“That’s not how it works. You know that.”
Eden jumped to her feet. “No? I’m leaving, and you’re going to stay away from me. Got it? The next thing I do is buy a gun, and if you come near me again, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. Do you think anyone would care if I killed you? Do you think they’d put me on trial? I think they’d give me a medal. Now that would be quite the ending for my book, Rudy.”
“Fine. Walk away. I won’t stop you.”
She stared at him, breathing fast. Her eyes were fierce. The seconds ticked by, and the day got brighter. A trolley train passed them on its way to the Wharf, its bells chiming.
“And yet here you are, Eden,” Rudy went on. “We both know you’re not going anywhere. Face it, you need me to keep your secret.”
Eden said nothing. He watched her stand there, frozen, as if her feet were glued to the pavement. When she spoke, she practically spat her words back at him. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”
Rudy calmly sipped his coffee. He was in no hurry.
“I want you to tell me everything you know about Frost Easton.”
29
Frost had spent all night wanting to get home, but when he got there, the silence of the house felt oppressive. He was too tired to sleep, and when he closed his eyes, the memory of Jess haunted him. He found himself wandering up and down the stairs, through the house’s dusty rooms, with Shack keeping pace beside him. He wasn’t looking for anything; he was just restless and hurting.
Downstairs, at the mirrored bar, he found the bottle of Trago Reposado he kept for Jess. Only a third of the tequila was gone, but she wouldn’t be having any more shots. He unscrewed the bottle and inhaled its aroma, which he remembered on her breath. Then he overturned it in the sink and watched the alcohol splash and swirl as it disappeared down the drain.
He couldn’t stay here.
“Road trip?” he said to Shack.
The cat propped his front paws on Frost’s leg to be picked up, and Frost scooped him up and deposited him on his shoulder. Shack hung on with his claws. The two of them left the house and headed for Frost’s Suburban.
Like most San Franciscans, Frost avoided the tourist-infested area of Fisherman’s Wharf whenever he could, but in the early morning hours, he could usually get in and out ahead of the crowds. He parked at the red curb near Alioto’s on the bay and got out. Shack, who knew exactly what it meant to be down here, patrolled the dashboard impatiently. Frost greeted his old friends behind the counter at the seafood stand and ordered a Dungeness crab cocktail. They all knew him here. The cop with the cat. If there was one thing Shack loved, it was crab.
He got back in the Suburban, and Shack was all over him. It made it hard to drive, keeping one hand on the wheel and one hand on Shack’s nose to prevent him from eating all the crab before he got where he was going. In the end, he gave up and started feeding Shack pieces of crab to eat on the front seat, and in between, he took some for himself, too.
He drove out of the Wharf area into the Marina District. Duane owned a tiny one-bedroom condominium a block from the yacht harbor. For the price, it was a ridiculous indulgence, because Duane was hardly ever there. But his brother had wanted a waterside apartment his whole life, and when he sold his first restaurant to an investment group, he channeled some of the profit into his Marina dream.
The morning was still early, but the sun was up. He parked across the street from the three-story building and eyed the top-floor window behind the fire escape where Duane lived. The curtains were closed. Half a block away, he saw the masts of the million-dollar boats whose owners could afford a slip on the bay. He rolled down the window and smelled the sea air. He and Shack finished the crab cocktail, and the cat licked the empty container until it fell on the floor of the truck.
When he looked at the building again, he saw a woman hurrying down the plaza steps that led to the sidewalk. Her red hair bounced. She wore big sunglasses and a purple dress, with a matching long-strapped purse slung over her shoulder. She looked as if she always had some place to go and couldn’t wait to get there.
It was Tabby.
Frost called to her, and she stopped in surprise next to a red Saab that was parked on the street. She saw him, and a warm smile lit up her face. She crossed the street and took note of Shack, who hopped on the dashboard and pushed his pink nose toward her face.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” she told Frost as she pulled off her sunglasses and let him drink in her green eyes. “Literally.”
“Yeah, I know who people really want to see,” Frost replied as Tabby rubbed Shack’s head.
He didn’t think he was wearing his grief on his face, but with a single knowing glance, Tabby assessed his expression and saw through him. “What’s going on, Frost?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
He told her.
Tabby’s smile vanished. Her face broke into sad little pieces. She put a hand on the back of his head and leaned closer until their foreheads touched through the car window. The simple intimacy of the gesture made him breathe harder. “Oh, Frost, I am so, so sorry.”
“Thanks. It doesn’t feel real.”
She opened his car door and grabbed his arm. “Come on, let’s take a walk.”
“No, you’re on your way somewhere. It’s okay.”
“I have to buy today’s fish down at the piers. Don’t worry, they know I’m coming. They’ll put aside the best catch for me even if I’m a couple minutes late.”
Frost let her pull him out of the Suburban. She reached in and grabbed Shack, too, despite her allergies. The cat nuzzled against her neck and settled comfortably in the crook of one arm. They walked down the block and crossed Marina Boulevard, with Tabby’s other arm slung through Frost’s elbow. She led him across an open space of green lawn until they found a bench in front of the bobbing speedboats and sailboats. Across the bay, the hills of Angel Island and Tiburon rose in front of them. Tabby put Shack down, and the cat sat calmly between them on the bench, squinting his eyes against the sea breeze. The sun was warm.
“Tell me about Jess,” Tabby said. “If I’m not prying.”
“You’re not.” He hesitated, not because he was reluctant to talk, but because he didn’t know how to describe her. “Jess was a deep track,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t radio friendly. She wasn’t the song with the hook you can’t get out of your head. You’d have to listen to her a bunch of times to appreciate her, and then you’d be glad you did.”
“What a generous way of describing someone,” Tabby replied. “I really like it. I’d like to be a deep track for someone, but I’m afraid I’ll always be ‘Shut Up and Dance,’ you know what I mean?”
He thought she was being exceptionally unfair to herself.
“I know Jess was your boss,” Tabby went on, “but I get the feeling there was something personal with you two. Or am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong. Jess and I were never going to be a great love affair. Even so, we had a connection. I’m not sure either one of us could have explained exactly what it was.”
“Sometimes those are the most important people. At least when you’re not driving each other crazy.”
Frost laughed. “Yes, that was me and Jess.”
Tabby smoothed the fur on Shack’s back. Her eyes were already pink and watery, but that didn’t seem to stop her. “Did you need something over at Duane’s place? He’s got plenty of leftovers in the freezer, so help yourself.”
“No, I just wanted to talk.”
“With Duane? Good luck. He’s always up and out at four in the morning. I feel like a slacker when I sleep until six.”