"What about Ron the jock? How would he have answered the question?"
" 'A: fairly fast, with long steps.' A 'tromp right over you' guy who doesn't take no for an answer."
Thorpe smiled. "That stuff is bullshit, you know."
"I have had my doubts lately. I've been asking you questions for months now-Iowa, Stanford-Binet… Your test results are contradictory. Not inconclusive, contradictory." She was wide-awake. "Sometimes I think you do that deliberately."
"That's impossible. People with Ph.D.'s put those tests together."
She pinched him again, harder this time. "I've been taking course work in criminal profiling. The certification process is pretty rigorous, but police and federal agencies are hiring, and I could use a full-time job."
"A hundred years ago, cops used phrenology to solve crimes, convinced that the bumps on the heads of suspects could determine guilt or innocence. Profiling is in the same category. All those TV experts… the killer is a white man in his early thirties who wears boxers, not briefs… except when he isn't, and doesn't."
Claire wiggled her toes. She had long ones, too. "Maybe I should sell insurance, like you."
"You wouldn't like it."
Claire's face was close, her breath warm on his cheek. "Why haven't you ever made a move on me? I know you're attracted."
Thorpe looked back at her. "You're too smart for me. I wouldn't have a chance."
"Liar." Claire put her arm around him. "We'd have some fun."
Thorpe half-closed his eyes, enjoying her touch, almost giving in.
Claire must have sensed his hesitation. "I used to see that one girl come by late at night. Cute brunette… acted like she knew just where she was going. She seemed like the kind of girl you'd go for. I was a little jealous." She brushed her lips across his neck, and he raked his hands through her hair, the night humming now. "I kept waiting for her to show up after you got carjacked. Take care of you, maybe bring some chicken soup… at least see how you were doing. So, I guess it's over with her."
Thorpe pulled away slightly. "Yeah, it's over."
Claire stiffened. "You're still carrying a torch?"
"No… not exactly."
She watched him. "But not exactly free, either?"
He missed her touch already. "No."
"No one is totally free, Frank. You can wait around forever for the perfect moment. Sometimes you just have to take what's in front of you and enjoy it." She waited. "Not tonight, huh? You don't know what you're missing."
"No… not tonight."
"Pretty sure of yourself, thinking you're going to get asked again. Must be nice to be God's gift to women." Claire kissed him and he kissed her back, her mouth warm. "Good night, Frank," she breathed into him, getting up. Another kiss and the door closed behind her, gone before he could tell her he had changed his mind. The night was lonely without her.
Thorpe went back to his apartment. He had left the computer on, something that Warren had warned him against.
"You're up late, Frank. Or is it early where you are?"
Thorpe stared at the instant message flashing. He didn't recognize the screen name, but he knew immediately who it was.
"Don't ignore me, Frank. You had better manners that morning in the park."
Thorpe shivered. That's what happens when you get what you wish for. He typed "About time. I had about given up on you."
"Keep the faith."
"We're way past that, you and I."
"You got fired, Frank. I hope it wasn't something I did."
"How did you find me?"
"Trade secret. I took a peek at your personnel file. You've been a naughty boy, Frank. Got your fingers in the honey pot, according to what I read, but then, you should hear what they say about me. We should get together sometime. Exchange notes."
"I'm pretty busy these days."
"You're not just playing hard to get, are you, Frank?"
"I don't see what you have to offer. You had to burn down Lazurus's operation to get away. Makes you seem kind of desperate."
"Why so hostile? I've always treated you with the utmost courtesy. Is that belly wound still giving you problems? I hope you don't blame me for that."
"Of course not."
"Can you still eat everything you like? Fried foods and such? You seem like the kind of person who likes things spicy. I'd hate to think you were on some bland baby food regimen."
"I've got a healthy appetite, thanks."
"Glad to hear it. We have to take our pleasures where we find them."
"Where are you?"
"I'm here, Frank."
"You know what I mean. Can you smell the ocean from where you are?"
"I went beachcombing just this morning. The offshore swells brought in all sorts of interesting things. What about you?"
"I can smell the surf from where I'm sitting."
"We might be neighbors and not even know it. Sad, isn't it? We should get together."
"You think we have anything to talk about?"
"Absolutely."
"I'll think about it."
"Be bold, Frank."
"I have to get my beauty sleep." Thorpe logged off. His hands were shaking. He stared at his fingers until they stopped trembling, waited until they were perfectly still. It took longer than he would have liked.
10
"I still don't know why I'm the only one who can fix coffee," grumbled Cecil, bumping the table, the Pyrex pot held high. " 'Cecil get me some coffee.' 'Cecil make me some eggs…' "
Missy looked up from dealing out her tarot cards, annoyed at being interrupted, the precognitive flow totally ruined now. She scooped up the cards and then straightened them as her brother refilled her cup. Normally, she would have been furious with him for distracting her while she was doing her morning reading, but after last night's triumph, she was willing to overlook his stupidity.
She watched Cecil's clumsy fingers holding the pot, coarse red hairs in waves across the back of his hands. Hands just like his daddy's. Their mama had hated those ugly hands, those farmer's hands, but she had put up with them, and that was her own damn fault. Cecil reached out and steadied her cup as he poured. He'd be thinking of filling the cup until it overflowed, imagining the scalding coffee slopping onto the table, splashing her tarot cards. Cecil might be thinking that, but he didn't do it, stopping so that the fresh coffee was exactly one inch from the rim, just like she had taught him. Missy could train an orangutan to be a proper English butler if she put her mind to it.
"How come it's always me on kitchen duty?" Cecil scratched his belly. "That's a fair question, isn't it?"
Missy picked up the deck of cards, shuffled. She was wearing only a loosely knotted black silk robe, her blond hair unbraided now, a wild corona after the party.
She cut the deck, flipped up the top card. "That's why."
Cecil peered at the card.
"Ten of swords." Missy tapped the card with a finger. "That's you, Cecil. Ten of swords. Means you exist to serve the queen of swords."
"That's her, Cecil." Clark snickered from the other side of the table, sitting there in just a pair of heart-patterned boxers.
"Kitchen duty, yard duty, fucking doorman duty, ten of swords or not, it just ain't right." Cecil sat back, rolled one of his syrup-soaked pancakes into a tube, and took a bite, pointing it at her. "You should hire beaners to do all that, not put it off on family."
"I've told you before: I won't have strangers living with us, poking their noses into our affairs." Missy wiped her lip with the tip of her pinkie. "You don't like it, you can get your ass back to sweet home Alabama and I'll send for Cousin Leroy. I expect he'll be happy to take your place."