“So taken,” said Petra. “You're saying love of food's a healthy thing.”
“Exactly. Too many girls these days get crazy about food. I think about that because I have daughters. My ex always bugged them, obsessed with being skinny-” He stopped himself again. “Not too cool, bringing her up every minute.”
“Hey, she was a big part of your life. It's normal.” Implying that she'd done the same with Nick. But she hadn't. She'd never talked about him to anyone.
“Was,” he said. “Past tense.” He raised one hand and sliced air vertically. “So… how's the case coming?”
“Not too brilliantly.” She talked about it without giving him details. Liking him but not forgetting that he was non-LAPD.
He said, “Situations like that, publicity, no way you can do your job properly.”
“Ever have one like that?”
“Once in a while.” Touching his napkin, he looked away. Wary, too?
“Once in a while?” she echoed.
“You know us country bumpkin lawmen, runnin' down rustlers, protectin' the pony express.”
“Ah,” said Petra. “Anything I'd have heard about?”
“Well,” he said, “Hector and I did do some work on the County Gen slasher.”
Mega-case, three years ago. Wacko killer cutting up nurses on the grounds of the county hospital, four victims in three months. The bad guy turned out to be an orderly who'd served time for rape and assault. He'd faked his way through personnel screening- worked the surgical floors, of all things. Before he was caught, the nurses had threatened to strike.
“That was yours?”
“Hector's and mine.”
“Now I'm impressed.”
“Believe me, it was no big sherlock,” he said. “Everything pointed to an insider. It was just a matter of flipping paper, checking time cards, eliminating negatives till we found the positive.”
Petra remembered the feminist frustration, media noise- hadn't there been an initial task force? “Were you on it from the beginning?”
He blushed again. “No, they called us in after a few months.”
“So you two are rescuers.”
“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes we get rescued. You know how it is.”
What she knew was that the County Gen slasher was a major case and that he was a rescuer, top dog. And that's who the sheriff had sent for the notification call to Ramsey?
Why was he being so cagey about it? Modest? Or sent by the tans to pump her for details?
“Any ideas on Ramsey?” she said.
“Like I said at his house, the guy rang my bell, but I'm not a big one for bells.” He smiled. “Give me time cards anytime.”
She smiled back. He drummed the table. Rubbed the spot where his mustache had been. The waitress gave him the check and, over Petra's protests, he insisted on paying for it. “Hey, you put up with me, you deserve a sandwich.”
“Nothing to put up with,” she heard herself say.
They left the deli and he walked her to her car. A warm night; still a bit of foot traffic on Fairfax and the newsstand across the street was crowded with browsers. The food smells from Katz's followed them. He didn't walk close to her, seemed to be consciously avoiding it.
“So,” he said, when they got to the Ford. “This was great. I- is there some place you'd like to go? If you're not too tired, I mean- maybe some music. Are you into music?”
“I'm a little bushed, Ron.”
The crushed look on his face said the evening was personal, nothing to do with the case, and she felt bad for suspecting him.
“Sure,” he said. “You'd have to be.”
He held out his hand and they shook briefly. “Thanks a lot, Petra, I really appreciate it.”
Had a man ever thanked her before just for spending time? “Thank you, Ron.”
He tilted forward, as if ready to kiss her, then rocked back, gave a small, salutelike wave, and turned, hands in pockets.
“What kind of music do you like?” she said. Figuring country; it had to be traditional country.
He stopped, faced her again, shrugged. “Mostly rock. Old stuff- blues, Steve Miller, Doobie Brothers. Used to play that kind of stuff in a band.”
“Really?” She fought a giggle. “Did you have long hair?”
“Long enough,” he said, walking back to her. “Don't get me wrong- we weren't professionals. I mean, we did a few club dates, played the Whiskey way back when. That's where I met my-” Clamping a hand over his mouth.
“Sure,” said Petra, laughing, “and not just her, right? You met tons of babes. That's why you joined a band in the first place. Don't tell me- drums.” Those active hands.
“You got it.”
“Drummers always get the girls, right?”
“Don't ask me,” said Banks. “I was always too busy trying to keep the beat.”
“Still play?”
“Not for years. My old kit's rusting in the garage.”
Along with the potter's wheel, bikes, probably piles of old toys, kid stuff, heaven knew what else. Petra pictured a small house full of Levitz furniture. Far cry from the horse ranch that had never materialized.
“So where do you go to listen to music?” she said.
“Used to go to the Country Club, in Reseda. It's not a country place, it's rock-”
“I know where it is.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“What about this side of the hill?” she said.
“Don't know,” he said. “Don't go out much.” The admission embarrassed him, and he looked at his watch.
“Need to get back?” she said.
“No, they're asleep by now. I called them before I left. My mom's staying over. I just want to phone, make sure everything's okay-”
“Call from my place,” she said. “It's not far from here.”
Thinking: He'd told his mother he'd be late. Big plans or blind optimism?
For some reason, she didn't care.
While he talked to his mother, she fixed her makeup. Thankfully, the apartment was in decent shape. She'd barely lived in it since the case broke. She invited him to take off his jacket and hung it up. Standing in the kitchen, they each had a glass of red wine. He complimented her decor. At his insistence, she showed him her art. Not the works in progress, her old portfolio, color blowups of pictures she'd sold through the co-op gallery.
He was impressed; didn't try to touch her.
They moved to the living room and went through her small CD collection, trying to find something they both owned, coming up only with Eric Clapton's Derek and the Dominos.
Sitting two feet apart on Petra's couch, they listened to half the album, then his hand shifted six inches closer to hers and remained there. She covered her half of the distance and their fingers touched, then entwined.
Sweaty hands, but neither of them dared wipe. She found herself gripping his knuckles too hard and reduced the pressure.
He breathed faster but didn't move.
During “Bell Bottom Blues” he tilted his head toward her and they kissed.
Closed-mouthed, mutual garlic, for what seemed like a long time, then a wide, open exploration full of clicking teeth and swirling tongues, hands on back of neck, soft lips- he had very soft lips; she was glad the mustache was gone. When they broke, they were both robbed of air.
He was ready for more, but the hunger in his eyes shook Petra and she pulled away. They listened to the rest of the song sitting still, holding hands again. She was wet, her nipples ached, her body demanded loving, but she didn't want it, not with him, not now. One more song and she got up to use the bathroom. When she returned he was standing, jacket on.
She sat down again, an invitation, but he remained on his feet, in front of her, reaching down to touch her hair, her cheek, her chin. She looked up, saw his bottom teeth pinching his upper lip.
She was trembling now, and had he tried again, who knew what would have happened.