Spiral

Schuster, Inc.
    1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

    Copyright © 1999 by Jeremiah Healy

    Originally published in hardcover in 1999 by Pocket Books

    All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
    For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

    ISBN: 0-671-00956-7

    First Pocket Books paperback printing December 2000

    10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

    POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of
    Simon & Schuster, Inc.

    Front cover photo montage by John Vairo, Jr.;
    photo credits: Tomek Sikora/The Image Bank;
    Susan Van Etten/Picture Quest

    Printed in the U.SA.

For all our friends at the Tennis Club

ONE

    From the passenger’s seat, Nancy Meagher said, ”Ted Williams used to play some sport, right?”
    Behind the wheel of the Honda Civic, I didn’t glance at her or the white-on-green traffic sign as I turned us into the new tunnel to Boston’s Logan Airport. ”Sacrilege, Nance.”
    ”Because I insulted a public-works project?”
    Even without looking, I could feel the playful smile, like a model on a postcard from County Kerry, as she needled me oh-so-subtly about the difference in our ages.
    Traffic in the Ted was light, the reason we’d taken Nancy’s car instead of mine on that cold Wednesday evening in early January. A prosecutor in downtown, she lived in my old neighborhood of South Boston, and the political deal on the tunnel project was that Southie residents could get a windshield decal that let them use the new route when it was otherwise restricted to commercial vehicles. Which made driving to the airport—usually an unpredictable nightmare—into a milk-run of no more than ten minutes.
    Nancy said, ”John?,” the playful smile still in her voice. ”What?”
    ”It’s not as much fun to needle you if I don’t get timely responses.”
    ”Ted Williams was the best outfielder the Red Sox ever had, and—”
    ”Better even than that Bill Russell guy?”
    The Hall-of-Fame basketball center for the Celtics. ”I’m beginning to understand what teachers mean by ‘not educable.’”
    Nancy shifted in her seat, but didn’t change her tone. ”You’re just jealous.”
    ”Of what?”
    ”My going to San Francisco.”
    An educational conference for prosecutors was being held there, and Nancy had been chosen by her boss to be the assistant district attorney attending from Suffolk County, a genuine feather in her professional cap. But I’d promised another private investigator named George-Ann Izzo that I’d help her with an industrial surveillance, and she was estimating a solid week for the job. Frankly, George-Ann would probably—
    ”John?,” now a different tone in Nancy’s voice.
    This time I did turn my head toward her. ”Only half right.”
    ”About...?”
    ”About your going to San Francisco. The part that makes me jealous is I won’t be there with you.” ||
    Nancy brought her left hand up to the back of my neck, very gently drawing her thumb and forefinger along the strands of hair at my collar. ”Me, too.”
    ”Of course,” I said, ”there’s a good chance this ‘El Nino’ thing will wreck the weather out there for you.”
    ”Funny, I heard the warm currents were actually reaching the beaches, almost like Los Angeles.”
    ”The TV news said those same warm currents were also bringing sharks up from the south.”
    ”John?”
    ”What?”
    ”The sharks won’t get me lying in the sun on the sand.”
    ”Then again,” I said, ”you’ll more likely be spending , your days taking copious notes in some conference room.”
    Nancy tugged a little on a couple of my neck hairs. ”I was thinking more of how I’d like to be spending my nights.”
    ”But I promised George-Ann, and—”
    ”—a promise is a promise.”
    ”Always,” I said.
    Nancy started grazing my skin at the nape ever-so-lightly with her fingernails. ”John Francis Cuddy, consistency is not always a virtue.”
    I leaned my head back against her hand. ‘You keep doing that, and the concept of virtue will probably fly off our agenda.”
    The nails dug a little deeper. ”Imagine, making love in a tunnel named after a famous hockey player.”
    ”Nance?”
    ‘Yes?”
    ‘You sure know how to kill a mood.”
    She slid her hand out from behind me, but she was laughing softly doing it.

    ”This is the final boarding call for Flight Number One-thirty-three to San Francisco.”
    In the brightly