I was searching through my sock drawer in a fruitless effort to find a pair of nylons without a run, when I noticed Mr. Friskers on my bed, clawing at my sheets. He wasn't tearing them, just kind of gathering them in a ball as if burying something.
'Hey, cat. What are you . . . aw, dammit.'
So much for the litter box.
I stripped the bed and went to the kitchen for some stain remover. Cat litter blanketed most of the kitchen floor, trailing into the living room. Not a bad effort for an animal without opposable thumbs.
It was coming up on six, and I hadn't even started on my hair yet. I hurried back to the bedroom, dumped some cleanser on the stain, then did a quick blow-dry.
My intercom went off. I hit the button to buzz Latham through the lobby door, squeezed into my least-runny pair of hose, and managed to tug on some two-inch heels just as the knock came.
Mirror-check. Not bad. I gave my hair a final finger-fluff and went to let Latham in.
Only it wasn't Latham after all.
Chapter 10
'Hiya, Jackie. Wow, you're all dressed up and looking girly. How'd you know I was coming?'
Harry McGlade had gained a few pounds since I'd last seen him a few months back, on my solitary visit to the set of Fatal Autonomy: Harry McGlade Meets the Gingerbread Man. He wore his usual three days' growth of beard and a wrinkled yellow suit jacket over a solid red T-shirt.
'I didn't know the Miami Vice look was back.'
Harry grinned. 'I don't have socks on, either. Aren't you going to invite me in?'
'No.'
'Come on, Jackie. You can't still be mad.'
'I'm not mad,' I lied. 'I'm getting ready for a date. Why don't you stop by sometime after Christmas? Of 2012?'
'Jackie, partner--'
'We're not partners anymore, McGlade.'
Harry spread out his hands. 'Look, I'm sorry. I thought the screen credit would make you happy.'
I'd visited a location shoot because McGlade had insisted on me meeting the director and the actor playing me. 'So they get the authenticity right,' he'd told me.
It turned out my character was there for comic relief, and so stupid she had mismatched shoes for half the film. I cringed, recalling the scene where the idiot with my name read a suspect his Fernando rights.
I crossed my arms, anger rising. 'You had me listed as a technical consultant on a movie that failed to accurately portray one single aspect of police procedure.'
'Heh, heh. Remember the Fernando rights scene? Biggest laugh in the flick.'
I tried to slam the door, but Harry shoved a foot inside.
'Jackie! Please! I really need to talk to you. It's hugely important.'
I pushed harder, leaning into it.
'It's life or death! Please! These loafers are Italian!'
If I knew Harry, and unfortunately that was the case, he'd continue bothering me until I gave in. I considered arresting him, but as much as that would amuse me, Latham would be here any minute and I didn't want to spend our date at the district house booking McGlade.
'Thirty seconds, McGlade, then you go.'
'Sixty.'
'Thirty.'
'Forty-five.'
'Twenty.'
'Fine. Thirty seconds, then I'm out of here.'
I released the door. Harry grinned.
'Thanks, Jackie. You going to let me in?'
I stood to the side, allowing him entrance. He sauntered in, trailing a fog of Brut.
'So, this is your place, huh? Kind of dumpy.'
'You have twenty-five seconds left.'
Harry stopped fingering my couch and faced me.
'Okay, I'll get to the point. I need a favor. You know a sergeant out of the one-two, name of Pierce?'
'No.'
'Well, he's--'
