The group broke up, with Gillian and Ben heading back to St. Paul to report the most recent findings to the BCA. Elliot remained at City Hall. The mayor wanted to speak with him and Wakefield before the press conference. Mary and Anthony exited the building through the Fifth Street doors, moving toward the Third Avenue ramp where Anthony had parked his car.

"I've got to get something substantial to eat, how about you?" Anthony asked.

"There used to be a little pub up two streets."

They headed in that direction.

It was still there. People were getting off work, and the pub was dark, crowded, and intimate. The hostess put them at a small, highly varnished table near the front window.

They ordered sandwich baskets and iced tea.

The waitress brought their drinks, placing both glasses on small square napkins. Mary smiled at her and nodded her thanks.

"How's the arm?" Anthony asked.

"Almost normal. The anti-inflammatories seem to be working."

Mary was dressed in a dark blue suit Anthony recognized, along with a white top. Her skin was almost flawless, her mouth, even without its present touch of color, was perfectly shaped. She was lean and tall. He liked that.

She squeezed lemon into her drink. Evening light filtered in, illuminating one side of her face. Green eyes. That always surprised him about her; under most conditions her eyes looked brown.

"As one trained in the art of acute observation, I can't help but notice a certain amount of tension whenever your sister's around," Anthony said.

She gave him a pained, I'd-rather-not-talk-about-it look. "We have some unresolved issues I'm trying to put aside so I can remain focused on this case." Her voice was dismissive.

In the time they'd been partners, he couldn't recall her ever volunteering information about herself. Anything he'd picked up had been sifted through casual conversation. But then, he'd never told her much about himself either.

He sensed that Mary was struggling with something Gillian had done to her, and Anthony knew forgiving someone for past grievances wasn't easy.

"Did I ever tell you my father was a football coach?" he asked.

Mary looked up, and he could see she thought he was joking. His family's obsession with football had been the crux of his childhood. He'd been a stranger in a strange land.

"It's true," he said. "I come from a real rah-rah family. My father coached, my three brothers played football, and my mother drove them all over the country to their games."

She leaned closer, chin in her palm. "Where did you fit into this picture?"

"I didn't. One of my earliest memories is of my dad trying to teach me to throw a football. I had no interest in it. I kept tossing it down and walking away. That lack of interest only intensified with age."

"That must have been alienating."

"That's the word for it. For years my father and brothers tried to shame me into playing until I eventually refused to attend any games." He took a swallow of tea. "We lived in a small town. Only one high school. Their rejection of me was contagious. I couldn't go anywhere without some redneck saying, 'Hey, Spence. Why ain't ya' playin' football? Are you afraid of hurtin' your wrist?' That line almost always called for a dangle of the hand. Then the guy and his buddies would fall all over themselves laughing."

"Is your dad still coaching?"

"Semi-retired."

"And your brothers?"

"They went on to play college football until injuries sidelined them." He nodded at the familiarity of the story. When he was a kid, it had seemed unique. Now he knew it was a plot that had replayed itself in towns across the country. "Of course, they're all proud as hell of me now. Last time I was home for a visit, the guy who started the limp-wrist thing was practically kissing my feet."

She was watching him with sympathy and understanding. "And you resent that."

"Hell yes." He smiled even though the subject was one that still filled him with bitterness. He'd been robbed of his childhood, while the very people who should have supported him were the bullies leading the attack, condemning who he was. Had something similar happened to Mary? If so, he could understand her reluctance to work with her sister. Yet he also knew bitterness was crippling and served no purpose.

"This is all very enlightening, but I'm suspicious. Why are you telling me your life story right now?"

He shrugged. "The atmosphere seemed conducive. Two people sharing a meal in a dark pub."

She was watching him with a half-smile-she wasn't falling for it. She wasn't going to show him her scars just because he'd shown her his.

As if to signal a change of subject, Anthony banged a long metal spoon around in the tall glass. "What are you doing tonight?"

She gave him a strange look, and he could tell she was wondering if he'd just asked her out on a date.

He could see the idea develop, see the instant it was dismissed as preposterous, see her finally pick it up again only to end with lingering confusion.

He put her out of her misery. "I was wondering if you could look over the details of the Texas case I'm working on. J've run into a couple of rough spots."

She relaxed, back on secure ground. "I'm going to be busy earlier, but how does nine o'clock sound?"

"That'll work." He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, holding it lightly in his. "Cat?" He ran a finger across the angry red scratch that showed up starkly against her white skin.

"No, I was out in the woods."

He sensed her discomfort with physical contact and held her hand a little more tightly. "You've never struck me as the outdoor type. Does this sudden interest have anything to do with the current case?"

"No."

"What about Fiona Portman?"

She pulled her hand away and, to discourage any attempt to renew contact, moved it to her lap under the table. "What do you know about Fiona?"

"That she was a friend of yours who was murdered when you were seventeen. Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Sometime?"

"It's over. It happened years ago."

The longer you were around somebody, the easier that person got to read. Mary was hiding something. "Are you sure it's over?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Then why were you in the woods?"

She tossed down her napkin and got to her feet. "I have to go to the ladies' room."

Anthony watched her walk away. Blythe had given him a general explanation of Fiona Portman's death, but he had the feeling she'd left out some important details. He and Blythe should have another talk, he decided. After all, getting information was his specialty.

Chapter 14

"I'm going into the woods tonight," Mary announced.

She and Blythe were sitting in the warm kitchen with its terra-cotta color-washed walls, drinking a horrendous green tea her mother claimed would reduce inflammation and speed healing. A CD was playing, something ambient, mysterious, and exotic. In the corner, a small fountain flowed soothingly over layered rocks while a scented candle burned.

Mary knew what her mother was doing-trying to create a relaxing environment to boost her immune system. Earlier she'd tried to talk Mary into visiting one of her friends-a healer who worked with crystals and heated rocks. Mary declined. She wasn't going to discount the benefits of such a strategy, but she felt the subject of such healings had to have a measure of faith and mental participation-something Mary didn't have the patience for. She had too many other things on her mind.

"You're going into the woods when it's dark?" Blythe put down her mug-one she'd made years ago. It was thick and heavy, with a burnt-umber glaze. "Why not wait until daytime? Do you FBI agents always have to do everything in the dark?" She reached across the table and gave Mary's hand a gentle squeeze. "It doesn't make sense, sweetheart. And why do you want to go at all?"