She shrugged, sipped her drink. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
She leveled her stare at me and I was reminded again that she was very much the vice principal of discipline at Huntington High. When she spoke, she lowered her voice ominously. “I don’t remember, exactly. A few years I suppose. Is that okay?”
“Hey, I’m okay if you’re okay,” I said, and very much wanted to get the hell out of here. Mrs. Williams’s apparent ability to go from flirtatious to bitch was alarming at best.
We ate our food in silence. Actually, I ate and she toyed. I wondered what the clams thought about being killed only to be toyed with.
Probably be pissed off.
“Do you think Derrick killed Amanda?” I asked suddenly. Hey, might as well get some work done. In the least, I could write the dinner off for tax purposes.
“Yes,” she said immediately.
“Why?”
“He had motive and he had the murder weapon.”
“Damning evidence,” I said. “Except that all indications seem to point that he was truly in love with Amanda.”
“Which would make his jealousy all the more unpredictable,” she said. “Wouldn’t it?”
I shrugged. I didn’t like answering leading questions.
We continued to eat. Just beyond, the duck floated unmovingly. I was now certain it was fake. Or asleep.
While we ate, I could sense Mrs. Williams watching me. Her watching me made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps I sensed in her an unpredictability. She reminded me of my father in that way. Happy one moment, a real piece of work the next.
And for perhaps the hundredth time that evening, I wished with all my heart that Cindy was sitting across from me. I missed her laugh, her smile, her scent. Her everything.
When the bill came, I quickly paid it and we left. As we exited the restaurant, Mrs. Williams looped her arm through mine. I think I shuddered a little.
I walked her to her car, where we stood awkwardly for a few moments. I wanted to leave but she wouldn’t release my arm. Above, the tiny sliver of moon reflected the hollow feeling inside me.
“I had a great time tonight,” she said.
Her words took me by surprise. What date had she been on? I had been miserable.
“We should do it again sometime,” she added.
I nodded dumbly and just wanted to leave. Finally she released my arm and surprised me again by planting a big, wet kiss on my lips. She pulled away and grinned warmly, then got in her massive SUV and drove off.
I stood there in the parking lot, watching her go.
I wanted to run to Cindy.
But I didn’t. Instead, on the way home, I bought a case of beer and drank the night away.
48.
I went on a seven mile jog the next morning. I kept an easy pace, and my leg only hurt a little, which was encouraging. I showered and shaved at home, then headed for the office, where I kept my office door locked and the Browning on the desk next to me.
I called Donna Trigger. A girl answered and told me that Donna had classes this morning but I could try later in the afternoon. I said I would, she said cool, popped a bubble and hung up.
Next I called Sanchez on his cell and asked him to run Bryan Dawson’s name through his data base and see what turned up. He said no problem and that if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t have shit to do, nevermind his caseload of homicides to solve. I hung up on him in mid-rant.
I sat back in my chair and realized I had no real clues or suspects, other than two lecherous men with a fondness for young girls. This was so depressing that I felt it necessary to take a nap. I usually don’t need much convincing when it comes to naps.
The phone woke me. It was just before noon.
“Hi,” said a soft voice. My heart lurched. It was Cindy.
“Hello.”
“Can I see you?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hung up and sat at my desk for a minute or two until I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly. Within the next few minutes the course of my life would be set. Amazingly, it was out of my hands, and in Cindy’s alone.
I stood off to the side of my window, looking down onto Beach Blvd, the blinds partly open. Hauling ass down the street and turning dangerously in front of a white pickup, Cindy arrived in her silver Lexus. I could hear the pickup’s angry horn from here.
And trailing behind Cindy was a blue Taurus. Not normally a big deal, granted, but sitting in the driver’s seat was my friend the hitman. He continued on past my building and made a left and disappeared.
He made two mistakes: the first was that I made his plate. The second was that he had involved Cindy.
My phone rang. I grabbed it.
“You’re girlfriend’s cute. Back off, or she’s dead.” The line went dead.
I immediately called Sanchez and got his voice mail. I left the plate number for him to run. Now I was going to owe Sanchez another dinner. So what else was new?
Next I unlocked the door and paced before my couch, trying like hell to get the killer out of my mind and focus on Cindy. To focus on us.
Moving along the cement walkway, heals clicking rapidly along, I could hear Cindy coming.
My hands were sweating; my shoulders were knotted. I resented her for putting me through this. We had been serious for eight years. She knew the dangers inherent to my profession, but she also knew that I could handle them. The only new twist was my interest in resuming my football career; well, and the drinking.
The door to my office opened, and she stood there holding a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. She came in and set the flowers down on the desk, then threw her arms around me. Her lips found mine and we kissed like lost lovers, which, for a few days, we were. We fumbled our way to the couch, and there we made up for lost time.
And the direction of my life became clear again.
Damn clear.
49.
Nestled between a Rite Aide and a laundromat was a little Italian place that I liked, called Frazzi’s. Cindy and I were heading there now for lunch, holding hands. The mid-day sun shone straight down on us, but lacked any real heat, just a bright ornament hanging in the sky.
“So why is Italian your favorite food?” asked Cindy. I sensed she was feeling happy. The weather was nice, and we had just made love, and she wanted to keep things light and fun, at least for the moment. We still hadn’t talked about the heavy stuff, which was fine by me.
“I’ve discovered in the course of my considerable dining experience and extensive travels that a food joint has to work pretty damn hard to screw up Italian food. It’s usually a sure bet.”
“I’ve screwed it up before,” she said.
“Actually, we screwed it up together,” I said.
“Which is why we no longer cook.”
“And why we eat out.”
“Except for you and your damn cereal and PB amp;Js.”
“Cereal and PB amp;J’s are my staple. They keep me alive.”
“I know. I think it’s cute.”
Frazzi’s was a narrow restaurant with checkered table cloths and red vinyl seats. We found a booth in the back and sat ourselves. By now Cindy knows to allow me to have the best view of the restaurant, where I keep my eyes on the front door, the butt of my gun loose and free. There wasn’t much for Cindy to look at other than me. Lucky girl.
The waitress came by and we ordered two Cokes.
“So can I say a few things?” asked Cindy.
“Of course.” Here it comes.
“Your drinking worries me. Actually, it’s not the fact that you occasionally get drunk, it’s that you feel you need to drink secretly.”
“Well, it’s not a pretty sight.”
“How long have you been getting drunk?”
I shrugged. “Off and on since I broke my leg.”