"God, no. I always told her I wouldn't be caught dead in such a display. You know how many animals have to die to make a coat like that?"
"More than two. Well, thanks, Emma, break a leg."
"No problem. Call me anytime," Emma told her.
April went to the bathroom to wash her face.
An hour later she and Mike were seated in a small Mexican restaurant around the corner from the Two-0, where the owner didn't like Mike to pay, but Mike always paid anyway. April gathered that Mike's father had worked there when he first came to New York thirty years ago and had remained friends with the owner until his death. April didn't know all this for sure because Mike and the owner and the chef always spoke in Spanish, and her Spanish was limited, to say the least.
Two tables away from them a yuppie-looking couple with blond hair were groping each other and sloshing down the sangria as if they'd never have to be alert again. April eyed them enviously.
"What are you trying to accomplish, irritating everybody like this? You trying to suicide or something?" Mike demanded.
April didn't think that was a question that required an answer, so she made a face at him. His response was to give her a deep look complete with sultry smile that caused her cheeks to burn.
Then he said, "Relax," and reached over to cover her hand with one of his.
The contact was limited to a small site, yet traveled through April everywhere in a way she hadn't experienced with a simple touch before. Oh, shit, she didn't need this. She made another face. This was the line she wasn't crossing. Okay, so they weren't working together in the same house. But they were still working together! And he still wasn't Chinese!! Mike's hand continued to stroke hers, squeezing lightly. She felt weak from the touch and confused because she was crossing the line and her heart didn't stop her. Her tongue started to protest another issue.
"I've been up since five, and now I have to drive around all night, looking for someone who's about as likely to be hanging out on the streets waiting for us as I am to fly to the moon ...." April fell silent. Under Mike's, her hand turned over so their two palms met. Their fingers laced.
April didn't mention the E-mail Liberty had sent to Jason asking Jason to remove Merrill's mink coat from his apartment, and how they might find him through cyberspace. She was feeling overheated and excited. She'd forgotten it.
"Look on the bright side, at least we're together."
"Uh-huh. "
A waiter arrived with their food, and Mike removed his hand, the better to communicate his appreciation.
"Well, this looks almost as good as Chinese," April murmured.
Mike's father had been a chef in a Mexican restaurant. April's father still was a chef in a Chinese restaurant. Mike always said this commonality of the occupations of their fathers made a special bond between them. Now he smiled as he expertly rolled two slices of chicken fajita, refried beans, grated queso bianco, salsa, chopped tomato, guacamole, and sour cream into a small com tortilla, then took a bite. None of the contents squished out on his fingers at either end, nor did the tortilla break in the middle, spilling the food back onto his plate. She watched him take a second bite to see if the performance could be repeated. It was.
April looked at her plate of four skewered and grilled shrimps the size of lobster tails, covered with a green sauce, decorated with chilies that couldn't be eaten, and arranged on a plate of squid-ink-flavored rice. She'd had it before and was so impressed by the idea of black rice she'd told her father Ja Fa Woo to try it in the well-known midtown Chinese restaurant where he worked. She thought it might be an exotic addition to his repertoire.
"April—" Mike had finished his fajita and was staring at her with that expression men get when they're full of a positive emotion beyond the reach of their vocabulary.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid he could hear it. No, she wasn't going there. "Ah . . . you asked me why I'm bugging everybody. Well, I'm trying to get at the truth." She shrugged. "You know."
The moment passed and Mike laughed. "You really got Iriarte with the bit about the hair on the sink. What did you do with it?"
"I told you I gave it to Duke, what else? I also told him Jason's story about the coat hanger and the pericardial tamponade, whatever that is. Duke was most interested. He really thinks Rosa messed up and Petersen was murdered."
"Too bad we can't take another look at the body."
"The way I see it, with Petersen's death ruled a natural the field for suspects in the Merrill Liberty killing is really limited to her husband."
Mike nodded.
"But with Petersen's death ruled a homicide, we could open it all the way up. We'd have a ton of suspects."
"Has it occurred to you that Rosa might have been influenced to make a quick and positive determination that the hole in Petersen's heart was caused by a heart attack?" Mike asked.
"Yes, it has. There's a huge amount of money involved here. Rosa Washington was on the scene practically the moment the homicide call came in. Why would an ME come out of a party or an evening out, all dressed up, to show up at a crime scene when MEs aren't doing that anymore? Think about it."
"I'm impressed, April, but Rosa's obviously very passionate about her work. ... I came out that night, and I didn't have to, either. I didn't even know you were there, and I came out."
Mike called for the bill, provoking the usual altercation. The owner didn't want him to pay. Mike insisted on paying. They argued in Spanish. April picked up her purse and retreated to the front door, where she discreetly studied a poster of a matador waving a red blanket at a bull. This was one occasion where her interference would not be appreciated by either party. Finally Mike showed up and took her arm. "Thanks for dinner," he said.
"No, thank you."
Winter coats came between them. Many layers of protection against all the various ravages of nature. The comer by the restaurant door was small. A draft leaked in around the edges. April's hands were anticipating the cold already. Yet her face was burning. How to warm her hands and cool her cheeks? Mike's coat and jacket hung open. The hand that was holding her arm slid down the sleeve of her coat until it came to her freezing fingers. He rubbed and squeezed her fingers for a moment, then lifted them to his lips to warm them with his breath. His mustache teased her knuckles. His soft lips opened on the tips of her fingers and drew them just inside his mouth.
"Oh." The impact hit April hard enough to make her eyes smart. She could feel his teeth, even the hint of his tongue against her fingernails. The touch was alive and had her in its thrall. She moved a step closer, and knowing she'd hate herself in the morning, tucked her other hand inside Mike's coat, inside his jacket, around his waist until they were clasped in a full-body hug. He murmured something in Spanish and touched her lips with his own. His kiss was the touch of a butterfly's wing, the petal of a rose, with hardly any pressure at all. He held her close but kissed her lightly, brushing his parted lips against the side of her face, her nose, her mouth. Then suddenly it was over. The door opened on a customer coming in for dinner, and they staggered out into the cold to search for a killer.
39
The darkness was complete when Belle returned to the apartment just before nine on Saturday night. Rick was standing behind the curtain at the window waiting for her when he caught sight of the yellow stripes on her fireman's coat down the street. It wasn't raining, but the pavement was wet. He watched her approach the building, then saw her climb the front steps. Finally she opened the apartment door and looked around, as if for drugs or other enemies.
"You know what's going on?" she demanded. She tossed her raincoat on the floor. Underneath, she was wearing some kind of dashiki with leaping gazelles on it not unlike the fabric on the window. Tied around her head was a turban of deep purple. On her feet were heavy lace-up boots with thick rubber soles. She was dressed in so many political statements, it was hard to tell what she really looked like. When she sat on the sofa and crossed her legs to get down to business, the bottoms of a pair of blue jeans peeked from beneath the African skirts to send out yet another message.