“If it wasn’t a coincidence, who shot her?” I put in more toast.
“Hell if I know.” Then, just when my coffee was finally cool enough to drink, he drank it.
I took the little revolver from my belt and laid it on the table between us. With my hand over the gun butt, I said, “Don’t touch my eggs.”
He put the revolver in his shorts waistband and poured more coffee. “But I like your eggs. I even like the dark circles under your baby blues. I’m really happy to see all of you safely back in this kitchen.”
“Good,” I said. I crossed my arms on the table, rested my head on them, and fell asleep.
Chapter 10
The director of dance at Casey’s new school executed a magnificent leap, a gold-medal effort. But it was the prize-winning zucchini in the front of his flesh-colored tights that held the freshman dancers in thrall. Casey, sitting on the practice room floor with a dozen or so other new classmates, dropped her jaw and stared.
Because of Casey I have been around a lot of ballet, have seen a lot of stuffed tights. You get used to them, as you do tutus and other archaic accoutrements of dance. What gave me pause as the director went through his routine was Casey’s reaction to his malehood: over the summer she had evolved from indifferent to awed. The change made me worry.
I looked around the practice studio at the other parents lined up against the mirrored walls. The attentive masks that had carried us through the boring academic portion of the school’s orientation had dropped away as the demonstration by the director, his gifted young faculty, and the senior students began.
They performed for a tough, critical audience; every parent there had already invested a fortune in time, emotional support, and cash to prepare their young dancers for the privilege of attending this school. The sacrifices that had brought them this far had honed their expectations. I tried to pick out the mouthpieces, the vigilant parents who always kvetch when they are displeased. Every school, especially private schools, has nightmare parent police.
As the director tour jete’d toward us, Mike leaned in and muttered into my ear, “Are we expected to tuck money in his jock when he dances over here?”
“Good idea.” I passed him the first quarter’s tuition check. “Any tips are up to you.”
He glanced at the check and his eyes widened. As he refolded it he said, “You’re sure this is what you want for Casey?”
“Casey is sure. Look at her.”
She had quickly gotten past the zucchini and was now fully concentrated on the dancers. I watched her hands subtly follow every movement because in her mind she was out there with the dancers.
The studio pianist ended with a showy arpeggio. The squeak and pat of ballet shoes on hardwood floors fell quiet. There was a moment of appreciative silence, and then equally appreciative applause. Before the applause had died, Casey had attached herself to one of the senior girls and persuaded her to demonstrate some movement from the dance she had just seen.
“We’ll never get her away,” I said.
Mike was watching Casey imitate the movements of the older girl. “She’s really talented, isn’t she?”
“Hard work and talent in about equal measure,” I said, distracted. I thought I had spotted a young man tall enough to partner her; a good sign. Casey’s height would always be a hurdle in ballet.
Casey pranced over, beaming. “Can I stay for a while? They’re going to do a workshop for the seniors and Mischa said I could stay.”
“Who’s Mischa?” I asked.
“Mr. Karpov,” she said, indicating the director.
Mike seemed dubious, but I asked, “For how long?”
“Until about five,” she said.
I looked at my watch. Until five gave us three hours to kill. “We had planned to house hunt.” I turned to Mike. “What do you think?”
“If it’s okay with you, let her stay. We can look around this neighborhood for a couple of hours.”
“We’ll be back at five,” I said to Casey. “Take care of yourself.”
“Oh, Mom,” she groaned, but she was too excited to get up a decent pout.
Mike grabbed her muscular arm before she danced away and pulled her against him. “Watch out for those guys. If I caught one of them out on the street in pantyhose like that, I’d have to arrest him for indecent exposure.”
She laughed. “You’re so weird, Mike.” She left us then.
“You’re so weird, Mike,” I said, taking his arm.
“What? Did she think I was kidding?”
We went down to the school office to hand over the tuition and sign emergency medical treatment forms, give the nurse Casey’s immunization records.
There was a form to list emergency contact numbers. After myself, I listed Mike’s office, then Guido’s pager. The fourth blank stumped me. Our former housemate, Lyle, was too far away to be of any immediate help, and he had no legal connection to help in the long run. I almost left the fourth spot blank, but after a pause, and as a matter of form, I wrote down Casey’s father’s number in Denver. Just writing the number made my palms sweat; Scotty was always a mess in an emergency. No matter what happened, I would not call him. I never, ever, wanted to go through a hassle involving him again. Ever.
When we left the school, we still had two and a half hours left. Pasadena was hot and smoggy. I was grateful that we were in Mike’s Blazer and not my car, because he had air conditioning and I did not.
“Where should we start?” I asked.
“South Pasadena,” he said, turning down Fair Oaks Avenue. “I think you’ll like the area. The locals stopped the state from extending the freeway through town. Screwed up the whole county freeway system to save their old trees, but did they care?”
“My kind of people,” I said.
“I thought so, too.” He smiled as he reached for my hand.
“I’m glad the department put you in the cooler,” I said. “It’s nice to have some time with you.”
“Just think, when I retire it’ll always be like this.”
“You wish.”
He didn’t argue.
I had no expectations about South Pasadena. In fact, I had never heard of the place until Mike mentioned it. As Mike drove south on Fair Oaks, I kept my eye on the odometer, measuring how far we were getting from Casey’s school. When Mike turned down a side street, we were still within bicycle-riding range for a young athlete like Casey. And a city bus ran straight up Fair Oaks.
The neighborhood we drove through was dominated by large, well-kept old houses dating from the 1920s and 1930s. A typical upscale California architectural mix: graceful mission-style white-washed adobe and red tile cheek by jowl with trim Cape Cod cottages, stolid red-brick Georgians, the occasional French country farmhouse. There were real yards, neat green lawns and mature trees that filtered out the worst of the smog, made the air seem cooler. Very nice, I thought. Maybe too nice.
I tugged on Mike’s hand. “Can we afford this?”
“We can probably find something in our range. Couple of guys at work live in the ‘hood. Bud-you met Bud?-he thinks he has a lead on a place that isn’t listed yet.”
“The old cop fraternity,” I said, squeezing his fingers. “Always takes care of their own.”
“We have to watch out for each other,” he said, “because no one else will.”
“Oh, look,” I said, pointing out the window. “Slow down a sec.”
We were passing a beautiful old Iowa farmhouse-style woodframe on a sweeping corner lot. It had a “For Sale or Lease” sign pegged in the middle of the immaculate lawn. I knew it had to be beyond our budget, but just in case, and out of habit, I pulled a 35mm camera out of my bag and took some pictures out the car window.
I admit that I use the camera as an interpreter; I don’t always know what I’ve seen until I have it on film. I wanted to pin the houses up on some wall for a while-pictures of them, anyway-get to know them.