Deal to Die For by Les Standiford Page A

in her chair. He couldn’t see her face from where he stood, but he knew she would have shown no reaction. He could have told her anything: the Academy had voted her an honorary Oscar, Rodney King had used his settlement to buy the house next door, she’d have sat there like a cigar-store Indian.
    He took a healthy sip of the single-malt whiskey, made a face. Something his new partner had told him about, hundred and twenty bucks a bottle, engraved picture of quail and country houses on the label, tasted like battery acid. He poured it down the bar sink, reached for the Dewar’s. He dropped in a couple of fresh cubes and filled the glass without hesitation this time, came around to sit in the chair opposite her.
    Nice little fire, wifey with her afghan over her lap, papa bear in a cozy chair with his end-of-the-week drink. Pretty picture. Except wifey had turned to stone.
    He took a drink of the Dewar’s, grunted his satisfaction. Something around here still worked.
    Rhonda had her thousand-mile gaze pointed in the direction of the mantelpiece, her eyes as clear and crystal blue as the day they’d met. Eyes you could spot across a room, or an airplane hangar, for that matter. Eyes that would bore into you until you’d have to look away, if you had any bullshit on your agenda, that is. There’d never been anything hidden in Rhonda’s agenda, that was for sure. He’d appreciated that. The same thing that drove most men in this business batty, he’d loved about her from the first minute. And why not. You spend every waking hour dealing with people who make Richard Nixon seem forthright, it was a tonic to come home to Rhonda. Or had been.
    He had another slug of the scotch. Keep yourself off the hootch all week, didn’t it taste good when you finally gave in. He glanced at her, shook his head, sat back in the leather chair with a sigh. To tell the truth, even healthy, Rhonda probably wouldn’t mind if Rodney King were her next-door neighbor. And she’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming to pick up any Oscar. Popularity contests, she would grumble every year. Or any time one of the special lifetime statuettes was given out, “pity awards.”
    “You’re a case, Rhonda.” He smiled. “A real case.” He lifted his glass.
    “I was talking about Paige,” he continued after a moment. “She called to tell me things were okay, she’s holding up just fine. It was a blessing her mother went so quick, all that.” He noticed the quiver at Rhonda’s hand, the slightest movement, like some feathery aftershock that touched only her. The first time it had happened, everyone had taken it as a sign of hope, that she was tuned in, trying to communicate. But the doctors had set him straight: just a nervous tic, they assured him. A galvanic response to some transitory quirk of body chemistry. Remember those frogs from high school biology? Still, what could it hurt to talk to her, treat her as if she could comprehend? Who could say she didn’t, after all?
    “The upside is, it’s given her and her sister a chance to reconnect. Be girls together. Talk. That part’s going so well, she’s going to stay a few more days.”
    He turned to her, shaking his head. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? Takes a tragedy to make you appreciate what’s really important.” He made a waving motion with his hand, sent a little wave of his drink onto the carpet. “Family. Tradition. Roots.”
    He glanced up at the array of pictures above the hearth. “Something we’re in short supply of out here, huh?” He gave a humorless laugh. “Nothing rooted deep enough in the whole state of California,” he said, “that won’t slide right into the Pacific when the big one comes. That’s our problem, when you think about it.”
    He was about to settle back in his chair when he noticed that a thin line of spittle had inched from the corner of Rhonda’s lips. He took a Kleenex from the box on the table between them, dabbed it away. “So out here