Jack sat behind Hector Quaid's polished oak desk, swiveled in the leather high-backed chair to stare at the diner across the square through the huge L E window. Now he owned the Sentinel, but it was like buying an airplane without knowing how to fly. He was counting on Foxx to be his pilot.
Then there she was in the doorway pretending to be Little Red Riding Hood.
"My, what big black eyes you have, Mr. Quaid. And when did you grow the swirling black moustache?"
"Sit down, Foxx. Sit down."
She didn't move. "I'm due at the dog pound in twenty minutes.
We're doing a special on the new dog catcher."
"Please." He gestured to the chair.
She wanted some answers first.
"What's this all about, Jack?"
"For one thing, you were right about the mugging, Foxx.'
He tried to explain why he had gotten off the plane, struggling to find the right words for complicated emotions. He told her about Alvin, then led her through the mess with Owen and Mace, and finally the incredible confrontation with Sanguellan.
"It was Sam!" he said. "Jesus, he's no better than a goddam thug!"
Foxx never budged from the door jamb, never batted an eye. It was as if she knew it all along.
"I still don't understand, Jack."