“Did she say how?”
Piqued, she put her hands on her hips. “Which of us is more likely to spot Allie if she’s wearing a disguise of some kind, you or me?”
“Who said anything about a disguise?”
“Who says she looks like she does in that picture? We don’t know why she’s here or what she’s doing. Or if she even was here.”
Good points all. Guess I was still tired. And distracted.
“Jeri sent you?” I said.
“Yeah. She said go—if I wanted to drive this far, that is.”
I would have to have a talk with Jeri sometime soon, get this sorted out, but she hadn’t sounded the least bit upset by what had happened the other night, which made me think that discussion was going to be pretty interesting.
I turned onto my side. “Hit the shower, kiddo. I’m done.”
I heard a zipper go down, heard clothing rustle, footsteps went padding around the room, then I heard teeth being brushed, then the shower came on and the curtain rattled as she pulled it across the bar, and that’s the last thing I heard.
By the time she came to bed, I was out cold. For all I know, she broad-jumped in from across the room.
Morning, of course, brought a whole new set of problems. First up was that the chair was six feet from the bed, my towel and all my clothes were on or around it, and my arms wouldn’t reach—none of which would have been a problem except that Holiday-Sarah was awake and lying on her side, looking at me.
“Morning,” she said.
I yawned. “Same to you.”
She smiled. “Very cool. I like that.”
I checked the bedside clock: 8:25 a.m. I propped myself up on my elbows. “Up and at ’em, girl. We’re burning daylight.”
She sat up, legs crossed. The blanket pooled around her waist, which created the next problem, as if I needed another one. It didn’t help when she got out of bed and walked over to the chair, rummaged around for a moment, located her panties, stepped into them, and wiggled a little as she pulled them up.
She frowned at me, still in bed. “You said we were burning daylight.”
“On second thought, why rush into things?”
“Why not? I thought you wanted to . . . oh.” She smiled. “Well, you know, Mort . . .”
“How ’bout you get dressed and go next door, order me some coffee, black, no sugar. I’ll be along in a minute or two.”
“Got a bit of a morning issue there?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“For the record, I didn’t touch you or anything. And I wouldn’t, either. We’re okay here.”
In nothing but panties she was a stunning sight—like Jeri and Kayla and my ex-wife, Dallas, two months ago—each in their own way. I was impressed by how much my life had changed once I shoved the IRS job and joined the human race. Private investigative work is so underrated.
“Not sure about the dress code this far north,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure people around here wear more than that.”
She smiled. “Hold your horses. I’m gettin’ there.” She pulled on her jeans, put on her top, shoes, fluffed her hair, and gave me one last look before opening the door. “Don’t be long.”
She went outside.
I got up, got dressed, got the hell out of there.
“Did you sleep with her, Mort?”
“Literally, yes. Figuratively, no.”
I was at a table in the restaurant, sitting across from Sarah. She was studying the menu. I had the phone to my ear. It was twenty minutes before noon in Atlantic City.
Six seconds of silence went by while Jeri deciphered what I’d said. Then: “Well, okay, then. But, Mort . . . ?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t own you, you know.”
Uh-oh. Here comes a curveball. I can’t hit curveballs.
“No one really owns anyone,” Jeri said, and she said it with such gentle understanding that I wondered if I was talking to Jeri or a passerby to whom she’d just handed the phone.
No one owns anyone. That sounded like philosophy—not part of my skill set.
“Right,” I said.
“I mean it, Mort. I don’t own you. I don’t want to own you. I will never own you. I want to be with you as long as that works. So, if, you know, something were to happen with Sarah, then we’d have to figure out what that means.”
“Nothing happened. Nothing that matters is going to happen. I’ve seen a lot of naked women in my time, in case you’ve already forgotten Kayla. I’m immune.”
Holiday-Sarah looked up at me, then back at the menu.
“You are not immune,” Jeri said. “Not to that.”
“I’m not saying I mind the view. But it’s like being in a candy store when you don’t need a sugar rush.”
Jeri laughed. Actually laughed. I’d known her less than two months, so I didn’t know her like I would in another twenty years. Every time I thought I did, she would surprise me. I was trying my damnedest to keep this on the up and up, and she was laughing.
“So you slept with her,” she said. “Literally.”
“Yup. Snoring and drooling. Like that.”
“So what was this? An update?”
“Update. Full disclosure. I didn’t want to keep anything from you, you know, in case it was something you’d want to know.”
“If the sleeping were to turn figurative, I’d want to know that. Otherwise, I have the feeling that when I get back you’ll be ready to rock and roll.”
“Christ, yes.”
“Good. Me, too. I don’t see a problem here.”
“Jeri?”
“What?”
“You are some kind of amazing woman, woman.”
“Hold that thought. I’ll be back in Reno Sunday night at nine thirty, flight number 1168, Southwest.”
“I thought you were going to watch your brother compete in the Pan American Judo Championships.”
“I was. But you found part of a presidential candidate. I think that takes precedence. And you’re famous again. Every time I see a television, there you are. We might want to get a handle on that. And I imagine Sarah’s got you going a little, so I might be
