Sliver Of Truth

I thought about that last night with Max, how he’d started to cry, how my father had appeared, a dark form in the entryway, how he’d taken Max into his office and shut the doors on me. It’s the bourbon talking, my father said, before closing the door.

“So the FBI has been watching me since then, thinking if he was alive, if he would contact anyone, it would be me? Love, right?”

He nodded. “Has he tried to reach you, Ms. Jones?”

“Who?” I asked obtusely.

“Max Smiley,” he said impatiently. “Your uncle, your father, whoever the hell he is to you.”

“No,” I said, almost yelling.

“There was an overseas call to your number the night before last at around three-thirty A.M.,” he said sternly, leaning into me.

I remembered the call. Had forgotten about it until then.

“There was no one on the line,” I said more softly. “I mean, whoever it was, they didn’t say anything. I thought it was Ace.”

He looked at me hard, as if he were trying to see a lie in my eyes.

“If you’re monitoring my calls, then you know I’m telling the truth.”

“We’re not monitoring your calls,” he said, though I’m not sure why he’d think I’d believe him. “I subpoenaed your phone records this morning, trying to figure out why you went to Detroit.”

“Can you do that?” I asked, indignant. “I haven’t broken any laws.”

“If I thought you were aiding and abetting a wanted man, certainly, I could listen to your calls, have someone on you twenty-four seven.”

“That’s a lot of time and money for someone like Max. Meanwhile, I still don’t get what this has to do with your missing couple.”

Like the last time we’d met, he had a dark shadow of stubble on his jaw. I wondered if it was a look he was cultivating, something to make him look older, possibly unruly. He wasn’t like any of the other FBI agents I’d ever met. All of them had been stiff and clean-shaven, good boys with spotless records-or maybe that was just their shtick. Dylan Grace seemed lawless.

“I mean I really don’t get it,” I said when he remained silent. “You see my name in a notebook belonging to this missing writer, right? So instead of calling me and interviewing me, you make some arrangement with my photo lab to steal my pictures, then you accost me on the street and haul me in? It seems like you overreacted a little. I was a perfectly logical person for her to call-I’m practically the poster child for Project Rescue.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept those eyes on me.

“Okay, so there’s more to it,” I said after a moment of the two of us staring at each other. I thought about it a few seconds longer. “You plugged my name into whatever computers you have over there and you found out I was already under surveillance.”

He still didn’t say anything. It was pretty annoying.

“That’s right,” I said as he stood up and moved toward the door. “You get to ask all the questions. What is it you want from me?” I asked.

He opened the door. “Good night, Ms. Jones,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Just tell me one thing,” I said, getting up and following him out into the hallway. “That overseas call? Where did it come from?”

“Why do you want to know?” he said, turning around.

“Just curious,” I said. “Maybe it was someone I know. You know, someone innocent.”

He considered it for a minute. Then: “London,” he said. “The call came from London. Know anybody there?”

I shrugged. “I guess not.”

After he left I tried to figure out what he’d gained by our conversation, and I couldn’t come up with anything. I’d received quite a bit of information, however. For the rest of the evening, I felt as if I’d gotten one over on Agent Grace. I wouldn’t figure out until later that he’d been the one to get over on me. He’d pressed all my buttons. Wind her up and watch her go.

ABOUT AN HOUR later as I lay on the couch watching a rerun of Gilligan’s Island, trying and failing to block out for a while everything that had happened and everything I had learned, I heard the key in the lock and Jake walked in. He wore a black wool coat over a gray V-neck cashmere sweater I had given him and a pair of Levi’s I think he’s had for ten years. He spotted me on the couch and moved toward me. I sat up and then went to him, let him take me into his arms. He held me hard, put his mouth to my hair. I pulled off his coat and he let it drop to the floor as he pressed his mouth to mine. The only feeling I had in my heart was desperation, this desperate need to connect to someone, to know someone well. I let him back me into the bedroom, let him lift my sweater over my head and watched as he lifted his off as well. I put my face to his chest and felt the silky hardness of his abs and chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he crawled on top of me on the bed, the frame creaking lightly beneath us. I could hear the television in the other room, see its blue flicker. I felt the heat of his body, watched his muscles flex and relax as he moved. I could smell the scent of his skin.