Mary; law school at Tulane. They found common ground in New Orleans, where he’d spent his first two years with the bureau. Neither really missed the place, too much humidity and crime, though the way they talked about it now they seemed downright homesick. By the time they parked and walked into the restaurant, Lacy was giving the guy high marks on every front. Be cool, she told herself, they always disappoint.

At a quiet corner table, they opened the menus. When the waiter stepped away, she said, “Just a reminder. We’re splitting the check.”

“Okay, but I would like to pay. After all, I invited you.”

“Thanks, but we’ll split it.” And that was the end of that conversation.

They decided to start with a dozen raw oysters each and agreed on a bottle of Sancerre. When the menus were gone, he said, “So what would you like to talk about?”

She chuckled at his bluntness. “Anything but the case.”

“Fair enough. You pick a topic, then I’ll pick one. And anything is fair game, anything but the casino and all that.”

“That’s pretty broad. You go first and let’s see how things unwind.”

“Okay, I have a great question. And if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. What’s it like getting hit with an air bag?”

“I take it you’ve missed that experience so far.”

“Yes, so far.”

She took a sip of water and a deep breath. “It’s loud, sudden, jolting. One second it’s just sitting there, invisible inside the steering wheel, never to be thought about, and a millisecond later it’s exploding in your face at two hundred miles an hour. That, along with the impact, knocked me out. Not for very long, because I remember someone moving around the car. After that, I blacked out. The air bag saved my life, but it’s a rough way to go. Once is enough.”

“I’m sure it is. Have you completely recovered?”

“For the most part. There’s still some soreness here and there, but every day is better. I wish my hair would grow faster.”

“You’re beautiful with short hair.”

The wine arrived. Lacy tasted it and approved. They touched glasses and had a drink. “Your turn,” he said.

“What? You’ve had enough of air bags?”

“Just curious. I had a friend who was behind the wheel when he swerved to miss a pedestrian. Instead he hit a utility pole, going about twenty miles an hour. He would’ve been fine but the air bag banged him around pretty bad. He kept ice packs on his face for a week.”

“I prefer to have them. Why’d you go to law school?”

“My father is a lawyer in Omaha and it just seemed like the thing to do. I never thought about changing the world, like most first-year law students; I was just thinking of a nice job. My father has done pretty well, and I actually practiced with him for a year. Got bored real fast and decided it was time to leave Nebraska.”

“Why the FBI?”

“Excitement. No eight to five, behind-the-desk routine. When you’re chasing crooks—big ones, small ones, smart ones, dumb ones—there aren’t too many dull moments. And you? What made you want to investigate judges?”

“Well, it wasn’t something I was dreaming about when I started law school. The job market was pretty soft when I graduated, plus I had no desire to do the big-firm routine. They’re finally hiring a lot of women, half my class was female, but I didn’t want to work a hundred hours a week. I have friends who went that route and they’re all miserable. My parents had retired to Florida. I was here and I saw an ad for a job with the Board on Judicial Conduct.”

“You interviewed and got the job. What a surprise.”

The oysters arrived on platters of ice, and the conversation stopped as they went about the ritual, New Orleans style, of squeezing lemons and adding horseradish to the cocktail sauce. Pacheco gulped his from the shells while Lacy used saltines, both acceptable methods.

He said, “So you visited Junior Mace yesterday.”

“I did, for the second time. Ever been to death row?”

“No, but I’m sure I will one day. Anything interesting?”

“Are you fishing for information?”

“Always. I can’t help it. It’s in my DNA.”

“Maybe a tip, a lead, or something. Junior may have information. Mainly, though, I think he just enjoys visitors.”

“So you’re not going to tell me anything new?”

“No, well, maybe. You’ve no doubt studied our exhibit detailing his trial and conviction.”