Power Play

Davis watched her. She’d changed into a blue Patriots sweatshirt, a dangerous move in Washington, D.C. He wondered if she ever dared wear it to FedExField on Sundays.

Her jeans were on the baggy side and looked a decade old. She was wearing only thick white socks, her boots beside her on the floor. He realized he liked watching her, liked seeing that same hank of hair fall out of the braid and onto her cheek. Energy seemed to thrum all around her, even now, near midnight, even when he knew she’d finished the blog. A live wire, his mom would call her. Come to think of it, that was what his mom called him. Her iPod was playing “Waiting Room” by Fugazi, turned way down, and that was just plain wrong. “Waiting Room” should be on full blast while, say, a guy was painting a wall, or shooting hoops, or washing his Jeep. It was versatile music, not only for messing around but also when he was working his butt off. Play it nice and loud and it always kept his brain jiggering.

Yep, he loved punk rock, appreciated women who loved it, too. He was smart enough to know the woman bending over her laptop, shoving that hank of hair behind her ear again with an unconscious hand, could become important to him, and not only because she liked his music. He found her immensely satisfying. She’d close her eyes for a moment every now and then, frown, speak to herself as if testing out a phrase, then type quickly again. Perry Black, football maven. Who’d have thought? He remembered her straddling her Harley, pulling her black visor down, roaring off as he stood in his driveway, watching her. That had been only three days ago. Amazing.

Davis sighed, sat back and closed his eyes. Good dinner at Savich’s house, nothing accomplished, really, but everyone got a little well-deserved R&R, and he’d told his story about getting smacked in the head with Mrs. Shaw’s spade in Hogan’s Alley. He’d found out that the Brit, Nicholas Drummond, would be assigned to the New York Field Office when he graduated from the Academy. He wondered if they would ever work together. Maybe, maybe not. Davis liked the man. In fact, he had to admit he recognized bits and pieces of himself. But he also sensed a darker history beneath Drummond’s very smooth surface, something complicated, unspoken, held close.

He wondered what it was, then gave it up. He was here in Perry Black’s living room, watching her go over her work, ignoring him. He could outwait her, easy. He let his brain slow and mellow as he listened to “Waiting Room.”

“I’ll give you blankets and a pillow and you can sack out. I can finish off the blog in the bedroom.”

Her voice sounded only a bit on the snarky side. He didn’t open his eyes, merely said, “You’ve already finished. What did you write about?”

She gave him a brooding look, then shrugged. “I wrote about the quarterbacks who run whenever they see a lane or even the whisper of a lane, like RG3 and Michael Vick, and how sad it is they’re always only one hit away from ending their careers. Running is part of who they are, and you can practically feel their sheer joy when they can take off, like a greyhound out of the chute. They’re exciting to watch and they’re immensely talented, but they’re always getting pounded and smashed into the ground. Nobody can take that kind of punishment for long. Sooner or later they go down.

“Of course, every player is one hit away, but you take quarterbacks like Russell Wilson and Colin Kaepernick. They’re as fast as cornerbacks, too, but since they pick their spots more carefully, slide when they can, they’re likely to last longer.

“Peyton and Eli Manning and Drew Brees—they’re the ultimate passing quarterbacks. They wouldn’t move out of the pocket unless threatened with dynamite or three hundred and fifty pounds of mean.”

“All good points. Now I’d like to talk about something else.”

“No,” she said, and kept her eyes glued to her computer screen. “If you want to talk about what happened today, about Uncle Milton in particular, I’m liable to belt you. Be quiet, I’m still working.”

He smiled, still didn’t open his eyes. “We FBI special agents know when to keep things close to the vest. Advice? I’ll say it again about your uncle—get over it, Black.”

“Shut up.”

“At least now you know what Uncle Senator Milton is all about. I know your mom doesn’t think he’s behind this, and I don’t, either, not really, but I’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

That got her attention. She looked at him. “Oh? And how may I ask will you know tomorrow? You’re going to hold a séance?”

Davis pulled a recorder out of his pocket. “I’m going to play our conversation today with Uncle Milt for Carlos Acosta, see if he can identify him as the man who called him.”