Mouthing an air kiss as she hurried toward me, she arrived smiling, planted a real smooch on my lips. Her breath was sweet with cola, the black T-shirt under the overalls fragrant with wood dust. Spanish cypress, a material that holds on to its perfume for centuries. The feather-light flamenco guitar she’d been working on for weeks.
I kissed her back.
She said, “What’s the matter?”
“Who says anything?”
She stepped back, studied me. “Honey?”
“What was the tell?”
“The shoulders,” she said. “It’s always in the shoulders.”
“Maybe it’s just a kink.”
Taking my hand, she guided me toward the house. Blanche trotted at our side, checking me out every few seconds. Between the two of them, I felt like a patient. As we reached the door, Robin said, “The new case?”
I nodded.
“Especially bad?”
“Maybe.”
She put her arm around my waist. When we got in the kitchen, I offered her coffee.
“No, thanks, just water.” She fetched a bottle from the fridge, sat down at the table, propped her perfect chin in one hand. Chocolate eyes were soft, yet searching. Her lips parted. The slightly oversized central incisors that had turned me on years ago flashed into view.
I filled a second mug, joined her. “A baby. A baby’s skeleton.”
She winced. “That must have been terrible for everyone involved.”
She stroked my fingers.
I told her everything.
When I was through, she said, “One of the girls at that hospital changed her mind and had her baby? Gave it to that nurse to take care of and something went wrong?”
“Could be.”
“
A new tremolo colored the last three words.
She said, “A thing;
“Theoretically.” I told her about the case’s low priority.
She said, “Every generation thinks it invented the world, no one cares about history.”
“Are you sorry I told you?”
“Not at all.” She stood, got behind me, kneaded my shoulders. “You are one block of iron, darling.”
“Oh,” I said. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“Full-service girlfriend.” She worked on my muscles some more, stepped away, unsnapped the overalls, let them fall to the kitchen floor. The black T-shirt and a navy blue thong contrasted with smooth, tawny skin. She stretched, flexed each lovely leg. I stood.
“I’m filthy, hon, going to shower off. After that, we can figure out what to do about dinner.”
I was waiting when she emerged from the bathroom, armed with a few restaurant suggestions.
She unpeeled her towel, folded it neatly, stood there naked. Holding out a hand, she led me to the bed. “Time for you to be a full-service boyfriend.”
Afterward, she ran her nails lightly over my cheek. Bobbled my lips with the side of an index finger the way kids do when they’re goofing. I let out a high-pitched moan, did a fair imitation of a leaky drain. When we both stopped laughing, she said, “How are you doing now?”
“A lot better.”
“High point of my day, too. How about Italian?”
CHAPTER 11
I’d heard nothing new about the bones for two days when the
The article was stuck at the bottom of page 15, trumped by water issues and legislative ineptitude, a shooting in Compton, the usual petty corruption by various civic employees. The byline was Kelly LeMasters, the reporter Milo had belatedly called.
The coverage boiled down to a space-filling rehash ending with the pronouncement that “A priority request to analyze the bones for DNA at the state Department of Justice lab is LAPD’s best hope for yielding fresh information on a decades-old mystery.”
The newspaper was in Milo’s hand when he rapped on my door at ten a.m.
I said, “Pleasant surprise.”
He strode past me into the kitchen, flung the fridge door open, did the usual bear-scrounge, and came up with a rubbery-looking chicken leg that he gnawed to the bone and a half-full quart of milk that he chugged empty. Wiping the lacto-mustache from his nearly-as-pale face, he thrust the
I said, “Pulitzer was a tabloid shlock-meister.”
He shrugged. “Time heals, especially with money in the ointment.” He flung the article onto the table.
I said, “So you spoke to LeMasters.”
“Not quite. I spoke to His Grandiosity’s office begging for DOJ grease. That was yesterday afternoon. Next morning, voila.”
“The chief leaks?”
“The chief plays the press like a harmonica. Which is fine in this case because everything’s dead-ended. Social Security can’t turn up records of our Eleanor Green, and I can’t find dirt on Swedish. Even the oldest vice guy I know doesn’t remember it, one way or the other. So if they were breaking the law, they were doing it discreetly.”
He got up again, searched the pantry, poured himself a bowl of dry cereal. Midway to the bottom, he said, “The bones aren’t why I’m here. I never really thanked you for last year.”
“Not necessary.”
“I beg to differ.” He flushed. “If ensuring my continuing survival doesn’t deserve gratitude, what the hell does, Alex?”
“Chalk it up to the friendship thing.”
“Just because I didn’t get all sentimental doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what you did.” Deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about it every damn day.”
I said nothing.
“Anyway.” He used his fingers to grasp the last few nuggets of cereal. Drawing his big frame to its feet a second time, he loped to the sink, washed the bowl. Said something I couldn’t hear over the water.
When he turned off the spigot, I said, “Didn’t catch that.”
“The T word, amigo. Gracias. Merci. Danke schoen.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay … now that we’ve got that out of the way … how’re Robin and the pooch? She working out back?”
“Delivering a mandolin.”
“Ah.”
His jacket pocket puffed as his phone squawked.
Moe Reed’s pleasant voice, tighter and higher than usual, said, “New one, boss.”
