"Hell," Mara said, "the perfect-world scenario would be that we tell them we have it all on tape, and they don't even ask to see it, 'cause you're not going to tell me every deal is going to happen in front of a camera."
Gunther shrugged. "That's what I am hoping for. This'll be a retail store of sorts, like a traditional crack house. You want some dope, you get vetted by one of Rivera's people, who escorts you to the house, where bingo, you get on Candid Camera. The artifice of the vetting will explain why the cops can't get inside and shut the place down. These are not Ph.D. candidates we're talking about, after all."
Mara merely nodded, prompting Joe to add, "Nothing's guaranteed here. This is brand-new for us, and it's moved at amazing speed. Sam fell into this at exactly the right time, what with the Hollowell killing having upset Rivera's applecart. But the trade-off is we're driving without headlights. I think we better assume that some mistakes are going to happen."
"Little mistakes I can live with," McCall said gloomily, not bothering to spell out the one disaster they weren't mentioning.
"Okay," Wilson said with artificial brightness. "Let's find a house they can rent."
Chapter 14
Gail braced herself for the inevitable. Her sister, Rachel, hadn't been in the house for five minutes, and already the familiar patterns had begun to surface. The two of them were standing together in the small study off Gail's living room.
"What is that girl doing here?" Rachel demanded in a whispered hiss.
After moving her in and cleaning her up, including a change of clothes, Gail had settled Debbie Holton on the living room couch opposite the TV set, surrounded by pillows, blankets, and an ignored plate of fruit.
"She's my guest, like you," Gail answered levelly, knowing it would only cause a fight.
Rachel's face reddened. "You're comparing us? My God, Gail. You are so perverse. That girl-"
"Debbie," Gail interjected.
"— probably sold heroin to Laurie. What were you thinking, putting us in the same house? I can't believe you'd be that thoughtless, so typically confrontational. Did you think I'd benefit from some epiphany here?"
"I didn't think of you at all, Rachel. I reacted to a human being in trouble."
Rachel rolled her eyes. "Oh-right. You forget that I know you, Gail. So, it was pure coincidence that this particular human being was also the same one doing drugs with Laurie? I really believe that." She shook her head. "You've really outdone yourself this time, I must say. Subtle as a fucking crutch."
Gail crossed to the window and looked out onto the lawn. "Have you been by the hospital yet?" she asked, not turning around.
Rachel's long silence substituted for the shocked expression Gail knew from experience she'd be wearing.
"I'm going there now," was the frosty reply. "I thought I'd settle in first, see my sister, find out how she was doing. What a great idea. You'd think I'd wake up."
Gail turned and faced her, repressing a knee-jerk reaction before saying formally, "I'm sorry. You're tired and upset. I should have been more sensitive. Go see Laurie. Stay there as long as you want. I've got all sorts of food I can warm up in no time for dinner whenever you get back."
They stared at each other for a few moments, leaving things where they were, choosing Gail's starchy politeness as a way out. Rachel merely muttered, "Okay," and left through the side door into the hall, avoiding the living room.
Gail stood alone for a while, hearing the muffled TV through the closed door, then her sister's oversized SUV starting up in the driveway They were Mutt and Jeff, she and Rachel. Gail was the elder, the more relied upon by their parents, historically the built-in baby-sitter for a sister eight years her junior, and in return, the substitute punching bag for when Rachel wanted to lash out at her parents while maintaining her angelic reputation. Spoiled, lousy at school, lucky in a marriage to an upwardly mobile furniture chain scion, Rachel had been allowed to believe that trendiness mattered, that social status was proof of Darwin's theory, and that motherhood could be done by proxy through nannies, summer camps, and prep schools. She reminded Gail of a Rhode Island yacht-sleek, beautiful, very expensive, and perpetually moored for all to see in a safe harbor.
With a small sigh, Gail opened the door to the living room and walked in on Debbie, who was randomly pushing buttons on the remote.
"You feeling better?" Gail asked, sitting at the far end of the couch.
"I feel like shit," Debbie answered, not looking at her. "And your sister hates my guts."
"She doesn't even know you. You're just a symbol to her."
"Thanks. That sounds great."
"You're like a neon sign of her own poor parenting. At least that's how she sees it."
"It's not my fault Laurie's in a coma." Debbie's voice was petulant.
Gail rubbed her forehead, wondering if this conversation was going to be as taxing as its predecessor. "Nobody's saying it is."
Debbie looked at her, her expression curiously vulnerable. "But you're still going to throw me out, right?"
Suddenly understanding, Gail rose and crossed over to her, crouching by her side and taking up her hand. "No, I'm not. You're safe here, Debbie, and welcome to stay for as long as you like."
Debbie glanced at the TV and hit the Off button on the remote. In the abrupt silence, her next words sounded all the more fragile. "Why didn't your sister come up before?"
"To see Laurie? She was busy-had a lot of commitments she felt she couldn't break. My sister's very practical in her way. She knew Laurie was in a coma, she knew I was here in case something came up. She's always managed things like that well."
"Like her own daughter was a pet or something-maybe not even."
"No," Gail admitted. "Rachel loves Laurie, but I think maybe she was waiting for Laurie to get older so the two of them could have a really good time together."
"Fat chance of that now."
"You never know," Gail countered, trying to sound hopeful.
Debbie didn't respond, staring out the double glass doors that led onto the broad deck with the huge maple tree growing through its middle. Gail allowed for the silence to prompt whatever might come next.
"My mom would've been drunk," Debbie finally said.
"When?"
"If I'd been in a coma," the girl explained.
Gail didn't argue the point. Chances were too good Debbie was right. "What about your father?" she asked instead. "Where's he?"
"In Florida. He's married to somebody else. I don't see him."
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"Yeah-a few. We don't get along. Different dads and stuff. You got anything good to eat?"
Gail smiled at the abrupt change of topic. "You want to order some pizza?"
* * *
Sam got out of the car with Manuel and surveyed the building before them critically. They'd been at this for several hours already, looking at houses, duplexes, and apartments as potential bases of operation. In each case, she'd found things to object to-proximity to neighbors, not enough or too many exits, poor floor layout for clandestine activities and/or self-protection if things went wrong. Manuel had been reasonable throughout, even agreeable at times. Sam had been surprised at how mellow he'd become, despite the lean, almost feline sense of quiet menace he carried like a scent. The lethality was real-of that she had little doubt-but it almost seemed as if it was a reluctant burden to him, like a badge might be to a peace-loving lawman.
"So far, so good," she said, knowing full well this was the house Gunther and the task force had already filled with eavesdropping equipment. "I like the way it sits back from the street."