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“I have a buddy in the local bureau,” Irish pressed on, ignoring Van. “He usually works undercover, looking for dope coming up from Mexico. This isn’t his area of expertise, but he could tell us who to call, advise us on what to do.”
Before he even finished, Avery was shaking her head no. “Irish, we can’t. Don’t you see, if the FBI knows, everybody’ll have to know. Don’t you think it would arouse suspicion if Tate were suddenly surrounded by armed bodyguards or Secret Service operatives in opaque sunglasses? Everything would have to come out in the open.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he shouted angrily. “You don’t want Rutledge to know! And you don’t want him to know because you’d have to give up your cozy place next to him in bed.”
“No, that’s not it!” she shouted back. “The authorities could protect him from people outside the family circle, but they couldn’t protect him from anybody within. And as we know, the person who wants him dead is someone close to him—someone who professes to love him. We can’t alert Tate to the danger without alerting the enemy that we’re on to him.”
She took a deep breath, but it was still insufficient. “Besides, if you told government agents this tale, they’d think you were either lying or crazy. On the outside chance they believed you, think what they’d do to me.”
“What would they do to you?” Van wanted to know.
“I’m not sure, but while they were figuring it out, Tate would be exposed and vulnerable.”
“So, what do you plan to do?” Irish asked.
She covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “I don’t know.”
Van stood up and pulled on a tattered leather biker’s jacket. “I’ve got some moonlighting to do.”
“Moonlighting?”
Van responded to Irish’s question with an indifferent shrug. “I’ve been looking through some tapes in my library.”
“What for?”
“I’m working on a hunch.”
Avery reached for his hand. “Thanks for everything, Van. If you see or hear—”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Do you still have that post office box key I gave you?” Irish asked.
“Yeah, but why would I need it? I see you every day at work when I’m in town.”
“But you might need to send me something when you’re out of town with Rutledge—something it wouldn’t do to mail to the station.”
“Gotcha. ’Bye.”
As soon as the door closed behind Van, Irish said, out of the side of his mouth, “That dopehead. I wish we had a more reliable ally.”
“Don’t put him down. I get annoyed with him, too, but he’s been invaluable. He’s been a friend, and God knows I need all of them I can muster.”
She checked her wristwatch—the one Tate had bought for her. Since retrieving it from Fancy, she hadn’t taken it off. “I’ve got to go. It’s getting late. Tate asks questions when I’m late, and I’m running out of plausible excuses. There’s only so much shopping a woman can do, you know.” Her feeble attempt at humor flew no better than a flatiron.
Irish pulled her into a hug. He clumsily smoothed his large hand over her hair while her head rested against his shoulder. “You love him.” He didn’t even pose it as a question. She nodded her head. “Jesus,” he sighed into her hair, “why does it always have to be so goddamn complicated?”
She squeezed her eyes shut; hot tears leaked onto his shirt. “I love him so much, Irish, it hurts.”
“I know what that’s like.”
Avery was too absorbed in her own misery to acknowledge his unrequited love for her mother. “What am I going to do? I can’t tell him, but I can’t protect him, either.” She clung to Irish for strength. He hugged her tighter and awkwardly kissed her temple.
“Rosemary, all ninety-eight pounds of her, would fly into me if she knew I was letting you stay in a life-threatening situation.”
Avery smiled against his damp shirt. “She probably would. She relied on you to watch over us.”
“I’m letting her down this time.” He clutched her tighter. “I’m afraid for you, Avery.”
