Hendricks looked at me. “I might do that, sir.”
I searched for Robin.
Minette said, “Your lady friend went to the little girls’ room. She said the victim called her a slut.”
“He did.”
“That must’ve been irritating.”
“He was drunk,” I said. “I didn’t take him seriously.”
“Still,” she said. “That’s pretty annoying.”
“It wasn’t until he tried to hit me that I was forced to act.”
“Loser insults your date like that, some guys would have reacted stronger.”
“I’m a man of discretion.”
She smiled. Her partner didn’t join in.
She said, “I think we’re finished here, John.”
As Robin and I walked through the restaurant, someone whispered, “That’s the guy.”
Once we got outside, I exhaled. My ribs hurt. Hauser hadn’t touched me; I’d been holding in air for a long time. “What a disaster.”
Robin slipped her arm around my waist.
“You need to know,” I said, “that this was a civil case, nothing to do with police work.” I told her about the harassment charges against Hauser, my interview of his victims, the report I’d written.
“Why do I need to know?” she said.
“The way you feel about the ugly stuff. This was out of the blue, Robin.”
We headed for the Seville and I scanned the lot for the brown Audi.
There it was, parked six slots south. The red letters on the bumper sticker said,
I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Wasn’t surprised when we reached the Seville and both of my rear tires were flat. No slash marks; the valves had been opened.
Robin said, “That’s pathetic.”
“I’ve got a pump in the trunk.”
Part of the emergency kit Milo and Rick had gotten me last Christmas. Tire changing kit, flares, orange Day-Glo road markers, blankets, bottled water.
Rick taking me aside and confiding, “I’d have picked a nice sweater, but an
Milo’s voice bellowing from the corner of their living room: “Haberdashery don’t cut it when you’re stranded out on some isolated road with no lights and wolves and God knows what other toothy carnivores are aiming their beady little predator eyes at your anatomy, just waiting to- ”
“Then why didn’t we get him a gun, Milo?”
“Next year. Some day you’ll thank me, Alex. You’re welcome in advance.”
I hooked up the pump and got to work.
When I was finished, Robin said, “The way you handled it- just enough to defuse the situation and no one got hurt. Classy.”
She took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.
We found a deli on Washington Boulevard, bought more takeout than we needed, drove back to Beverly Glen.
Robin walked into the house as if she lived there, entered the kitchen and set the table. We made it halfway through the food.
When she got out of bed, the movement woke me. Sweaty nap but my eyes were dry.
Through half-closed lids, I watched her slip on my ratty yellow robe and pad around the bedroom. Touching the tops of chairs and tables. Pausing by the dresser. Righting a framed print.
At the window, she drew back one side of the silk curtains she’d designed. She put her face against the glass, peered out at the foothills.
I said, “Pretty night.”
“The view,” she said without turning. “Still unobstructed.”
“Looks like it’s going to stay that way. Bob had his lower acre surveyed and it’s definitely unfit for construction.”
“Bob the Neighbor,” she said. “How’s he doing?”
“When he’s in town, he seems well.”
“Second home in Tahiti,” she said.
“Main home in Tahiti. Nothing like inherited wealth.”
“That’s good news- about the view. I was hoping for that when I oriented the room that way.” She let the curtain drop. Smoothed the pleats. “I did a decent job with this place. Like living here?”
“Not as much as I used to.”
She cinched the robe tighter, half faced me. Her hair was wild, her lips slightly swollen. Faraway eyes.
“I thought it might be strange,” she said. “Coming back. It’s less strange than I would’ve predicted.”
“It’s your place, too,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“I mean it.”
She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed, played with the edges of the comforter. “You haven’t thought that through.”
I hadn’t. “Sure I have. Many a long night.”
She shrugged.
“The place echoes, Robin.”
“It always did. We were aiming for great acoustics.”
“It can be musical,” I said. “Or not.”
She pulled at the comforter, squared the seam with the edge of the mattress. “You do all right by yourself.”
“Says who?”
“You’ve always been self-contained.”
“Like hell.” My voice was harsh.
She looked up at me.
I said, “Come back. Keep the studio if you need privacy, but live here.”
She tugged at the comforter some more. Her mouth twisted into a shape I couldn’t read. Loosening the robe, she let it fall to the floor, reconsidered, picked it up, folded it neatly over a chair. The organized mind of someone who works with power tools.
Fluffing her hair, she got back in bed.
“No pressure, just think about it,” I said.
“It’s a lot to digest.”
“You’re a tough kid.”
“Like hell.” Pressing her flank to mine, she laced her fingers and placed them over her belly.
I drew the covers over us.
“That’s better, thanks,” she said.
Neither of us moved.
