‘No.’

‘Who did?’

T.C. shrugged. He crossed the room and glanced out the window. ‘I don’t know. Yet.’

‘Yet? You mean you’re close to finding out?’

‘I was a lot closer before you started stumbling around Australia.’

‘How did you know about that?’ Laura asked again.

‘Come on, Laura,’ he began. ‘Open your eyes and take a look around. You’re playing in the big leagues now. Do you think I’m the only one who knew about your trip? Do you think that whoever broke into your place was an amateur?’

‘So how did you find out?’ she insisted.

‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘it was no problem for me and more important, it was no problem for them. You’re out of your league here, Laura. Stop playing games and tell me what you learned over there.’

Laura stared at him for a brief moment and then everything spilled out all at once. She did not hold anything back. If T.C. had killed David, then she did not care what else happened. Et tu, Brute. But he had not killed David. She was sure of it. He had loved David. No one was that good of an actor. Laura may have been burned by Stan, but she had known T.C. for years, had seen him interact with David under all kinds of circumstances. No, there was no way he could hurt David. His strange behavior was clearly a case of him trying to protect her from something – not because he was trying to cover up a murder plot.

And God, it felt good to trust him again. It felt good to let it all out, to share her secrets and fears, to once again be able to lean ever so slightly on him.

When she finished speaking, Laura handed T.C. the ring she found under the pillow.

‘Did you show this to Sleepy or Joe?’ T.C. asked.

She shook her head. ‘I was going to, but I wasn’t sure I should. What does it mean, T.C.? What’s going on here?’

T.C. stubbed out his cigar, picked at the ashes with the end of a used match and sat down. He examined the ring like a jeweler pricing a diamond. ‘There are things,’ he began, ‘I didn’t want to tell you – things you’re better off not knowing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Please, Laura, just let it rest.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me David was murdered?’

‘I was just looking out for your welfare.’

‘How? By coddling me? By lying to me?’

‘By protecting you,’ he corrected. ‘Laura, look what these people have pulled off. Christ, they even timed your return to the apartment. And what good would telling you have done? You’ve already put your life in jeopardy and now you’ve chased away the killer. I wanted them to think they were in the clear. It makes them careless.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Stay out.’

Laura’s voice was nearly a whisper. ‘I can’t.’

‘For your sake.’

‘I don’t care – ’

‘About yourself?’ T.C. interrupted. ‘Well, David would. David wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. He loved you, Laura. He made me promise to watch out for you.’

Laura closed her eyes, trying to silence him by turning away.

‘And what about your family?’ he continued. ‘Are you willing to put them in danger too?’

Laura remembered the note taped to the television. ‘Do you really think the killer would…’

‘Go after them? These guys play for keeps, Laura. They kill people as easily as they say hello.’

‘But why? Why did they kill David?’

T.C. thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, Laura. But I intend to find out.’

Graham Rowe clicked on the fan. Damn, it was hot. Living in Palm Cove, you get used to hot but today was one for the record books. The humidity was thick enough to coat your skin.

He sat back in the chair and glanced around the office. There was paperwork to do and Graham hated paperwork. He glanced at his guns, the empty cell, anything as long as it would help him avoid doing that damn paperwork for another minute and a half.

He felt sticky, his shirt pasted to his skin. He pulled the front of it away from his body for a second and then let it drop back. Yuck. He was in desperate need of a shower. Maybe he should run home and quickly shower and change. That would make him feel better. Then he could come right back and be ready to really get down and do the entire week’s paperwork with no worries. Yes, that’s what he should do. No worries.

He started to rise, stopped, sat back down, smiled. You are one major procrastinator, Sheriff Rowe. You should be ashamed of yourself – trying to sneak out of here like that to shower and change clothes. You know very well that in this friggin’ heat your fresh clothes will be as sopped as these before you finish the walk back to the car.

With a sigh, he reached for the stack of fishing licenses. He began to thumb through them when the phone rang.

‘Sheriff’s Office.’

‘Graham? Is that you?’

Graham recognized Gina Cassler’s voice immediately. ‘How’s it going, Gina?’

‘Answering your own phone, Graham?’

‘This isn’t a hotel, luv. I don’t have a receptionist. What’s up?’

‘We should have the passport cards in another day or so,’ Gina began, ‘but my nephew came through already. I have the phone bills right here.’

The sheriff felt a jolt of excitement race through him. ‘Any calls to America late that night?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘And they were made from the lobby phone at right about the time you expected.’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Graham said softly. He cradled the phone on his shoulder and reached for his car keys. ‘I’m on my way over there now.’

20

Hordes of Celtics fans beset the entrance ramps of the Boston Garden for the long-awaited opening game. They scrambled through the stairwells, the concession stands, the long aisles. Wealthy season-ticket holders with their courtside seats greeted the long-time ushers like old friends at a reunion. The masses in the upper deck stared in familiar awe at the championship banners and retired numbers that hung from the rafters. At halftime of tonight’s game, two new banners would be added to this historic collection: the 1989 Championship and David Baskin’s uniform.

Six months had passed since David had led the Celtics to that NBA championship flag. Six months had passed since White Lightning had been awarded the league’s Most Valuable Player Award. And six months had passed since David Baskin had drowned off the coast of Australia.

The mood was ambivalent. The fans were in a quiet and yet frenzied state. A slight hush glided across the parquet floor, for things were not the same on this cool November evening:

White Lightning would strike no more.

Laura and Serita stood by the court-level entrance. From this spot the players would soon sprint out to the deafening ovation (Celtics) and boos (visitors) of the fans. Tears prickled Laura’s eyes as she peeked out at the familiar arena. She had not been here since the championship series last season, but nothing had changed. The paint was still chipped, the climate still unbearably stifling.

Two security guards stood next to her. Serita took her hand. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

Laura nodded. The two guards whisked them out of their protective hideaway and into the bright glare of the Garden’s spotlights. Laura and Serita tried not to move too quickly, tried not to look too conspicuous. No one seemed to have noticed them, or if they had they did not say anything. Laura proceeded forward without turning her head to the left or right. She could sense rather than hear the crowd quieting, but she dismissed that as a byproduct of her overactive imagination. Still, something was strange. No one was staring at them. No one was catcalling. No one was pointing.

When they reached their seats, Laura saw that Stan and Gloria were already there. Stan stood and smiled brightly. ‘Ah, Laura, how nice to see you again.’ He took her hand and kissed it lightly.