The twenty-six living would be relatively simple. She would have to track them down, interview them if possible, and cross them off the list until theoretically, she got the pool down to a chosen few and then she would have to take it from there.
It was the five unaccounted for that would be the bigger challenge. They had completely fallen off the grid, as the law enforcement community liked to call it. Or, just as likely, had taken themselves off the grid. Running from the law. Running from loan sharks. Hiding from ex-wives and alimony payments. She already pictured a couple of the guys bagging groceries in Florida under assumed names.
More people abandoned their identities than most realized. The process really wasn’t that difficult. The fact that most people thought it was difficult was why more didn’t do it.
There was a definite appeal to tossing out your current station in life, and starting an entirely new one.
She couldn’t blame them if that’s what they’d done.
At some point, hadn’t everyone fantasized about disappearing and starting over somewhere new? Just wiping the slate clean? The ultimate do-over?
Mary couldn’t speak for everyone.
But she knew she’d considered it.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mary drove back to her place and was at her door when she heard him.
“Hey, hold up!”
She turned and saw the new good-looking neighbor trot down the hall toward her. What was his name again, she thought? Chris. Chris McAllister.
“Sorry,” he said when he finally reached her. “But I wanted to ask you a question.” He hesitated. “Actually, I’d like to get your opinion.”
“Yes, I think global warming is actually happening. Soon we’ll be underwater. Might be an improvement for L.A.”
He laughed, displaying that easy confidence she had noticed and liked, before.
“You know, I happen to agree, but I actually wanted your opinion on something else?”
“Hey, you want ‘em, opinions I got.”
“It’s actually my apartment. I can’t decide where to hang two paintings. I needed a different perspective.”
“Ah, so when you bring your lady friends here they’ll feel at home? Sort of some inside information?”
“Exactly. I want you to spy on your gender for me. Come back and tell me everything.”
Mary chuckled and then her mind flashed back to the shooting at the gallery where the mermaid/dolphin had been destroyed.
“You know,” she said. “Art and I don’t have a great history together.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“All right, I’ll tell my manservant Jacques to keep the lobster warm.”
He laughed, and for a brief moment Mary realized it was a laugh she could get used to.
Chris McAllister opened the door and Mary followed him in, checking out his ass as she went. Nice. It was firm and taut. She wanted to bounce a quarter off the damn thing, or maybe something else. Something more personal.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said.
Mary looked around. Mess? Her place hadn’t been this neat and clean since she’d moved in.
“Yeah, what a dump,” she said. “Sheesh. If you think this is bad, come over and make a mess of my place. It’ll be a huge improvement.”
It was a nice place. He’d bought completely contemporary furnishings. Sleek tables. Fifties style lamps. But not over the top. Not self-conscious. She had to admit, it was just good taste. Hip good taste.
“Before I present the dilemma,” he said. “Can I offer the judge a beverage? Wine? Martini? Beer?”
“Do you have any grain alcohol?” she said. “200 proof?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Just polished that off last night.”
“In that case, I’m good for now.” Her head still ached from the Jack Daniels. She was looking forward to going to bed.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “As you can see, my overall style is eclectic, but I’ve got two pieces of art here.”
He led her to the living room where two large canvases sat. One was definitely in the impressionistic camp. Heavy brushstrokes.
The other was like a Giclee print. It was an electric guitar.
“Hmm,” Mary said.
“What?”
“Well, I like both,” she said.
“Oh come on,” Chris answered. “My impression of you was that you don’t pull any punches. What do I look like? A pansy? I can handle the truth.” He raised his eyebrows and did a reasonably good impression of Jack Nicholson from A Few Good Men. “You need me on that wall…”
“Does anyone actually use the word pansy anymore?” Mary said.
“Only pansies.”
They both laughed.
“Okay, I’ll be honest,” Mary said. “Which is something I haven’t been in a long time. In fact, the last time I was honest I actually strained an abdominal muscle.”
“Okay.”
“The guitar print fits better, but the impressionistic painting is a better piece of art. It’s really good. Even though it doesn’t fit, wouldn’t you want to go with the better art?”
She turned to look at her neighbor. He wasn’t even looking at the art. He was looking at her.
“I agree with you,” he said. “The funny thing is, that one-” he said, pointing to the guitar painting. “That one cost me a ton. And that one,” he said, pointing to the impressionistic piece. “That one I got for twenty bucks at an estate sale.”
“I didn’t figure you for a bargain hunter.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What did you figure me for?”
“I figured you for some sort of circus performer.”
“Good guess. But I’m actually a chef.”
“Wow, what a coincidence. I love to have other people cook for me.”
Chris checked his watch. “Speaking of food, I was just going to whip up some pasta. Wanna stay?”
He turned and headed for the kitchen.
Mary checked out his ass again.
“I suppose I could cancel my dinner with the Governor.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mary woke up in her own apartment. But only because she had insisted that she do so. The night had been wonderful. Good food. Great conversation and so much more.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the stack of files in front of her. But her mind went back to Chris McAllister. Mary had never slept with anyone that soon — it was only the second time she’d talked with him. A part of her felt guilty and ashamed. A part of her told her she was middle-aged and that those kind of rules no longer applied.
She felt a small shudder when she considered that she could end up like those three nymphomaniacs who had supplied Uncle Brent with his Viagra.
Mary shelved her thoughts of carnal pleasures and called Braggs. She got his voicemail.
“Braggs, it’s Mary Cooper,” she said. “Change your message, you sound like one of those god-awful announcers for the tractor pull.” She growled her voice. “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Get ready for the Monster Truck Rally-”
“Whitney Braggs here,” he said, cutting her off.
“Put down the Brylcreem and meet me at Alice’s. You can finish your French pedicure later.”
“It seems you think I’m a bit of a dandy.”
“Perish the thought, Princess. Just meet me there in ten minutes.”