grounded me, he claimed it would give me a chance to still be able to fly by the seat of my pants.”
“Has it?”
“Some. But I’m neither the pilot nor the driver my dad is.”
Cozy flipped the cab lights on and flashed the green-eyed major an encouraging smile. “I bet you are.”
Recognizing a refreshing earnestness in Cozy’s tone, an earnestness that she’d found lacking in the competitive and all-too-often jealous air force jet jockeys she’d rubbed shoulders with for years, Bernadette said, “I’d hate to take that test.”
“You’d pass,” Cozy said, watching her get out of the truck. “Like the bigwig politicians and Madison Avenue types say, let’s keep the communication lines open, okay?”
Looking concerned, Bernadette asked, “You don’t write stories that smear the military like your boss, do you? I’ve read a piece by him and it wasn’t very flattering.”
“Haven’t yet.”
“Then we’ll keep the lines open. Good-night.” As Bernadette slipped into her car, she had the feeling that she’d just returned from the absolute strangest of dates. As she pulled the sleek-looking roadster away from the curb and fell in behind the dually, she had no way of knowing that Cozy was thinking the very same thing.
Cozy’s two cell-phone calls to Freddy Dames, placed as Cozy headed south down I-25 for Denver, went to voice mail, remaining unanswered until just after ten thirty, when a noticeably tired-sounding Freddy finally called back.
“What’s up?” Freddy asked, talking over a high-pitched whine in the background.
“Not much. Other than the fact that I just spent an evening with that dropkicking air force major from the protest last night.”
“Miss Black, Beautiful, and Buxom,” Freddy said with a snicker.
“Yeah. But I’m thinking after tonight you’d best add ‘brainy’ and ‘badassed’ to that list. So what about you?”
“I’m in Denver at Centennial Airport, about to head
Sugar
down to Phoenix for a business meeting tomorrow morning. From there I’m headed to Albuquerque to talk to a guy named Howard Colbain. He’s the former husband of an air force lieutenant who had an affair with Sergeant Giles.”
Aware now that the whine in the background was coming from Freddy’s twin-engine Gulfstream, a plane Freddy affectionately called
Sugar
, Cozy asked, “How’d you get the lowdown on the ex-wife and on this guy Colbain’s whereabouts so fast?”
Quoting their
No excuses, sir
, former college baseball coach, Freddy said, “Ours is not to reason why, Cozy boy. Ours is but to do or die. But since you asked, I got the info from a place that you, my yellow-tablet-writing friend, would probably never have looked. The internet.”
“Maybe not,” Cozy said smugly, “but my Converse All Star ways have managed to help me dredge up four suspects in the Giles murder to your one.”
“So, who are they?” Freddy asked, chagrined at having apparently been outdone.
“For starters, I’ve got a World War II–era Japanese internment camp survivor—and her cousin. They’re a couple of nuke-protesting buddies of Sarah Goldbeck’s who for some reason didn’t find it necessary to show up last night for that press conference and protest in Wheatland. There’s Goldbeck herself, of course, and Goldbeck’s
Easy Rider
’60s throwback of a common-law husband, Buford Kane, who, by the way, got himself involved in an O.K. Corral–style standoff with Major Cameron earlier this evening.”
“Didn’t he get enough of her at that press conference?”
“Seems like he didn’t. This time he leveled a shotgun on her—and lost,” Cozy said, failing to mention his role in the incident.
“Did she shoot him?”
“Nope. Just kicked his ass again.”
“Tough lady.”
“On top of being bases-loaded fine.”
“If I didn’t know better, Elgin Coseia, I’d say you sound smitten.”
“Come on, Freddy. Lighten up.”
“Okay. Just promise me you won’t start sending
“Has it?”
“Some. But I’m neither the pilot nor the driver my dad is.”
Cozy flipped the cab lights on and flashed the green-eyed major an encouraging smile. “I bet you are.”
Recognizing a refreshing earnestness in Cozy’s tone, an earnestness that she’d found lacking in the competitive and all-too-often jealous air force jet jockeys she’d rubbed shoulders with for years, Bernadette said, “I’d hate to take that test.”
“You’d pass,” Cozy said, watching her get out of the truck. “Like the bigwig politicians and Madison Avenue types say, let’s keep the communication lines open, okay?”
Looking concerned, Bernadette asked, “You don’t write stories that smear the military like your boss, do you? I’ve read a piece by him and it wasn’t very flattering.”
“Haven’t yet.”
“Then we’ll keep the lines open. Good-night.” As Bernadette slipped into her car, she had the feeling that she’d just returned from the absolute strangest of dates. As she pulled the sleek-looking roadster away from the curb and fell in behind the dually, she had no way of knowing that Cozy was thinking the very same thing.
Cozy’s two cell-phone calls to Freddy Dames, placed as Cozy headed south down I-25 for Denver, went to voice mail, remaining unanswered until just after ten thirty, when a noticeably tired-sounding Freddy finally called back.
“What’s up?” Freddy asked, talking over a high-pitched whine in the background.
“Not much. Other than the fact that I just spent an evening with that dropkicking air force major from the protest last night.”
“Miss Black, Beautiful, and Buxom,” Freddy said with a snicker.
“Yeah. But I’m thinking after tonight you’d best add ‘brainy’ and ‘badassed’ to that list. So what about you?”
“I’m in Denver at Centennial Airport, about to head
Sugar
down to Phoenix for a business meeting tomorrow morning. From there I’m headed to Albuquerque to talk to a guy named Howard Colbain. He’s the former husband of an air force lieutenant who had an affair with Sergeant Giles.”
Aware now that the whine in the background was coming from Freddy’s twin-engine Gulfstream, a plane Freddy affectionately called
Sugar
, Cozy asked, “How’d you get the lowdown on the ex-wife and on this guy Colbain’s whereabouts so fast?”
Quoting their
No excuses, sir
, former college baseball coach, Freddy said, “Ours is not to reason why, Cozy boy. Ours is but to do or die. But since you asked, I got the info from a place that you, my yellow-tablet-writing friend, would probably never have looked. The internet.”
“Maybe not,” Cozy said smugly, “but my Converse All Star ways have managed to help me dredge up four suspects in the Giles murder to your one.”
“So, who are they?” Freddy asked, chagrined at having apparently been outdone.
“For starters, I’ve got a World War II–era Japanese internment camp survivor—and her cousin. They’re a couple of nuke-protesting buddies of Sarah Goldbeck’s who for some reason didn’t find it necessary to show up last night for that press conference and protest in Wheatland. There’s Goldbeck herself, of course, and Goldbeck’s
Easy Rider
’60s throwback of a common-law husband, Buford Kane, who, by the way, got himself involved in an O.K. Corral–style standoff with Major Cameron earlier this evening.”
“Didn’t he get enough of her at that press conference?”
“Seems like he didn’t. This time he leveled a shotgun on her—and lost,” Cozy said, failing to mention his role in the incident.
“Did she shoot him?”
“Nope. Just kicked his ass again.”
“Tough lady.”
“On top of being bases-loaded fine.”
“If I didn’t know better, Elgin Coseia, I’d say you sound smitten.”
“Come on, Freddy. Lighten up.”
“Okay. Just promise me you won’t start sending
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