Free Astride a Pink Horse by Robert Greer

Preachers, protesters, media types, and of course that smear piece on the web.”
    “What smear piece?”
    “A trash piece by some web-based outfit out of Denver calling themselves Digital Registry News. Surprised you haven’t seen it. They obviously had a reporter at Sheriff Bosack’s press conference last night. The story was written by the Digital Registry News publisher himself, some flake named Frederick Dames.” Watching a flash of recognition spread across Bernadette’s face, DeWitt asked, “Know him?”
    “No, but I think I’ve met his wingman. A tall, curly-headed, athletic-looking guy named Elgin Coseia. He dropped by my office earlier today. Pumped me for information for a good half hour. What was the story on the web about?”
    “What’s with any news story these days? Mudslinging and hype. I suggest you have a look at the piece and judge for yourself, Major. Especially since you’re mentioned in it.”
    “I’ll do that. Right now, in fact.” Unnerved, Bernadette spun around in her chair and turned on the computer on the credenza behind her.
    “Just remember, as far as this Tango-11 investigation goes, no news is good news for the both of us, Major.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” Bernadette said, upset with herself for having talked to Cozy Coseia.
    “Here’s a final piece of advice,” said DeWitt, turning to leave. “You need to work on masking your feelings a tad better. I’d say from the look on your face that if that Coseia fellow were here right now, you’d take his head off.”
    “I’ll work on the problem,” Bernadette said, knowing she’d be fighting an uphill battle. Hiding her feelings had never been her style, nor had biting her tongue. Her grandfather, a Tuskegee airman, hadn’t been able to do either when he’d once told Eleanor Roosevelt, when she’d visited Tuskegee at FDR’s request, that Negroes could fly airplanes as well as, if not better than, any white man. And her outspoken father, an air force fighter pilot during Vietnam who should have been one of only three American aces from that war but who was never credited, had always had the same problem.
    Kimiko Takata’s house looked smaller, more confining, and much darker inside than Sarah Goldbeck remembered. The only thing that seemed the same after such a long absence was the smell ofginger that filled the living room where she, Kimiko, and Rikia now sat.
    Kimiko had greeted her at the front door with a polite bend from the waist before ushering her into a living room filled with lithographs of Japanese country scenes, expensive Japanese pottery, and Oriental rugs. The room’s furniture, as delicate as that in a dollhouse, was exactly as Sarah remembered. Thinking that someone who’d spent a year and a half living in barracks in an internment camp should want more light, Sarah kept her thoughts to herself, taking a seat only after she’d been offered one and smiling at Rikia Takata, who’d given her a limp-wristed handshake before quickly taking a seat in a chair next to the room’s small bay window and immediately starting to clean his fingernails with a small screwdriver.
    Looking embarrassed, Kimiko said, “It’s great to have Sarah come to visit after such a long time, isn’t it, Rikia?”
    Slightly built, fragile-looking, and severely tongue-tied for most of his formative years—so severely tongue-tied, in fact, that even after corrective surgery as a teenager he still had a noticeable speech impediment—Rikia, who’d always looked oddly out of place to Sarah with his buzz cut, classic Asian features, and oblong face, simply nodded.
    Before seating herself, Kimiko rolled a tea cart with cups, a large pot of steeping tea, a bowl of cubed sugar, and a dozen or so raspberry-filled jelly pastries into the living room from the kitchen.
    As Sarah studied Kimiko’s face, she realized that the woman who’d once been her mother’s best friend looked every bit of her seventy-six years. Her once