I punched in his number and when he picked up, I said, "Hey yourself. Did I wake you?"
"I don't mind. Where you been?"
"Out with Reba. I have tons to report."
"Good. Come on over and spend the night," he said. "I'll make you French toast in the morning if you're good."
"Can't. She's picking me up here at eight."
"How come?"
"Long story. I'll tell you when I see you."
"So how about I come get you and take you home in the morning in time to meet her?"
"Cheney, I can handle the drive. You're only two miles away."
"I know, but I don't want you rattling around the streets at this hour. The world's a dangerous place."
I laughed. "Is that how it's going to be? You're all protective and I'm docile as a lamb."
"You have a better idea?"
"No."
"Great. I'll pick you up in ten," he said.
Chapter 20
I waited for him outside, sitting on the curb, wearing a black turtleneck T-shirt and one of my new skirts. This was the third night in a row I'd be seeing him. Like a winning streak at the craps table, the roll was bound to come to an end. I couldn't decide if I was being cynical or sensible in acknowledging the fact. I knew how the night was going to go. In the first moments of seeing him, I'd feel neutral – glad to be in his company, but not irresistibly drawn to him. We'd chat about nothing in particular and gradually, I'd become aware of him: the smell of his skin, his face in profile, the shape of his hands as he gripped the steering wheel. He'd sense my attention and turn to look at me. The minute we made eye contact, that low distant humming would start up again, vibrating through my body like the first rumbles of an earthquake.
Curiously, I didn't feel I was in danger with him. Having blundered so often in relationships with men, I tended to be cautious, remote, keeping my options open in case things didn't work out. Inevitably, things turned sour, which only served to reinforce my wariness. In retrospect, I could see that Dietz played the game exactly the way I did, which meant I was also safe with him, but for all the wrong reasons: safe because he was always off somewhere, safe because he probably wasn't capable of coming through for me, and safe, most of all, because his detachment was a mirror of my own.
I heard Cheney's car long before he turned the corner from Bay onto Albanil. His headlights flashed into view and I got to my feet, silently cursing the loss of my shoulder bag. I'd been forced to pack – if you want to call it that – a few things in a paper sack, like a kid's brown-bag lunch: clean underwear, a toothbrush, my wallet, and keys. Cheney was driving with the top down again, but when I got in the car I realized the heater was turned on full blast, which meant that half of me would be warm.
He spotted the sack. "That your overnight case?"
I held up the brown bag. "It's part of a matching set. I have another forty-nine just like it in my kitchen drawer."
"Nice skirt."
"Thanks to Reba. I wasn't going to buy it, but she insisted."
"Good deal." He waited until I'd fastened my seat belt and then he pulled away.
I said, "I can't believe we're doing this. Don't you ever sleep?"
"I promised you a house tour. Last time, all you saw was the bedroom ceiling."
I held up a finger. "I have a question."
"What's that?"
"Is this how you ended up married so fast? You meet old What's-Her-Face and spend every night with her for the first three weeks. Week four, she moves in. Week five, you're engaged, and by week six, you're married and off on your honeymoon. Is that the way it went?"
"Not quite, but close. Why, does that bother you?"
"Well, no. I just wondered how much time I had to get the invitations out."
Cheney conducted a tour, starting with the downstairs rooms. The house was more than a hundred years old and reflected a way of life long past. Most of the original mahogany fireplaces, doors, window trim, and baseboards were still intact. Tall, narrow windows, high ceilings, transoms above the doors to aid the circulation of air. There were five working fireplaces on the first floor and four more in the bedrooms upstairs. The parlor (a concept that has since gone the way of the dodo bird) continued into the morning room, which in turn opened onto a gracious screened-in porch. In the adjacent laundry room, the old double tubs existed side-by-side with a wood-fueled stove for heating water.
Cheney was in the process of redoing the living room where the hardwood floor was covered in canvas drop cloths. Wallpaper had been steamed off and lay in discouraged-looking clumps. The plaster had been patched and the windowpanes had been taped in preparation for painting. He'd taken off one of the doors, which he'd laid across two sawhorses and covered with canvas to provide a surface for any tools not in use. The brass hardware – doorknobs, lock plates, window latches, and pulls – were jumbled into cardboard boxes in one corner of the room.
"How long have you had the house?"
"Little over a year."
Additional drop cloths extended through a set of glass-paned pocket doors into the dining room, which was in marginally better shape. Here the ladder, paint cans, brushes, rollers, paint trays, and liners – not to mention the smell – attested to his having primed and painted, though he hadn't yet replaced the fixtures or the incidental hardware, which littered every sill.
"This the dining room?"
"Right, though the couple who owned the place were using it as a bedroom for her aged mother. They converted the butler's pantry into a makeshift bathroom, so the first thing I did was tear out the toilet, shower, and sink and restore the built-in china cupboards and silverware drawers."
Through the bay of dining room windows, I found myself looking into Neil and Vera's kitchen next door. Cheney's driveway and theirs ran parallel with a modest strip of grass separating the two. I could see Vera standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before she put them in the machine. Neil was perched on a stool at the counter with his back to me, the two chatting as she worked. No sign of the children so they must have been in bed. I seldom witnessed even the briefest moments of a marriage in progress. Occasionally I'd be struck by the sight of one of those couples in restaurants who spend the meal not looking at each other and not exchanging a word. Now that's a scary proposition: all the minor day-to-day frictions with none of the companionship.
Cheney put his arms around me from behind and laid his face against my hair, following my gaze. "One of the few happy couples I know."
"Or so it would appear."
He kissed my ear. "Don't be a cynic."
"I am a cynic. So are you."
"Yes, but we both have a streak of optimism way down deep."
"Speak for yourself," I said. "Where's the kitchen?"
"Through here."
The previous owners had done extensive remodeling in the kitchen, which was now a streamlined vision of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, and high-tech lighting. Far from detracting from the overall Victorian feel of the house, there was a wonderful sense of hope and efficiency at work. I was exploring a walk-in pantry the size of my loft when the telephone rang. Cheney caught the call and his end of it was brief. He replaced the handset on the wall-mounted phone. "That was Jonah. There's been a shoot-out in a parking garage on Floresta. One of my hookers got caught in the crossfire. I said I'd drop you at your place and meet him at the scene."
"Sure thing," I said, thinking, Great… now that Jonah knows we're an item, the entire STPD will be informed by midday tomorrow. Men are worse gossips than women when it comes right down to it.