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Her blood pressure leveled off, her pulse advanced, and her anger did an about-face and turned inward. She found her­self wanting to forgive him. That old Greg Balter charm. Well, let him save it for a jury. She’d be hanged if she would be swayed by it after the way he had stood her up. And it was only last night. He didn’t even give her anger time to die and be provided a decent burial. But that was because his was a child’s, quick to run away, while hers was mature, slow to arouse and slow to fade.

“You mean,” she asked with a fall chill in the air, “like bury the duck?”

He nodded. “I think we should give him a special funeral. It isn’t every duck that gets investigated by the FBI.”

She muttered, “Huh!” and he shot her a sidewise glance. As the blocks passed, he talked along easily, as if there had been no last night, no hot-tempered accusations. He wanted to know about detergents, and sought her advice on other household matters. He was having trouble with his mother’s old vacuum cleaner, and asked if she would help him choose a new one. She stalled; she had such little time with her parents away and Mike and Ingrid to look after.

Then it was that he braked to a sudden stop, and she al­most went through the windshield. “You need seat belts,” she said.

He didn’t hear. The jolt switched his thinking. “Which re­minds me, I saw the FBI man who talked with me yesterday leaving your house early this morning.”

She was momentarily stunned, and then the anger crept back in. “He asked me the same questions he did you. He wanted to know where D.C. had been.”

“And that was all?”

“Yes.”

He took the casual approach. “Would you stick to that story if you were under oath on the witness stand?”

“Are you implying – ?”

“Now, hold on, Patti – “

“You the same as said I was lying. You picked me up be­cause you wanted to cross-examine me. Well, I’m not one of your witnesses to be grilled like a common – “

“Patti, please.”

The car had come to a halt at a stop sign, and she burst out the door, almost getting run over in her haste. He slid out and hurried after her, calling to her. A motorcycle officer wheeled in, blocking him, and gave him a ticket for deserting a car in traffic.

As Zeke checked into the FBI office that morning, the re­ceptionist, Dinkie, who could scarcely sit in her tight, plaid skirt, said, “They’re holding a drawing on you back in the steno pool.”

“A what?”

“You know, like a turkey raffle. The one who wins gets to ask you to the picnic Sunday.”

He moaned, and she hurried on. “If you need rescuing, I’m available.”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably be busy. I’ve got this cat I’m running a surveillance on.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Really, Zeke, we don’t refer in the Bureau to a woman in that way.”

“No – no – I mean – well, I mean cat, just cat.”

As he left, he saw she was bewildered. Her expression clearly said, Poor guy, he’s got a crack in the old cylinder block.

15

When Greg came along at dusk that evening, walking Blitzy, Ingrid was sitting Indian style in pink capris on the front porch, her lips moving silently.

“Hi,” Greg said, reining the dachshund to a sharp stop. Ingrid held up her finger for silence, then, after a few sec­onds, smiled and said, “Hello, Greg.”

“Whatcha doing?” Blitzy pulled on his leash, straining to reach the apricot.

“Counting the cricks a cricket makes so I’ll know how hot it’s going to be tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He ran her words through his mind again for a quick recheck. “Tell me, does this streak of insanity run all through your family?”

Ingrid wrinkled up her nose at him. “Everybody knows that if you count the number of cricks a cricket makes in a minute, that’s what the temperature will be. I counted eighty-three cricks, so it will be eighty-three tomorrow.”

“Blitzy!” He pulled the dog back. “What else are they teaching over at Van Nuys High these days?”

She smiled and rose, and remembered to stretch. A model couldn’t sag. “I better get with my homework. I’m studying so hard it’s pathetic. I’ll probably have a breakdown but my teachers couldn’t care less.”

Greg nodded sympathetically. “It’s the Russians. We’ve got to be better in everything we do, including pounding knowledge into our kids, and they in turn chew out their kids for not being as smart as ours.”

As she started away, he said, “Understand you’ve got a friend staying with you.” She stopped dead still.

He continued, “Mrs. Macdougall tells me she heard your sister talking with someone in the middle of the night, a man, and she thought somebody was sick but Patti said every­body was fine.”

Ingrid moistened her lips. “I’m sorry, Greg. You know I wouldn’t keep anything in the world from you. But I wouldn’t dare discuss my sister’s activities.”

“You don’t mean – ?”

“She’d kill me if I said anything. She’d just kill me.”

Greg stood speechless, his bare face hanging out. She con­tinued in a soft, husky voice, “I think she ought to get mar­ried – to someone real nice like you.”