Mirror Image

she replaced the telephone and went to join the family and a few key volunteers who had assembled in the other room.
    Though she smiled and conversed as it was expected of her, she tried to imagine where Van could be. She comforted herself by picturing him downstairs in the ballroom, setting up his tripod and camera to cover what would hopefully be Tate’s victory celebration later in the evening.
    For the time being there was nothing more she could do. There must be a logical explanation for the switch in plans. Because she hadn’t been apprised, she had let her imagination run away with her. Irish and Van knew where she was if they needed to contact her. Resolving to keep her panic at bay, she moved toward the sofa where Tate was sprawled.
    True to his word, he’d gone to the polls dressed casually, wearing a leather sports jacket over his jeans. He appeared perfectly relaxed as he told Zee, who was taking orders, what he wanted for lunch.
    Avery sat down on the arm of the sofa. He absently draped his arm over her thigh and caressed her knee with negligent possession. When Zee moved away, he glanced up at her and smiled. “Hi.”
    “Hi.”
    And then he remembered. She watched as memory crept back into his eyes, eating up the warm glow in his gray irises until they were cold and implacable once again. He gradually lifted his arm away from her.
    “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said.
    “Yes?”
    “Did you ever take care of birth control?”
    “No. And neither did you.”
    “Terrific.”
    She couldn’t let his contempt intimidate her into keeping her distance. For the remainder of the day, she didn’t intend to get any farther away from him than she was at the moment.
    * * *
    “Irish, line two’s for you.”
    “Can’t you see I’m already on the frigging phone?” he yelled across the pandemonium in the newsroom. “Put ’em on hold. Now,” he said, speaking into the receiver again, “did you try knocking?”
    “Till my knuckles were bloody, Mr. McCabe. He’s not home.”
    Irish ran his hand down his florid face. The gofer was calling in with news that made absolutely no sense. “Did you look through the windows?”
    “I tried. The shades are down, but I listened through the door. I couldn’t hear a single sound. I don’t think anybody’s in there. Besides, his van’s not here. I already checked the parking lot. His space is empty.”
    That was going to be Irish’s next suggestion. “Christ,” he muttered. He had hoped that Van would be at home, sleeping off a night of overindulgence, but obviously he wasn’t. If his van wasn’t there, he wasn’t at home, period.
    Irish reasoned they might have gotten their signals crossed and that Van had gone straight to the Palacio Del Rio, but after checking with the crew there, they reported they hadn’t seen him either.
    “Okay, thanks. Come on back in.” He pressed the blinking light on the telephone panel. “McCabe,” he said gruffly. He got a dial tone in his ear. “Hey, wasn’t somebody holding for me on two?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, they’re not there now.”
    “Guess they hung up.”
    “Was it a guy?” he wanted to know.
    “A woman.”
    “Did she say who?”
    “No. Sounded kinda ragged out, though.”
    Irish’s blood pressure shot up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
    “I did!”
    “Jesus!”
    Arguing with incompetents wasn’t going to help anything. He stamped back into his office, slammed the door behind him, and lit a cigarette. He couldn’t be certain it had been Avery on the phone, but he had a gut instinct that it had been. Maybe that’s what was making his gut hurt so bad—his rotten instincts.
    He took a swig of antacid straight from the bottle and yanked up the telephone again. He dialed the hotel and got the same cool voice as before. When he demanded to be connected to the Rutledge suite, the operator began her same unruffled litany.
    “Look, bitch, I don’t give a fuck about your fucking instructions or who the fucking calls are supposed to be routed through. I want you to ring her suite now.
Now,
got that? And if you don’t do it, I’m gonna come over there and personally take your fucking head off.”
    She hung up on him.
    Irish paced his office, puffing smoke and chugging like a steam locomotive. Avery must be beside herself. She would think they’d deserted her.
    Van, that irresponsible bastard, hadn’t shown up at the hotel where he was supposed to