The mouth turned up slightly at the corners- a perpetual smile that might have gotten him into trouble as a schoolboy: Banks, stop smirking.
She realized she was staring; touched her upper lip and arched an eyebrow.
“Got rid of it last night,” he said, almost apologetic. “It was an experiment. My daughters didn't like it, said it tickled. I shaved it off right in front of them. They thought it was hilarious.”
“How many daughters do you have?”
“Two. They're five and six.”
Knowing he'd carry pictures, she asked if he had any.
“As a matter of fact…” he said, pulling several from his wallet.
Two pretty little things, both dark-haired but with fair skin, somewhat Latina-looking. Big brown eyes, long hair styled into ringlets, identical pink, frothy dresses. No obvious resemblance to Banks, though she thought she saw something in the younger one's smile.
“Totally adorable. What are their names?”
“The older one's Alicia and the baby's Beatrix. We call her Bee, or Honeybee.”
A and B. Someone liked order. She handed the photos back to him, and he took a peek before slipping them behind his credit cards.
The waitress stomped over and asked if they were ready.
Petra knew what she wanted, but she picked up her menu to give him time.
The waitress's foot tapped. “I can come back-”
“No, I think we're okay. I'll take the pastrami-coleslaw combo. With fries.”
“And you?”
Banks said, “Smoked turkey on a kaiser roll. Potato salad.”
“Something to drink?”
“Coffee.”
Alone again, she said, “How often do you get to be with them?”
“They live with me.”
“Oh.”
“Their mom's Spanish- from Spain. She trains horses, teaches riding. She went back to work at a resort in Majorca and gave me custody. She visits every few months, is still trying to figure out where she's going to live.”
“Must be tough,” said Petra.
“It is. I'm trying to tell them Mommy loves them, cares about them, but what they know is she isn't there. It's been really tough. I just got them into therapy; hopefully it'll help.”
Most cops ran from anything psychiatric unless they were filing for disability. Banks's easy admission interested her.
She watched him eat another pickle. Narrow hands; the free one continued to drum. The fingers long but sturdy. Impeccable nails.
He chewed slowly. Everything about him seemed slow and deliberate. Except the hands. All his tension filtered down to his fingertips. “She was always after me to grow a mustache. My ex. Said it was muy macho.” He laughed. “So after she's gone, I do it. Guess a therapist would have something to say about that. Anyway, she's still trying to find herself. Hopefully, she will soon.”
“How long's it been?”
“Final decree was just over a year ago. I'm able to feel sorry for her now, see her as someone with serious problems, but- Oh, by the way, I talked to the Carpinteria sheriff and he said Lisa Ramsey never filed any DV complaint on Ramsey there, either. They've got no calls to the house, period.”
Whiplash change of subject. He knew it and blushed, and Petra groped for a way to rescue him.
The waitress solved that problem, setting down his coffee hard enough to slosh the saucer and barking, “Your food's coming up.”
She hurried off, and Petra said, “Thanks for checking, Ron.”
“Least I could do.”
The two of them worked on their drinks. The restaurant was almost full, the usual mixture of soup-sipping old folk and Gen-X depressives showing they didn't care about dietary fat. Behind the stocked case, countermen sliced and wrapped and cracked jokes, the briny aromas of herring and cured meat and stuffed derma yielding to sweetness as fresh rye loaves came out of the kitchen on steel trays.
Suddenly, Petra felt hungry, a little more relaxed.
“How about you?” said Banks. “Been married?”
“Divorced two and a half years ago, no kids.” Getting that out of the way before he could ask. “So you've got them full-time. Must be challenging.”
“My mom helps out- picks them up from school and baby-sits when I have to work late. They're great girls, sweet, smart, into sports- Alicia does soccer, gives the boys a run. Bee's not sure if she likes soccer or T-ball, but she's pretty coordinated.”
Sports dad. Her father had gone that route with all five kids. Football for the boys, softball for Petra. Every Sunday, into a hideous uniform. She hated the entire experience, faked enthusiasm to please him, stuck with it for three summers. Years later he told her she'd done him a big favor quitting; he'd yearned for some free time on weekends.
Single father- was that why she'd gotten together with Banks?
He seemed so unguarded. What was he doing as a cop? She asked him how he got into law enforcement.
“My dad was a fireman- it was either that or police work,” he said. “Always wanted one of the two.”
“I don't want to sound chauvinistic, but why the sheriff's and not LAPD?”
He grinned. “Wanted to do real police work- seriously, back then Lulu- my ex- was talking about opening up her own equestrian school one day, we figured we'd be living somewhere unincorporated, so I applied to the sheriff. How about you?”
She gave him a very spare version of the artist-to-detective transition.
He said, “You paint? Beatrix is kind of artistic. Or at least she seems that way to me. Her mom tried to do pottery. I've still got the wheel at home- just sitting there, as a matter of fact. Want it?”
“No thanks, Ron.”
“You're sure? It seems a waste.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I just paint.”
“Oh, okay. What kinds of things do you paint?”
“Anything.”
“And you actually did it professionally.”
“I wasn't exactly Rembrandt.”
“Still, you must be good.”
She gave him a rundown of her ad agency days, her mouth running while her brain thought: How cute, each of us shifting the focus to the other. In her case, defensiveness, but Banks seemed really interested in her. Polar opposite of Nick. All the other men she'd dated since Nick- artists, then cops. Even when they talked about you, it was really just a ploy to get it back to me me me.
This one seemed different. Or was she just flattering herself?
She ended her recitation: “Like I said, no big deal.”
“Still,” he said, “it's tough making any kind of living creatively. I had an uncle did some sculpture, could never make a dime- ah, here comes the food, whoa, look at those portions!”
He ate slowly, and that prevented Petra from wolfing. Good influence, Detective Banks.
In between bites, they chatted about work. Dry stuff: benefits, insurance, the usual gripes, comparing blue and tan bureaucracies, good-natured kidding about intramural sports competitions. Finding more common ground than differences. She noticed he wasn't wearing his gun.
When their sandwiches were gone, they each ordered apple pie à la mode. Petra finished hers first, tried idly to pick up crumbs with the tines of her fork.
“You like to eat,” said Banks. “Thank God.”
The fork paused midair. She put it down.
He blushed again. “I- no offense- what I mean is, I think that's great. Seriously. It sure doesn't show- at least as far as I can-” He shook his head. “Oh, Lord, I am not good at this.”
She found herself laughing. “It's okay, Ron. Yes, I do have a healthy appetite when I remember to sit down for a meal.”
He continued to shake his head, wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it next to his plate. “Whatever I just gargled out, please take it as a compliment.”