That got her attention. “You already told me everything. What something?”
“Well, not quite everything.” He took a drink of his beer, swiped a napkin over his mouth, and prayed.
“What? You’re going to try to snag that last piece of pizza?”
“Maybe, but I think Sherlock’s going to nab it. Okay, here’s the thing. I did get the transfer to the New York Field Office like I told you. But there’s more. I also got a promotion. Director Comey said something about being impressed with my part in bringing Basara down. He, ah, seemed impressed by my driving, particularly in that FBI SUV. Good advertising, I guess.”
Kelly looked surprised again and blinked at him. “A promotion for that? You didn’t really do anything,” she sputtered. “Well, yeah, your driving was okay, well, amazing, really, but it was Sherlock who brought Basara down. I’ll even admit you have a good brain, yeah, maybe they should promote you for that.” She cocked her head to one side, studied his face, drilled him with a look. “What kind of promotion?”
“It turns out,” he said, eyeing her, “that your boss, Vince Talbot, is transferring here to Washington and I’ll be taking his place in New York.” He sat back, folded his hands over his belly, and gave her a big smile. “You know what that means, Giusti. I’m going to be your boss.”
“No,” she said, waving her pizza slice at him, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it.” She looked at the slice, looked at him, and threw it, hitting him in the face. Cheese dripped off Cal’s chin. He wiped off the cheese, grinned at her, picked her slice of pizza off his lap, and took a bite. He turned to Savich. “I hope you’ll give me advice on how to handle the potholes. I mean, you’re Sherlock’s boss. Given what a tiger she is, there’s lots of potholes, right?”
Savich threw back his head and laughed. Sean, who’d been positioning pepperoni slices up in a straight line across his paper plate, raised his head. “Papa, what’s so funny? Is it a joke? Why did Kelly throw her pizza at Uncle Cal?”
Savich said, “It’s what you’d maybe call a cosmic joke. My first piece of advice, Cal, is to know when to stop talking. Raise your glass so Sherlock and I can congratulate you.”
Sean clicked his iced-tea glass to Cal’s beer can. “Maybe you should have a reward, Uncle Cal. I’ll play Flying Monks with you after dinner. Kelly said she didn’t know how, but you’re a guy, you have to know.”
Cal, who’d never heard of Flying Monks, high-fived Sean. “Prepare to go against the master, Sean. Maybe you’d better play with your parents first; they can get you warmed up for me. Maybe you should call me Special Agent Doom.”
Sean cocked his head to one side, the picture of his father, and blinked. “I think you’d have to warm up to play with my dad. My mom, too.”
Sherlock ruffled Sean’s black hair. “You’re right, Sean, no matter what he calls himself, your uncle Cal is a distant second to us.”
“What does distant second mean?”
Kelly said, “It means Cal thinks too highly of himself, Sean. He won’t be able to compete with the big kahunas in New York, either, no matter how great he thinks he is.”
Cal scooped up the last slice of pizza, sat back against the seat cushion, and looked pleased with himself and the world. “At least I won’t have to do anything by myself. I’ve got you to pave the way, Kelly, whip those cowboys in line, and get them to admire me.”
Kelly looked from Cal to her coffee and back again, picturing how a big coffee stain might look on his white shirt, but she saw his big smile and something else in his eyes, something warm and filled with promise. She smiled back and threw up her hands. “Oh, all right, I’ll have your back if you have mine, Cal.”
Sean looked at each of the adults. “You’re smiling, Kelly, so I guess it’s true, what Mama says.”
“What does Mama say, Sean?” Cal asked.
“When the queen is happy, there’s peace in the kingdom.”