6.The Alcatraz Rose Read Free Page A

to convey a more earnest and overtly compassionate plea for help, he knew that such a request would be considered presumptuous. He was satisfied, however—knowing the inspector as he did—that, if nothing else, the child’s long struggle with grieving and frustration over the loss of her mother would appeal to Sheffield’s sense of decency and justice. He checked it one last time, signed it, and tucked it into an addressed envelope ready for posting.
    The days that followed continued in much the same predictable, though agreeable, pattern as they had since Kingston’s release from the hospital in Staffordshire almost a year earlier, after his brush with death in his last escapade. Outside the usual household chores, home maintenance and day-to-day demands of a domesticated existence, the tedium was relieved by the occasional lunch at the Antelope, and dinner now and then with Andrew, usually at the new restaurant du jour. One warm and cloudless afternoon a week ago, he took off alone on a spur-of-the-moment midweek walk through Kensington Gardens, and attended a West End play with his friend Henrietta—a bohemian artist type who had a habit of becoming brazenly amorous after a couple of gin and tonics—who had “scored” the tickets. He hadn’t asked how.
    On this particular morning, a former student of his, one Evelyn Cotter, in London for two days, had called unexpectedly and, even though Kingston had no recollection of her, he agreed to meet her for a late lunch. He spent the entire meal regretting his decision. Barely stopping for a breath—even while eating—she droned on and on about her children, dragging out awful photos of them—her children, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t seem much older than a child herself. Kingston was shocked to learn she had just celebrated her fortieth birthday and relieved when, after more than two hours, she ran out of banal conversation. Never again, he swore to himself, as he walked home.
    Back at the apartment, he found a stack of e-mails waiting for him, including one from his daughter, Julie, confirming details of his upcoming trip to America: that she would pick him up at SeaTac airport, advising him of how to dress for the weather in Seattle, et cetera, whichreminded him to send her a note later that evening confirming the arrival of the plane tickets and thanking her again for the gift. He continued to scroll down his messages, finding next a notification from one of the online journals he still subscribed to: news of an unusual chance discovery of a new plant species in Costa Rica, which he flagged for further investigation. Following, were four e-mails from friends and, of course, the usual spate of junk mail.
    His evening was planned. An early dinner: crab cakes, already prepared by his housekeeper, Mrs. Tripp and in the refrigerator, a crusty baguette, and a Waldorf salad accompanied by a chilled bottle of Savennières, his favorite Loire Valley chenin blanc. Afterward, he would stretch out, feet up, in his wingback and watch a new rented documentary about a year in the Burgundy vineyards and wineries. He’d finish off the night with the late TV news, catch up with day’s headline events, and then it would be off to bed.
    Despite this sybaritic and citified lifestyle that most would envy, Kingston couldn’t help thinking of all this as a precursor, a paradigm for permanent retirement. Would it be like this from now on? If so, he knew it would quickly become intolerable, and he would soon be hankering after a new pursuit, a substitute for his years of crime solving. He also knew, of course, that nothing could replace the cerebral challenge and self-satisfaction derived from hunting down and bringing criminals to justice—the challenge of investigating.
    Two weeks passed and still no word from Sheffield. Kingston was now starting to worry that Letty would think that he’d forgotten her, which was the last thing he wanted. He was thinking about phoning, when a