“Is one of those purposes my usefulness in the bedroom?”
“I have uses for you in the bedroom.”
“We have time before our dinner arrives.”
She looked at her watch. “Should be here in ten minutes.”
“Like I said, we have time.”
She didn’t need much more encouragement than that. With Ginger on the pergo floor below, running laps around the bed, I served one of my useful purposes.
Twice.
We were now on the balcony. The balcony was devoid of last night’s cigarette butts and Oreo crumbs. We were sharing a glass patio table, eating cheese tortellini and drinking chardonnay.
“Does Sanchez have any idea who threatened you?” asked Cindy.
“He doesn’t recognize him, but Sanchez works primarily in L.A. He’s going to ask his cop buddies around here.”
“Who do you think this guy works for?” she asked.
“I’m willing to bet for someone who doesn’t want me to find the true killer.”
“So you think the boy’s innocent?”
“Now more than ever.”
“What do the police think?”
“They think I’m a nuisance. Nothing new. They think this is an open and shut case and resent the fact that I’m poking around on their turf. In essence, calling them fools and liars and incompetent.”
“Are you?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Will you call your father?”
I felt my shoulders bunch with irritation, but let it slide. She was only trying to help.
“No.”
She patted my arm, soothing me. “Of course not. You don’t need him. You are your own man. I’m sorry if I offended. I just worry about you.”
“I know.”
We were quiet. Ginger was chasing a fly that was almost as big as her.
“The man who came to your office, he was a hired killer?”
“Yes.”
“You could see it in his eyes?”
“He looked like a shark. Dead eyes.”
“You sometimes get that look,” said Cindy, pushing her plate away. She had eaten most of it, but had left exactly three tortellinis. I was still hopeful they would go forgotten. But the woman had a bottomless stomach, to my chagrin.
“You mean in the bedroom when my eyes roll up during the final throes of passion.”
“Final throes of passion?”
“Means before I climax.”
“Thank you for that clarification. No, I’m referring to the bar fight in Matzalan. I thought you were going to kill the guy. But you emerged from that look, sort of came back to your senses. I always considered that man lucky to be alive, lucky that you found yourself before you killed him.”
I said nothing. I remembered that night. A barroom fight, nothing more. The man had felt up Cindy on her way to the bathroom. Bad move.
She suddenly leaned over and kissed my ear above the scab. It was a heartbreakingly sweet thing to do. She took my hand and led me into the living room, to my sofa. We sat together.
She said, “You were a devastating football player. And you may very well be again. It is a violent sport that you excel at. I would not love you if you were not always able to come back down from whatever heights you need to scale to fight and even kill.”
We were silent for a few minutes.
“Almost makes you think I am at the apex of evolution,” I said. “A handsome, physically imposing, intellectually stimulating, emotionally sophisticated brute.”
She put her head on my shoulder.
I was on a roll. “I will even permit you to take me to your classes for show and tell, as an example of a well-evolved human being. And in contrast we can take your last boyfriend and have him stand next to me.”
“Are you quite done?”
“Quite.”
“Will you need protection?” she asked, wrapping her arm through mine and holding me close to her chest.
“I can take care of myself.”
She patted my hand. “I know.”
Ginger was jumping up and down, doing her best to leap onto the couch, but missing the mark by about a foot. I reached down and picked her up and set her in my lap. She turned three circles quickly, and then found a nook and buried her cold nose where our arms intertwined.
“How is your leg?” she asked.
“I am worried about my leg.”
When I looked down at her hand, I saw that she was holding something between her thumb and forefinger. It was a black cap. The cap to my scotch. She had said nothing, simply held me, and let me know that she knew about my drinking. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.
I held her close. She quit playing with the cap and held it tight in her fist.
19.
I parked my car in front of the murder site. The same decayed heap of flowers still marked the place where Amanda had been found slain. There might have been a new teddy bear in the front row, but it was hard to tell. Anyway, he was a cute little guy holding a red heart balloon that said: “I Miss You.”
I got out and headed up the stone pathway through the grass, passing a limestone circular fountain that was currently turned off. Leaves were collecting in the drain, and I suspected it might be a while until the fountain, with its gurgling expectations, would be turned on again.
When I reached the door, it swung open as if on its own volition.
Actually, not on its own volition. A cute little girl, perhaps eight, was standing in the doorway, staring up at me. She was the spitting image of Amanda.
“Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.
“You’re big.”
“I know.”
“You’re bigger than daddy.”
“I’m bigger than most daddies.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
She giggled.
A cute little black cat worked its way through the little girl’s ankles. A blue bell jingled around its neck. The cat came right up to me and I scratched it between its ears. It was purring before I even touched it.
“That’s Tinker Bell,” said the little girl.
“He’s cute.”
“I love him.”
“I bet you do.”
“Alyssa honey, where are you?” There was a note of panic in the woman’s voice.
“There’s a policeman at the door, mommy.”
“I’m not a policeman,” I said.
The door was pulled all the way open and a woman folding a pair of briefs appeared. She was the older version of Amanda. The original version. She stared at me with eyes that were too blank, too red, too distant and too dead. She was dressed in a gray T-shirt and white shorts that revealed a fading tan.
“Mrs. Peterson?” I asked.
She paused, the white briefs hanging over her hand. “Who are you? You’re not a policeman.”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Can I speak with you? About Amanda.”
She looked at me some more. A minute passed. Finally, she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own home.
She left the door open. I took a deep breath and followed her in.
After asking if I would like a cup of coffee, and with my answer being in the affirmative, she promptly brought me one and set it in front of me. I needed something to do with my hands, because Amanda’s mother was making me nervous. She was in a bad place, a place I had emerged from years ago after the murder of my own mother. I knew what she was going through, but I did not want to empathize too much. I did not want to return to the bad place myself.
I was sitting in a thick sofa chair that matched the massive sofa near the fireplace, where Mrs. Peterson now sat. She reached into her black purse, which sat at her feet like an obedient dog, and removed a metal flask. She promptly poured a finger or two of something dark and bourbony into her coffee.
“More medicine, mom?” said the younger version of Amanda, who trailed in from the kitchen.
“Yes, dear. Now leave the adults alone.”
She did. Sort of. She grabbed a pink Barbie backpack, plopped on the floor near the rear sliding glass door, and proceeded to remove a Barbie and Ken doll from the bag. I noted that both were nude.