Down Here

“You know you’ve already lost me, don’t you?” I said.

“I guess,” she giggled. “Don’t mind me. I get so . . . enthusiastic sometimes. I don’t show that side of me at work. They expect women to be more emotional than men. Women in my profession, they have to come across as . . . well, not cold, exactly. Objective, I guess. That’s the right word.”

“That’s why you dress the way you do? For work, I mean.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“Wrong? Nothing. It’s very, uh, tasteful. I just meant, you couldn’t walk in there in a micro-skirt and fishnet stockings and spike heels, right?”

“I don’t guess,” she said, chuckling. “Why? Do you like those kind of outfits?”

“On some girls.”

“What kind of girls?”

“Girls who can bring it off.”

“And you think I could?”

“Guaranteed.”

“You’re an angel,” she said. “But I know my flaws. It’s part of . . . objectivity. Looking at things as they really are. My legs aren’t thin enough to show off.”

“You’re nuts,” I told her. “They’re . . . flashy.”

“Stop it!”

“I especially like these,” I said, running the back of my fingernails down her thighs.

“I’m fat there,” she said, reaching over to light another cigarette.

“That’s a class thing.”

“What?”

“It’s not . . . objective,” I said, using her language. “Middle-class men have a different image of what a good- looking woman is than working-class men have. And girls pick up on that, real early. Maybe even from their parents.”

“You really think that social class determines what’s physically attractive?” she asked, sounding truly interested.

“Not a doubt in my mind,” I told her. “I’ve been all over, and it never seems to fail. Marketing plays a role, too. Women who were all the rage decades ago would be dismissed as overweight today.”

“Like who?”

“Marilyn Monroe, Bettie Page, Barbara Eden . . .”

“You’re quite the connoisseur, are you?”

“Just an observant reporter.”

“Uh-huh. And what social class do you come from?”

“My family didn’t have much money when I was small,” I told her, weaving the lie. “My dad had to work like an animal. But later he became pretty successful. Good enough to get us a nice home, send me to college. So I guess I ended up middle-class,” I said, then switched to the truth, “but my roots, my earliest experiences and conditioning, that’s what set my standards.”

“And you like what you see?”

“I’d like it even better if . . .” I said, turning her over onto her stomach.

^“I told you I was no cook,” she said the next morning, offering me a choice of half a dozen different cold cereals, none of which I’d ever heard of. “There’s plenty of juice, though.”

“We could go out,” I offered.

“If you’re not starving, could we do that later?”

“Sure.”

“What do you want to know?” she said suddenly.

“About . . . ?”

“For your book.”

“Oh. All right, just sit there, I’ll get my notebook.”

My cell phone made its sound.

“Excuse me,” I said. “This could be important.”

I pulled the phone loose, opened it up, said, “Hauser.”

“We’ve got her.” Pepper’s voice.

“Really? Can you be more specific?”

“Not alone, huh, chief?”

“Not even close.”

“The missing woman.”

“The friend of the—?”

“No. The one who went to Iowa.”

“Okay. When you say ‘got’ . . . ?”

“Address, current employment, license number . . . Nobody’s approached her. Yet. But we figured we’d go along with you on this one.”

“Why is that?”

“Mick’s from around there,” she said. “He might be able to help you with the directions.”

“Okay,” I said, not believing a word.

“When can we book it for?”

“I can’t do anything until Monday,” I told her.

“Call me tomorrow,” Pepper told me. And hung up.

“Lucky that didn’t ring last night,” Laura said, as I returned to the table in the kitchen with my notebook.

“Oh, I turned it off,” I lied. “I didn’t want anything to . . . disturb us. I turned it back on while you were in the shower, earlier.”

“That was sweet of you.”

I ducked my head, busied myself with lining up a trio of felt-tipped pens.

“Was John a typical big brother?” I asked when I looked up.

“What do you mean, typical?”

“Well, did he resent you tagging along when he went places, stuff like that?”

“I never went anyplace with him.”

“Yes, I guess that makes sense. Too much difference in your ages. Well, what about—?”

“How far apart do you think we were?” she said, tilting up her chin.

“Well, I know your brother’s age, from the court records. He was born in 1964, so he’d be almost forty now. You’re, what, thirty? Ten years, between kids, that’s a million miles.”

“I’m only four years younger than him,” she said. “I’m going to be thirty-six.”

I made a noise in my throat.

“What?” she said, quickly.

“I . . . just thought you were a lot younger. I only made it thirty, when I guessed, because I thought you might be insulted if I thought you were too young to have the kind of job you do. Oh, hell, I don’t know. I’m not exactly an expert at dealing with women.”

“You seemed to know your way around last night,” she said, smiling.

“You’re confusing skill with motivation,” I said.

She blushed prettily. Opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, as if biting off whatever she was going to say.

“All right,” I said, “let’s try it another way. Was John very protective of you?”

“Like how?”

“I don’t know. Like giving your boyfriends the third degree when they came to the house.”

“No,” she said. “He was never protective.”

“You weren’t close?”

“Not at all.”

“Each had your own lives, huh?”