To Catch the Moon by Diana Dempsey

her.
“Finally I learn something! So you have evidence it actually
happened on Friday?”
    She sipped her beer, her eyes averted. Milo
waited. Still nothing. “It must have been difficult to be at the
scene,” he offered several seconds later. “Such a violent
killing.”
    “There’s no such thing as a nonviolent
killing.”
    “Hm. Guess not.” Closed-mouthed little minx,
wasn’t she? It was clear he wasn’t going to get a damn thing out of
her. Admirable, actually. “So,” he said, “why did you decide to
become a prosecutor?”
    That line of questioning she didn’t seem to
mind. “Sometimes I’m surprised I did.” She squinted, as though
casting her mind back in time. “I don’t remember what I thought I’d
do when I was in law school. I had vague notions of practicing law
for a while, then running for office. Then a friend of mine
suggested I interview with the Monterey County D.A.”
    “Which went well, apparently.”
    “I remember going into it thinking they would
all be a bunch of Nazis. They sort of were. In my first round of
interviews I had three older white guys, all with buzz cuts, like
they’d all been in the military. Not that I have anything against
the military, but you know what I mean.”
    He nodded.
    “But we actually had a conversation. A real
give and take. I couldn’t believe it for a while, but eventually I
realized that I agreed with them about a lot of things. Then they
invited me back for round two, then round three, then...” She
stopped.
    “The rest is history.”
    “As they say.” She sipped her beer. He sensed
she’d had enough of talking about herself, so wasn’t surprised when
she turned the tables. “Where did you grow up?”
    “I was born in Bogota but then we moved to
Germany. Then Paris, then Washington when I was ten, Washington all
through prep school.” He paused. He should have said “high” rather
than “prep” school. Suddenly he found himself reluctant to provide
copious details on his background.
    She cocked her head, her eyes curious.
“Pappas is a Greek name, right?”
    “That’s right. I have dual Greek and U.S.
citizenship.”
    “What did your father do that you moved
around so much?”
    He hesitated. Then, “He was in the diplomatic
corps.”
    “What did he do in Washington?”
    No way around it. “He was ambassador.”
    She fell silent and looked down at her lap.
Milo shifted in his chair. She thinks her background’s so
different from mine. And she’s embarrassed about it, though she
needn’t be . For a moment he saw a vulnerability in the
hard-boiled prosecutor and found himself touched. How surprised she
would be to learn the truth about his family history. Alicia
Maldonado had more in common with Milo Pappas than she realized.
“What did your father do?” he asked, suddenly curious.
    She raised her eyes. “He was a long-haul
trucker.”
    “So he was away from home a lot?”
    “Yes.”
    “Just like mine.”
    She gave him a look that said, No,
different from yours . “Did you grow up in California?” he
asked.
    “Yes. Not far from here.”
    “Have you lived here all your life?”
    Again she dropped her eyes. “Sure have.”
    He watched a flush rise on her cheeks.
“You’re lucky,” he said, then added, “It’s a beautiful part of the
world.”
    “Well, I guess I have to take your word for
that. You’ve seen a lot of the world, so you would know.” Then she
raised her head again, and it pained him to see both the sadness
and the hint of defiance in those lovely dark eyes.
    He leaned closer to her across the table.
“You’ll travel, Alicia. You’ll see the world.”
    “Don’t patronize me.”
    “I’m not. I’m just stating a fact.”
    “You can see into the future?”
    “Yes.” Then he laughed, and that got her to
smile. “Yes, I can.”
    They stared at each other. At that moment
Milo could actually imagine showing this woman his favorite places.
Bangkok, where crossing the street without getting hit