“That’s okay,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “I can keep working.”
Lee chuckled as she walked with him over to his mom and dad. “He did a great job. I’ll bring the artist by your place tomorrow morning.”
His parents nodded.
Lee looked down at Tyler. “And if I have more questions for you, I’ll ask them at that time, okay?”
Tyler glanced up at his parents. “Okay?”
“Yes, it’s okay,” Lisa said, resigned to the fact that, rather than being distressed, Tyler was having the time of his life.
Lee thanked them all; then Mr. Chung hefted Tyler up in his arms and they returned to their home down the hall.
“Bet they’re happy they moved in here,” I muttered.
“I’m not saying a word,” Lee said, holding up both hands.
“I appreciate that.”
One of the crime scene guys walked out my door and I was reminded that my place was a complete mess. I was too tired to fume over the injustice of it all.
“I don’t suppose you’ll have Tyler look through mug shots,” I said.
Lee shook her head. “And give him nightmares for a year? Probably not.”
“I know. But I hate that we have only Tyler’s word that the guy who broke in was fat and ugly.”
Lee closed her notepad. “The way I see it, the guy could look like Keanu Reeves and Tyler would call him ugly because he was scared of him.”
I gave her a reluctant nod. “That’s probably true.”
“Huh,” Lee said, clearly thinking about it. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind finding Keanu Reeves breaking down my door.”
It was well after midnight when the police hammered a beat-up slab of plywood over my door and draped it in yellow crime scene tape. Suzie had taken Pookie home for one night, so Derek and I left to spend the night in his suite at the Ritz-Carlton. I made sure Tyler’s book was safe on the shelf, but I wrapped up the Kama Sutra and packed it in my overnight bag. I wasn’t willing to risk it behind a flimsy wall of plywood.
Walking through Derek’s sumptuous hotel suite, I was reminded of the incriminating evidence we’d found here during the last murder investigation. Would all our best memories revolve around murder? Or I supposed I could dwell instead on the fact that Derek still kept this suite available to use while he transitioned his business from London to San Francisco. Was this his escape hatch for when he grew tired of our relationship?
As I hung up my clothes in his closet, I resolved to ignore those neurotic thoughts and dwell instead on the fact that he chose to stay with me at my house.
But I knew one of his assistants was working with a local real estate broker to find a suitable home for him in the city. Eventually, when he found the perfect residence, he would move out of my place and into his own. And that was probably for the best. Frankly, I was surprised we were still enjoying each other’s company after a full month of living together. It couldn’t last much longer, could it? We were so different from each other. He was traditional upper-crust English; I was laidback California commune. He was dangerous, secretive, and carried a gun. I was peace, love, and free speech. We were completely wrong for each other, and yet we had fun. We loved to eat good food and drink good wine and we argued and laughed and fought-and made up, of course. He liked my family. He laughed at my jokes. But beyond the fun stuff, Derek had more integrity than anyone I knew, and that coincided with my desire for justice and good to prevail. I thought that was a pretty important quality in a guy. And I couldn’t ignore the fact that he was so gorgeous. I wasn’t sure if it was his face or his body or his accent that made him so hot, but…
“I know it’s late, but I’ve ordered hamburgers from room service,” he said, coming up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist.
“With French fries?” I asked.
He kissed my neck. “Of course, darling.”
“Sweet.” Resting my head against his bare skin, I savored the solid, muscular feel of his chest.
Okay, in this moment, it was definitely his body. Call me shallow. The guy was hotness personified.
The following morning, Derek dropped me off at my place and I began cleaning up the mess. I arranged to meet the guy from the door company and a locksmith who’d been recommended by our homeowners association.
Looking at all the disorder in the light of day, I could see that there wasn’t that much actual destruction. Drawers had been pulled out of my desk and the contents dumped on the floor; materials and supplies had been swept off the countertops. There were a few broken jars, but for the most part, everything could be straightened up easily.
Much worse would be the job of cleaning fingerprint dust off every flat surface in my house. I’d found out the hard way the last time my place was broken into that this stuff was a pain in the butt to clean up. The powder was made of graphite and seemed lighter than actual dust. The minute the crime guys fluttered those dainty little dusters over anything, particles flew all over. I learned that even water wouldn’t soak up those darn particles, so it was useless using a sponge to clean things up. The black powder had settled into one of my small area rugs and some cloths I used for cleaning books, and they had to be replaced.
One of the previous crime scene guys had recommended a product, and I was relieved to find a small amount left under my sink. It was a thick gel that broke down the bonds between the graphite ions. Don’t ask me how. That bit of information exhausted my vast knowledge of the science of bonding.
Three hours later, my studio was back to normal and I had a new door with a stronger dead bolt. The rest of the house took only another hour or so to straighten up, because the intruder hadn’t done as much damage there. Based on little Tyler’s story, Inspector Lee theorized that the rest of the house was barely touched because the guy had run out of time.
Maybe, as Tyler had suggested, he’d heard the elevator stirring to life and had rushed out while he could. That was one more reason I loved that old creaky elevator. You always knew when someone was coming home.
As if on cue, I could feel the light vibration that signaled the elevator was being summoned. Two minutes later, Derek walked in. After changing from suit and tie to jeans and a light sweater, he joined me in the kitchen, where he whipped up a pitcher of martinis.
“This is a treat,” I said, sipping my drink. “Do you want to listen to music while we cook?”
“No, I had something else in mind for us to do before dinner.”
I smiled, watching him as he took a quick first sip of his drink, then set his glass down. Extracting a notepad and two pens from the telephone drawer, he led me over to the dining room table and gestured for me to sit.
Okay, this was not what I thought he meant.
As Derek took the chair on the other side of the table facing me, he ripped off a few pieces of paper and handed them to me with a pen.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
His lips twisted into a wry grin. “We’re going to play your favorite game.”
Puzzled, I shook my head. “I’m no longer sure what you think that might be.”
“We’ll call it Find the Killer,” he said, setting the pad down and clicking the top of the pen. “You go first. Tell me everything you know about the night Robin first met Alex.”
Chapter 10
“You know I love to play the Killer game,” I began, taking a moment to register just how much my life had changed in the last few months. Brooklyn Wainwright, bookbinder-cum-murder solver extraordinaire. “But do you really think it matters how she met him?”
“I’m beginning to think it matters very much.”
“She told us what happened that night.”
“But we’re missing something. I want to start at the beginning and make notes.”