With her black Donna Karan pantsuit and matching loafers, she figured she’d be taken for a stylish career woman. Maybe someone in the entertainment biz.
Hah!
The place was already starting to fill but they got seated immediately, served quickly, ate their papaya salads and panang curry with silent enthusiasm.
“So,” said Petra, “what you been doing?”
Eric put down his fork. “Looking seriously into private work. The licensing requirements don’t seem too tough.”
“Don’t imagine they would be.” He’d done military special op work, spent a tour as an M.P. detective before signing on with LAPD. All that had taught him endless patience for surveillance. Perfect for private work.
“The question,” he said, “is do I go out on my own or hook up with an established p.i.”
“So you’re definitely doing it.”
“Don’t know.”
“Whatever you decide is okay,” she said.
He rolled the fork’s handle.
Petra’s warning system, already primed by too much frustration at work, went on full alert. “Something else on your mind?”
The frost in her voice made him look up.
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
He said, “Are you upset?”
“Why would I be?”
“At me. For quitting.”
She laughed. “No way. Maybe I’ll join you.”
“Bad day?”
One eye started to itch and she rubbed it.
He said, “Paradiso?”
“That, other stuff.”
He waited.
She was in no mood to talk. Then she was, pouring it out: shunted aside on Paradiso, Schoelkopf dissing her in front of the others. Zero progress on the June 28 killings, with the target date a week away.
“Someone’s going to die, Eric, and I can’t do a thing about it.”
He nodded.
“Any ideas?” she said.
“Not about that. As far as Selden, you’re right about the photography angle.”
“Think so?”
“Definitely.”
“You’d pursue it?”
“If it was my case.”
“Well,” she said, “go and tell the geniuses in charge.”
“Geniuses are rarely in charge.” His eyes slitted and he picked at his salad. Petra wondered if he was thinking about Saudi Arabia. Or a sidewalk café in Tel Aviv.
An uneasy expression slithered onto his face.
“What?” she said.
He looked at her blankly.
“You’re holding back, Eric.”
He rolled the fork some more and she braced herself for yet another put off.
He said, “If I go out on my own, it’ll mean less money. Until I build up a clientele. I haven’t been LAPD long enough to get a city pension, all I have is my military pension.”
“That’s decent money.”
“It pays the bills but I couldn’t buy a house.” He returned to his food, chewed slowly- excruciatingly slowly, the way he always did. Petra, a rapid eater, table habits borne of growing up with five ravenous brothers, typically sat idly as he finished. Most of the time it amused her. Or she rationalized that she should learn to emulate him. Now she wanted to flip his switch onto High, squeeze some emotion out of him.
She said, “A house would be nice but it’s not necessary.”
He placed the fork on the table. Shoved his plate away. Wiped his mouth. “Your place is small. So’s mine. I thought… if the two of us…” His shoulders rose and fell.
Petra’s chest grew warm. She touched his wrist. “You want to move in together?”
“No,” he said. “Not the right time.”
“Why not?” she said.
“Don’t know,” he said, looking about twelve years old.
She thought about the magnitude of his loss. What it took for him to express himself emotionally even at this level. Heard herself saying, “I don’t know either.”
CHAPTER 36
FRIDAY, JUNE 21, 8:23 P.M., THE GOMEZ APARTMENT, UNION DISTRICT
The kitchen was hot and fragrant, not even a trace of Isaiah’s asphalt leaking through the savory steam.
His mother washed dishes, pivoted to accept Isaac’s cheek peck. “You’re early.” Not true; it sounded like an accusation. “No more work?”
“It’s the weekend, Ma.”
“You’re not too busy to eat with us?”
“I smelled your food from miles away.”
“This? It’s not fancy, just tamales and soup.”
“Still smells great.”
“A new kind of beans, black ones but bigger. I saw them in the market, the Korean said they would be good.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s right.”
“Sounds pretty fancy to me.”
“When someone gets married, I’ll make a real meal.” She began puttering at the stove. “Also rice with onions and a little chicken. This time I added more chicken stock and some carrots. I do that for Dr. Marilyn and it comes out good. I cooked a fresh whole chicken to get the stock and put the white meat in the tamales. Whatever’s left is in the refrigerator. Mostly skin, but you can snack on it now if you’re hungry.”
“I’ll wait. Where’s Dad?”
“On the way home. The Toyota acted up again, he had to take it to Montalvo. Hopefully he won’t get robbed blind.”
“Anything serious?”
“Montalvo claims some kind of filter, I don’t know that kind of thing.” She scurried to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of lemonade. “Here, drink.”
He sipped the cool, overly sweet liquid.
“Have another glass.”
He complied.
“Joel’s not coming home,” said his mother. “A night class. On Friday. Can you believe that?”
Isaac figured Joel was lying. If it kept going like this, maybe he’d talk to him. He drained the second glass of lemonade, headed for his room.
“Isaiah’s sleeping, so go in quiet.”
“Did he eat already?”
“He ate some but he’ll come to the table for more.” Small smile. “He loves my tamales. Especially with raisins.”
“I do, too, Mom.”
She stopped, turned. Her mouth was set tartly and Isaac prepared himself for a guilt trip.
She said, “It’s nice you’re here, my doctor.” Returning to the stove. “For a change.”
He removed his shoes and cracked the bedroom door carefully but Isaiah sat up in the top bunk.
“Man…” Rubbing his forehead, as if trying to restore focus. “It’s you.”
“Sorry,” said Isaac. “Go back to sleep.”
Isaiah sank down on two elbows, glanced at the brittle shade that yellowed the solitary window. Air shaft light glared through. The security bulb, yellow-gray. The asphalt smell was strong in here.
Isaiah said, “You’re here, bro.”
“Got out early,” said Isaac.
Isaiah laughed wetly. Coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Isaac wondered about his lungs, the alveoli clogged with all that…
“Got out early?” said Isaiah. “Sounds like probation or something.”
Isaac stashed his briefcase well under the bed, took off his shirt, and put on a fresh T. He lifted the shade and stared down the air shaft. Stories below, garbage flecked the pavement.
Isaiah shielded his eyes. “Cut that out, man.”
Isaac dropped the shade.
“I stink bad. Can you smell it?”
“No.”
“You lie, bro.”
“Go back to sleep.”
When Isaac reached the door, his brother called out: “You got a call. Some lay-dee.”
“Detective Connor?”
“I said a lady.”
“Detective Connor’s female.”
“Yeah? She cute?”
“Who called?”
“Wasn’t no detective.” Isaiah grinned.
“Who?”
“You getting excited?”
“Why would I?”
“ ’Cause she sounded excited, bro.”
“Who?” said Isaac. Knowing. Dreading.
“Wanna guess?”
Isaac stood there.