though he told himself that he didn't. It had been five years since the final papers had come through, and not a day went by that he didn't think about her. In small ways usually--a brief second wondering what she'd say about this or that but she'd remained in his life as a ghost, a conscience, a measuring stick in his mind if not a physical presence.
The truth was, they probably did not have to get divorced. No other people were involved, no other lovers on either of their parts. Her sole complaint with him was that he had too little time for her, that he cared more about his job than he did about his marriage. It wasn't true, but he knew why she felt that way, and it would have been easy for him to correct. If he had just been willing to bend a little, to admit his mistakes, to stop bringing work home, to spend more time with her and be a little more demonstrative with his feelings, they would have been able to survive. He'd known that even then, but some small stubborn part of him had kept him from doing so, had insisted that though the fault was his own, it was her responsibility to solve the problem. If she really loved him, she would understand and forgive him, she would put up with anything he did and be grateful. She was already meeting him more than halfway, but he thought she should have gone all the way, and their problems had escalated from there. Divorce had been the ultimate outcome, and though it was not something he had wanted, he had been unwilling to avoid it.
Miles glanced over. His father was still looking at him.
He sighed. 'Dad, it's been a long day. Let's just drop it, okay?'
Bob held up his hands in disingenuous innocence. 'Okay. Fine.'
They pulled into the driveway, and Miles parked the car, pulled the emergency brake. Bob picked up his stack of books before getting out, and once again Miles' gaze was drawn to the volumes.
Witchcraft and Satanism in Early America.
He picked up his own materials and followed his father into the house.
Instead of camping out on the couch as he usually did
and falling asleep to the sounds of sitcoms, Bob retired to his room, bidding his son good night and closing and locking the door.
The Prophecies of Nostradamus.
Miles still felt uneasy, and though he got himself a beer and sat on the couch for a couple of hours, trying to sort through the information he'd gathered, he could not really concentrate, and he gave it up early, going to bed well before his usual time of eleven o'clock.
But he couldn't sleep.
After tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, he got up, turned on the small television on his dresser, watched part of an exercise infomercial, then turned it off and walked over to the window, staring out through the crack in the curtains at the cloud-shrouded winter moon.
He thought about Claire, wondered if she was sleeping right now.
Wondered who she was sleeping with.
He glanced back at the empty bed. It had been a long time since he'd had sex. And he missed it. He tried to recall what Claire looked like naked, tried to bring to mind the specifics of her form, but time had blurred her body into the generic. Hell, he could not even recall any details about Mary. He remembered places and positions, but the sensual knowledge ordinarily borne of intimacy was not there.
Perversely, he could see clearly in his mind the nude form of Cherise, a one-night stand from three years ago.
Sighing, he walked back over to the bed. He masturbated joylessly, perfunctorily, and finally fell asleep thinking of tidal waves and witches and dreams that predicted the end of the world.
Miles felt tired the next morning when he went to work, and it was noticeable enough that Hal commented on it when they met in the elevator.
'Looks like you just came back from a long night at the prison orgy.'
Miles smiled wryly. ''l'hanks.'
'1'o quote the great Dionne Warwick, that's what friends are for.'
'You have food in your beard,' Miles told him.
The burly detective quickly ran his fingers through his thick facial hair. 'Gone?' , .
Miles grinned. 'I lied.'
'Jackass.'
The doors opened on their floor, and Hal stepped out of the elevator first. He waved to Naomi at the front desk. 'Honeybunch! How are you this beautiful morning?'
The receptionist was on the phone, and she frowned at him as she put her caller on hold. She put down the handset and looked from Hal to Miles. 'I know it's foolish to ask, but did either of you read the memo yesterday?' 'What memo?' they said in unison.
Hal looked at Miles, chuckled. 'Great minds think alike.' Naomi smiled tolerantly. 'fflae memo that was placed in your boxes, the memo stating that the phones will be out of service this morning. They're rewiring for the computers and putting in new fiber-optic lines. They should be finished around eleven or twelve, but until then everything has to go through me. My line and the pay phone are the only two in service.'
'Guess I didn't read that one,' Miles admitted.
Hal shook his head. 'Great. I have about a gazillion calls to make.'
'Better break out those quarters,' the receptionist said sweetly 'I can't tie up my line.' 'Thanks.' Hal lumbered off toward his cubicle.
Naomi picked up the handset. 'Oh,' she said to Miles, almost as an afterthought. 'You have a client. She's been waiting about ten minutes. Said Phillip Emmons recommended you.'
Miles nodded in thanks as she pressed a button on the phone and began talking once again. He strode down the wide central aisle toward his workstation. Phillip Emmons.
Old Phil could always be counted on to throw some work his way. It had been awhile since he'd seen his friend, and he promised himself that he'd give Phil a call later in the week and the two of them would get together.
The woman waiting in the client's chair of his cubicle sat perfectly still, staring out the windows of the office at the Hollywood hills. A pretty brunette; wearing a tight blouse with no bra and a short trendy skirt, she saw him coming and stood at his approach, extending a hand.
Raymond Chandler time.
'My name's Marina Lewis.' He shook her hand. 'Miles Huerdeen.' The first thing he noticed was a wedding ring, and his hopes, faint as they were, faded. He smiled, motioned for her to sit. 'What can
I do for you, Ms. Lewis?'
'Call me Marina.'
'Marina.' '
She waited for him to Settle in behind his desk, then took a deep breath. 'Phillip Emmons recommended you. I mentioned to him that I was looking for someone that I needed some help...'
'What's the problem?' Miles said gently.
She cleared her throat. 'My father is being stalked, but the police refuse to do anything about it.'
Miles nodded calmly, professionally, but inside he was
revved up. Finally a real case. In pulp fiction terms: a gorgeous dame and a targeted old man. What more could he ask for? 'Who's after your father?' Miles asked.
'We don't know. That's what we want you to find out.' 'How do you know he's being stalked?'
'We weren't, at first. I mean, there were little clues. He'd come home and the back door would be unlocked, though he was sure that he had locked it. Stuff like that. Things that could have been imagination or coincidence. But last week, right before we came out here to visit him, he got a phone call from a woman who said he was marked for death. She described the inside of his house perfectly, like she'd been there, and said she was going to kill him in his sleep.
And then, a few days later, she called again and started saying weird stuff about things that no one would
