Don liked to cook, but he was a health nut and it always involved sprouts and tofu. Soy somehow lacked the homey feel of a five-course turkey dinner, or even pancakes and sausage.
I put the rest of the pizza in the fridge, then hit the bedroom to clean up my blood.
I needed both cans of cleaner and another drink to get the stains out. It helped that the carpet was brown. When I finished, I had to throw away the rags I'd used, and I made liberal use of some Lysol to kill the gamy smell.
With no more tasks to complete, I sat down at my dinette set, and looked through the Lunch Mates data sheets that Matthew had given me.
The first was a redhead. Forty-two. An accountant. Five feet ten, 170 pounds, green eyes. He was looking for a woman with a sense of humor who liked to take chances. His name was Latham.
The second had brown hair. Forty-six. A managing director for a steel production company. Five eight, 165, glasses, and a very cute face. He was looking for a woman with a lot of money. I filed his data sheet in the garbage.
The third was forty, but he looked too much like my ex-husband, so I filed him as well. This was like catalog shopping.
I scanned through the others, coming up with several possibles, rejecting others mostly based on their jobs and their appearance. Beggars shouldn't be choosers, but I was paying so much, I didn't consider it begging anymore.
After compiling my list of six, I whipped out the cellular and gave my Lunch Mates agent a call.
'Thanks for calling, Jack. I've been trying to reach you, but the line's always busy.'
'Hollywood agents, trying to get me to sell the story of my life.'
Matthew laughed his musical laugh. 'You've had a chance to look through the data sheets?'
'Yes. I had some time off this afternoon after my skydiving lesson got canceled.'
'What did you think of Latham Conger?'
He was the redhead who liked to take chances.
'I had him picked out, yes.'
'I faxed him your data sheet, and he'd love to meet you. Shall we make a lunch date?'
'Sure. Tomorrow?'
'Let me check his schedule...yes, he is free tomorrow, at one. Do you like Chinese food?'
'That's fine.'
'How about Jimmy Wong's then? On Wabash? One o'clock tomorrow.'
'Great.'
'I'll call Latham, tell him the good news. If for some reason you can't make it, call me here as soon as possible. Have fun tomorrow!'
He hung up. That was the easiest date I'd ever planned. I hadn't even needed to show a little leg.
I read Latham's data sheet again, and then once more. The whiskey was working its magic, and once again I felt the drowsies sneak up on me. While that would normally be a cause for celebration, it was scarcely six o'clock. Falling asleep now meant I'd be up again around midnight.
The drowsies won out. I shed my clothes and crawled into bed, letting exhaustion take over.
I woke up a little past eleven.
Five hours was as long a rest as I'd had in recent memory, but there was no way I'd sleep any longer than that. I peeled myself out of bed, changed my bandage, and spent the rest of the night watching program-length commercials.
I spent some money. Late-night advertisers knew that exhaustion zapped willpower. Five hours later I'd bought a buckwheat husk pillow, guaranteed to provide me with a good night's sleep; an Ab Cruncher, guaranteed to transform my abs into a six-pack in only five minutes a day; and a set of nonstick cookware, guaranteed to turn even the most inept chef into a world-class gourmet. Because I ordered early, I got a free cookbook and a bonus spatula worth $19.95.
I managed, through sheer force of will, not to call any psychic hotlines.
By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, my Visa was maxed and I felt like an idiot. It wouldn't be the first time. Over the years I've amassed enough mail order junk to open up my own business. Those tricky niche marketers. There should be a law against television broadcasts after two in the morning.
I wrapped my leg in plastic and took a shower, deciding my morning workout would have to wait a while until I healed. Or until my Ab Cruncher came in four to six weeks. I dressed in old jeans and a polo shirt because my good clothes were all still at the cleaners, and then headed for work.
During the drive I thought about the case, and the two dead women, and the Gingerbread Man. And then I did something I hadn't ever done on a case. I made myself a promise.
'No one else dies,' I said aloud in the car. 'I'm going to catch you, and you won't get anyone else.'
Even if I go down in the process.
Chapter 28
HE'S FURIOUS.
He paces back and forth in his basement, holding the rag to his bleeding face, stopping to give the body a kick.
