“Sorry,” I repeated. “I think they thought I was like their mascot or something. The Girl Mechanic.” He was good-looking, in a tall, blond, broad-shouldered, Thor-like way. If you like that type. Which I did. And we obviously already knew we had cars in common. It was too bad he’d set out to dislike me. “Is anybody else around?”
“They went for coffee.”
“You don’t like coffee?”
“I don’t like crowds.”
He was a real charmer. Kind of like a pit viper. “Right,” I said. “And two’s a crowd. I’ll just get out of your hair.” His long, thick, blond, wavy hair. I needed another cold shower. I glanced at the car he was working on as I went by, and cleared my throat. “That’s Mark Rodriguez’s car. Check the axle alignment. I never saw anybody yank more wheels out of whack than Rodriguez.” What the hell, Thor was determined to dislike me anyway. He and Morrison could have a nice bitchfest about me someday. “Brakes probably need work, too. He’s got a lead foot for braking.”
Thor gave me a look over the top of the car. “He brought it down for brake work,” he admitted. I felt just a little smug. “Hang on,” he said. I looked back over my shoulder. He took a hand off his tire iron and spread his fingers at the car. “Aren’t you gonna show me your stuff?”
“Never on the first date, mister.” Pleased with myself, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and went out whistling.
It was probably inevitable that Morrison was at the street corner. He opened his mouth and I held up a hand. “Go talk to your boy Thor in the garage,” I said. “He doesn’t like me either.” I stepped around him and got far enough down the street that I thought I was actually going to get away with it before he caught up with me.
“I’m addicted to the doughnuts, Morrison,” I interjected into his next indrawn breath. “Can’t help myself, there’s just nowhere else in the city that makes them quite like The Missing O. Swear to God, that’s all I’m here for. A nice apple fritter.” Maybe I could keep this up and just not let him get a word in edgewise. It sounded like a good plan to me.
“I’ll buy you one,” he offered with a tight smile. I crinkled up my face. Not only had my nefarious plan not worked, but apple fritters were filling and I’d already eaten one.
On the other hand, I couldn’t pass up the opportu nity for Morrison to spend money on me, even if it was only a dollar twenty-nine. “You talked me into it. Be careful, though. People will talk.” Bruce was right. I was in a good mood. If I closed my eyes and concentrated a little, I could feel the city’s people, millions of lives wrapped up in their own quick paces. I could affect them if I chose to.
I could also walk right out into traffic. Morrison’s big hand closed on my shoulder and hauled me back from the curb. My eyes snapped open and I stared up at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” we both barked, and then neither of us would give in to the little surge of laughter the doubly demanded question deserved.
“I’ve known geniuses who couldn’t be trusted to keep their heads from the clouds long enough to cross a street, Walker. Are you gonna turn into one of those?”
“Why, Morrison.” I grinned after all. “Are you saying you think I’m a genius?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He let go of my shoulder and crossed the street. I followed, trying not to give in to the urge to do a little jig. Even if I did get killed, I’d gotten the better of Morrison three or four times inside of a day. It seemed like a pretty good legacy, just then.
The Missing O was incredibly busy, the whole neighborhood stopping by for their morning cuppa joe. The garage crew was there, so I made Morrison stand in line while I said hello and collected hugs. They departed en masse when Morrison returned with not only an apple fritter, but a hot chocolate for me, too. “Why are you being nice to me?” I asked suspiciously. I took a bite of the fritter, though. It seemed unlikely that he’d gotten the barrista to poison it.
“I didn’t want to deal with the paperwork I’d have had to fill out if you’d walked into traffic.” He sat down. “Sit.”
I sat. He’d just bought me breakfast, after all. “Glad to know you’re only being self-serving. For a second there I thought you might be concerned. What do you want, Morrison?”
“People walking out into traffic does concern me. What do you want?”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Love, justice and world peace. But I’ll settle for solving a murder.”
“You’re sus-”
“Suspended. Yes. We’ve been over that. What’s your point?”
“I could fire you for insubordination.”
“Fine. Fire me. I’ll go get Henrietta Potter to hire me as a private investigator.” That wasn’t a bad idea, now that I thought of it.
Morrison set his coffee cup down and held up a thick finger. “One,” he said, “you don’t have a P.I. license. Two.” He held up another finger. “You don’t know much about investigating anyway. Three, this is personal for you. Personal gets in the way of impartiality. And four, you irritate me.”
I held up four of my own fingers, then folded them down and closed my thumb over them, jabbing at my own jaw. “And five, on general principles?” I asked. Morrison picked up his coffee again, almost smiling.
“Don’t tempt me. What were you doing at the station?”
“Why do I bug you so much?” This was probably not the time to get into it, but I was suddenly incredibly curious. Morrison arched his eyebrows. “No, really,” I said. “I mean, I know we got off to a bad start, although I still can’t believe you didn’t know a Mustang from a Corvette-”
“I was never into cars.”
“Obviously. What were you in to?”
Morrison stared at me over the edge of his coffee cup, then put it back down. “Being a cop.”
“What, when you were like nine? Fifteen? You wanted to be a cop, not to drive fast cars and pick up girls?” I took an incredulous bite of the apple fritter.
“Yeah. I never wanted to be anything but a cop. And that, Walker, is why you irritate me.” Morrison looked like he was at war with his own body language, trying to force himself to relax back into his seat while the intense low pitch of his voice drove him to lean forward, speaking to me sharply.
“You fell into a job I spent my whole life working for. You irritate me because I think being a police officer is a calling and a solemn occupation and you’re carrying a badge without it meaning a damned thing to you. You hang out with my officers in your off time, being just that damned cool, an attractive woman who talks cars and drinks beer and arm wrestles. None of them give a damn that you were in the top third of your class at the academy and that you’re wasting your skills in Motor Pool playing with engines. But it bugs the hell out of me. That is why you irritate me.”
I gawped at him. Morrison exhaled loudly and looked away. “What were you doing at the station?”
Thank God he’d said something else. I might’ve gawked at him the rest of the day, unable to speak. Attractive? Morrison thought I was attractive? Morrison knew where I’d graduated in my class? Christ, I usually played that down. He had to have looked it up.
Morrison thought I wasn’t, for God’s sake, living up to my potential?
I swallowed the impulse to apologize for disappointing him. “How do you know I was at the station?” It was a stupid question, but it was marginally better than apologizing.
Morrison just looked at me. I shrugged, took a sip of my hot chocolate, and nearly choked. It was mint- flavored and topped with whipped cream, the way I like it. It didn’t go at all well with apple fritters, but to the best of my recollection, I’d never once ordered hot chocolate with mint while Morrison was around. I stared at the cup, then stared at Morrison, while he looked almost perfectly bland. I bit down on rabid curiosity and refused to ask, taking another sip of chocolate instead, just like he hadn’t completely out-maneuvered me. Twice.
“I was seeing if anyone had filed a missing persons report,” I said when I put the cup down. I couldn’t think of anything to tell him but the truth. Besides, Jackson had told me I wasn’t a very good liar. If a dead man could see through my lies, there was no way I could fool Morrison. “I don’t think anything’s going to come of it, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Who’s missing?”
“A kid. A girl. Maybe. I mean.” I closed my eyes. Here I went again. “She might be missing, if she’s… real.”
When I opened my eyes Morrison was looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “You think someone who might not be real is missing,” he said in disbelief. I cringed.
