"Five. What kind of pizza?" She removed the cork and poured two glasses. Callahan watched every move.
"Oh, it's one of those Saturday night specials where they throw on everything headed for the garbage. Shrimp tails, eggs, crawfish heads. Cheap wine too. I'm a little low on cash, and I'm leaving town tomorrow so I have to watch what I spend, and since I'm leaving I thought I'd just come on over and get laid tonight so I wouldn't be tempted by some contagious woman in D.C. What do you think?"
Darby was opening the pizza box. "Looks like sausage and peppers."
"Can I still get laid?"
"Maybe later. Drink your wine and let's chat. We haven't had a long talk in a while."
"I have. I've been talking to your machine all week."
He took his wineglass and the bottle and followed her closely to the den, where she turned on the stereo. They relaxed on the sofa.
"Let's get drunk," he said.
"You're so romantic."
"I've got some romance for you."
"You've been drunk for a week."
"No I haven't. Eighty percent of a week. It's your fault for avoiding me."
"What's wrong with you, Thomas?"
"I've got the shakes. I'm all keyed up and I need companionship to knock the edge off. Whatta you say?"
"Let's get half drunk." She sipped her wine and draped her legs across his lap. He held his breath as if in pain.
"What time is your flight?" she asked.
He was gulping now. "One-thirty. Nonstop to National. I'm supposed to register at five, and there's a dinner at eight. After that I may be forced to roam the streets looking for love."
She smiled. "Okay, okay. We'll do it in a minute. But let's talk first."
Callahan breathed a sigh of relief. "I can talk for ten minutes, then I'll just collapse."
"What's up for Monday?"
"The usual eight hours of airhead debate on the future of the Fifth Amendment, then a committee will draft a proposed conference report that no one will approve. More debate Tuesday, another report, perhaps an altercation or two, then we adjourn with nothing accomplished and go home. I'll be in late Tuesday evening, and I'd like a date at a very nice restaurant, after which we can go back to my place for an intellectual discussion and animal sex. Where's the pizza?"
"In there. I'll get it."
He was stroking her legs. "Don't move. I'm not the least bit hungry."
"Why do you go to these conferences?"
"I'm a member, and I'm a professor, and we're just sort of expected to roam the country attending meetings with other educated idiots and adopting reports nobody reads. If I didn't go, the dean would think I was not contributing to the academic environment."
She refilled the wineglasses. "You're uptight, Thomas."
"I know. It's been a rough week. I hate the thought of a bunch of Neanderthals rewriting the Constitution. We'll live in a police state in ten years. I can't do anything about it, so I'll probably resort to alcohol."
Darby sipped slowly and watched him. The music was soft and the lights low. "I'm getting a buzz," she said.
"That's about right for you. A glass and a half and you're history. If you were Irish you could drink all night."
"My father was half Scottish."
"Not good enough." Callahan crossed his feet on the coffee table and relaxed. He gently rubbed her ankles. "Can I paint your toes?"
She said nothing. He had a fetish for her toes, and insisted on doing the nails with bright red polish at least twice a month. They'd seen it in Bull Durham, and though he wasn't as neat and sober as Kevin Costner, she had grown to enjoy the intimacy of it.
"No toes tonight?" he asked.
"Maybe later. You look tired."
"I'm relaxing, but I'm filled with virile male electricity, and you will not put me off by telling me I look tired."
"Have some more wine."
Callahan had more wine, and sank deeper in the sofa. "So, Ms. Shaw, who done it?"
"Professionals. Haven't you read the papers?"
"Of course. But who's behind the professionals?"
"I don't know. After last night, the unanimous choice seems to be the Underground Army."
"But you're not convinced."
"No. There have been no arrests. I'm not convinced."
"And you've got some obscure suspect unknown to the rest of the country."
"I had one, but now I'm not so sure. I spent three days tracking it down, even summarized it all real nice and neat in my little computer, and printed out a thin rough draft of a brief which I have now discarded."
Callahan stared at her. "You're telling me you skipped classes for three days, ignored me, worked around the clock playing Sherlock Holmes, and now you're throwing it away."
"It's over there on the table."
"I can't believe this. While I sulked around in loneliness all week, I knew it was for a worthy cause. I knew my suffering was for the good of the country because you would peel away the onion and tell me tonight or perhaps tomorrow who done it."
"It can't be done, at least not with legal research. There's no pattern, no common thread in the murders. I almost burned up the computers at the law school."
"Ha! I told you so. You forget, dear, that I am a genius at constitutional law, and I knew immediately that Rosenberg and Jensen had nothing in common but black robes and death threats. The Nazis or Aryans or Kluxers or Mafia or some other group killed them because Rosenberg was Rosenberg, and because Jensen was the easiest target and somewhat of an embarrassment."
"Well, why don't you call the FBI and share your insights with them? I'm sure they're sitting by the phone."
"Don't be angry. I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
"You're an ass, Thomas."
"Yes, but you love me, don't you?"
"I don't know."
"Can we still go to bed? You promised."
"We'll see."
Callahan placed his glass on the table, and attacked her. "Look, baby. I'll read your brief, okay? And then we'll talk about it, okay? But I'm not thinking clearly right now, and I won't be able to continue until you take my weak and trembling hand and lead me to your bed."
"Forget my little brief."
"Please, dammit, Darby, please."
Chapter Six
She grabbed his neck and pulled him to her. They kissed long and hard, a wet, almost violent kiss.
The cop stuck his thumb on the button next to the name of Gray Grantham, and held it down for twenty seconds. Then a brief pause. Then another twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. He thought this was funny because Grantham was a night owl and had probably slept less than three or four hours, and now all this incessant buzzing echoing throughout his hallway. He pushed again and looked at his patrol car parked illegally on the curb under the streetlight. It was almost dawn, Sunday, and the street was empty. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds.
Maybe Grantham was dead. Or maybe he was comatose from booze and a late night on the town. Maybe he had someone's woman up there and had no plans to answer the door. Pause. Twenty seconds.
The mike crackled. "Who is it!"
"Police!" answered the cop, who was black and emphasized the po in police just for the fun of it.
"What do you want?" Grantham demanded.
"Maybe I gotta warrant." The cop was near laughter.
Grantham's voice softened, and he sounded wounded. "Is this Cleve?"