“You.”
“Me?”
He picked up a couple of fries and, as he bit into them, looked over at her. “You left without me. That brought my manhood into question. I took exception to their observations about it.”
She didn’t believe him, but she wasn’t about to challenge his truthfulness. Not on that subject. “Why did you pull that stunt at the airport?”
“To stop you from leaving before I could ask you some questions.”
“How did you know I was leaving?”
“I called the car rental company and asked for your contact info.”
“And they gave it to you?”
“I identified myself, told them you were a material witness who’d skipped out on the prosecutor, and the trial starts tomorrow. Words to that effect. They’d recently rented you a car, and the contract was bound to have your contact info on it. At least a cell phone number. The agent was still reluctant. The manager was sent for.”
He scarfed the rest of the tender before continuing. “I told him, look, I could get a court order, but the judge is already pissed off because we lost track of our witness, and I’d hate to rile him further. Eventually, though, he’d grant me the order because he wants the trial to proceed as scheduled. In the long run, I would get the info from you anyway. So why not save us both the hassle?”
He raised his shoulder. “He gave me your number. He also volunteered that you’d already turned the car in.” He stopped eating and gave her a baleful look. “You were clearing out awfully quick, weren’t you?”
When she didn’t offer an explanation, he continued. “Anyway, I thanked him, checked the flight schedule, and had to beat it up here to catch you before you got on that four o’clock.”
“If you had my phone number, why did you create that mortifying scene? Why accost me at all? Why didn’t you simply call me?”
“Because you might have simply hung up on me.” He continued to eat, took another drink, all the while watching her. “Did you call for me at the station this morning?”
“Twice.”
“Why?”
“I thought I’d try again.”
“To get me to talk about the Mellin case?”
“To get you to be civil.”
He grinned. “Try me. Being civil shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Apparently it is, Mr. Bowie. You just made a public spectacle of me.”
“Wait. You’re angry? What right have you got to be mad?” He dropped the fries he’d been about to eat back into the container. “Remember, you lured me into that meeting in the bar.”
“Which you adjourned.”
“Because I wanted no part of your agenda. But you baited me, and I was left believing that you would welcome reopening the discussion. Guess I read you wrong. You were winging it. That speaks volumes.”
“I tried to reach you.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t.”
He checked his wristwatch. “With luck you can still make the flight. Want me to take you back to the airport? Believe me, I’d love nothing better than to wave you off. Because, see? I don’t want to get caught up in another shitstorm, and that’s what you represent to me.”
“This isn’t all about you,” she exclaimed. “My purpose in coming down here wasn’t to disrupt your life, Mr. Bowie.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, I’m John, okay. Okay?”
After their raised voices, the abrupt silence was even more noticeable. They exchanged hostile looks; then he did some swearing under his breath as he turned his head away from her and stared out the windshield. He remained in that pensive pose for what seemed to her a long time. Instinct cautioned her not to intrude on it.
Then, speaking softly as though talking to himself, he said, “Maybe my life needed disrupting.” He turned back to her and held out the half-empty tray of food. “Last chance.”
“I’m good.”
He dumped everything into the sack and got out of the car to carry it to a nearby trash can, giving her an opportunity to look at him without his knowing. He was broad-shouldered, tall, lean, almost lanky. But she’d felt his forearm yesterday when she’d detained him at the table in the bar. There was no doubt of its strength.
Wind sweeping across the road from the runway lifted his hair, which was dark blond with an occasional gray strand threaded in. She’d noticed a dusting of gray in his scruff and eyebrows, too.
Had the premature gray been genetically programmed? She didn’t think so. The lines at the corners of his eyes and that dent that frequently appeared between his eyebrows indicated that it had been earned.
Today he was wearing trousers, an ironed shirt, sport jacket, and necktie, although it had been loosened. However, the dressier clothing didn’t alter his blue-jeans saunter. Innate confidence was in every step.
But another quality also characterized that stride. Disregard? Indifference? She had described him to Max as being “unmoved.” This man would be moved by little, she thought now. He was audacious and seemed beyond embarrassment, like he didn’t give a damn about opinions of him or consequences of his actions.
That was it. She’d hit the nail on the head. John Bowie didn’t give a damn.
He took off his jacket and tossed it into the back seat as he slid behind the steering wheel. He made himself comfortable in the seat and said, “About the moon.”
“Are we officially reopening the discussion?”