I laid it out and he listened with his eyes closed and his hands folded, a massive tent of fingers on the tabletop. He asked a couple of questions. Made a couple of changes. Finally, he gave a sniff, set his face and hardened the dark eyes.
“You’d better fucking be right.”
I just shut up and sipped my beer.
40
Gretchen’s apartment was dark except for the yellow-blue flame in the fireplace. It was just cold enough outside, otherwise she would have had to use the air conditioning. I came in at the sound of her voice, closed the door behind me and locked it-it had one of those old deadbolts, turned by a delicate T-shaped latch in the hardware. Then there was Gretchen, standing in the archway, backlit by a gentle lamp in the kitchen and the remnants of a scarlet sunset, wearing a short black cocktail dress and carrying martinis. Was that Coleman Hawkins on the stereo?
“I know you like these,” she said, holding out a drink.
“Definitely the whole package,” I said. I crossed the room and kissed her passionately, toasted her, and then felt the gin on my lips, cold and warm at the same time. She smelled vaguely of old rose petals and clean bedsheets.
She had a body made for the look: long and leggy. Right down to the expensive black pumps. I’d never seen her in a short skirt before, and as much as I appreciated the rough-gentle denim she wore like a uniform, this was something else again. Gretchen!
“Are you close to solving your case, deputy?” she asked, sipping her drink, animating those lips and dimples.
“I think so,” I said.
“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “I’m very honored to know you.”
“I couldn’t have done anything without the help of the city archaeologist’s office. Specifically, one archaeologist…”
She started unbuttoning my shirt with one hand. She was good with one hand: long, elegant fingers dominating the buttons of a man’s shirt. She should have played the piano. Instead, she dug up the remains of ancient civilizations.
“I don’t want to know more,” she said. “I won’t put you on the spot. I can read about it in the newspaper, and then I can smile to myself and say, ‘I know that man.’”
She slipped her hand in my shirt and caressed my chest, teased my nipples.
“I have more plans for you,” she said, taking another ounce of gin.
I set my glass down and took hers, too. “Maybe I have plans for you,” I said.
I lightly kissed her lips. Her tongue came out to meet me, but my mouth moved on to her high, aristocratic cheekbones, to her long, warm neck, to the loamy-smelling province where her neck met her shoulders. She pressed herself against me and gasped. I could feel her nipples harden like pebbles under the dress.
Men underestimate the sensual power of kissing. For a long time, I just kissed her-long and deep, short and teasing and anticipatory. Using the tongue, a circle and a thrust. The subtle turns and tenses of the lips. Gentle bites on her lower lip. Nothing much else. Not much caressing or hugging, yet. The room felt ten degrees hotter. Then she let me push her to the sofa, and slowly ease her down. She smiled a far-away smile. Her pupils were black and wide. I knelt down and used my tongue.
“Oh, my,” she gasped.
This was my show. Starting at the ankles-the exquisite planes and facets of the ankles of a woman gifted with athleticism and good DNA. Moving up to the smooth, taut surfaces of the calves. Behind the knees…The intimate, dangerous, tender skin of the inner thighs. Then starting all over again on the other leg, slowly moving up…
She came awake with a start. We were on the rug in front of the fire. It had cooked to embers, like a little burned village. I pulled her back down to me, smoothed her mussed hair, and pulled the comforter back up.
“That wasn’t like me…” she whispered.
“You were wonderful.”
“I have a hard time giving up control.”
“You sounded like you had fun.”
“I’m very loud,” she said. “My previous boyfriend didn’t like that.”
“I love it,” I said, wondering about this previous boyfriend. So much I didn’t know about Gretchen Goodheart.
“I had a dream about you,” she said. “About you and those two little boys trapped in the wall.” She shivered against me.
“What was it about?”
“It’s bad luck to tell a bad dream. You’ll make it come true.”
She stood and put on a Lucinda Williams CD, the volume low. The fireplace snapped and sizzled. Then she came back and nuzzled against me. I held her tight. The old building creaked. A train whistle sailed through the window.
“Why did they put that woman in prison and keep her there her whole life?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
“The Yarnells had all the power. Frances had no power at all.”
“They didn’t have enough power to stop the kidnapping,” I said. “I guess none of us is safe.” I thought of Bobby Hamid: None of us in the world…
“Do you believe in justice, David?” She raised up and looked at me. Her eyes were bright with imagined starlight.
“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t.” Women were asking me about justice this week.
“I mean real justice.”
I thought about that. I said something lame. Something egghead-stupid about fallible human institutions, the rule of law, and the razor edge between justice and vengeance.
“I believe in vengeance,” she said, a catch in her throat. “Don’t you, really?”
Before I could answer, she had me on my back and was pulling my clothes off. Then she straddled me, guiding me inside her with one sure move.
“Come here, my cactus heart.”
“What?” I was into more than hearing at that moment.
“You know what I mean.”
She rode me gently, an achingly tight sensation coursing up from my groin. She still had on the cocktail dress. I moaned and stroked her smooth knees and forgot about thinking.
“Could you ever love me like you do Lindsey?” she whispered.
“I…” She slid down on me with a twisting motion.
“Don’t lie to me, David.”
“You feel so goddamned good,” I gasped.
“That’s better.” She kissed my chest, circled my nipples with her tongue.
“You have just the right amount of chest hair,” she said. She rode me slowly, then fast and deep, tossing back her head, brushing that straight, fine hair against her shoulder blades.
“I love to play with you,” she said, slowing down again.
“I love to play with you.”
“I believe you,” she smiled, her white teeth gleaming in the half-dark.
She moved up and down, met my stroke, tensed and released. I grasped her hips, syncopated our movements.
“I want you to love me, David,” she said, quickening her pace a bit. I reached up and caressed her breasts through the fabric of the dress.
“Don’t be afraid. Don’t you see what kind of life we could have together?” She put her hands hard against my chest for purchase and moved against me with more urgency. My God, what a feeling!
The fire popped. “I want your heart.” She was breathing faster. “The heart you hide behind all those books and thoughts. You keep it from me right now.” She gasped and shuddered. Then, “It has thorns around it because you’ve been hurt before, and you are very conflicted now. I can feel that. You hold back.
“But I know it’s a good heart, like mine is a good heart…” She giggled. “Goodheart.”
She moved faster, an irresistible rhythm. Lucinda Williams sang “Right in Time.”
“I want you to come back to me when this is all over, and let me in David’s cactus heart…”
“Gretchen…”
“I love the way you say my name!” A moaned anthem. “I love you, David!”
I knew I was too far gone. I was ready to say anything. And I did.