“Same goes for me, Angie. Call me if you need to escape the press again. Or anyone else, for that matter.” He gave me a two-fingered salute as I pulled out of the lot.
Knowing the fridge was bare, I decided to do a little shopping. Glorioso’s was sparsely populated. Keeping my head down, I selected fresh vegetables, homemade Giardinieria, sausage, cheese, prepared meatballs in marinara, and wine. I managed to get outside without being recognized. In front of the market, I called Julius and asked him, “What’s your favorite cookie?”
“Glazed biscotti,” he said with no hesitation.
“I’m on my way home from Sciortino’s. I’ll drop off a bag.”
“Oh, man, that makes my night!”
I bought three loaves of Italian bread and assorted cookies, along with a dozen biscotti. At the lot, Julius opened the bag, immediately bit into one and sighed. “Divino,” he said.
***
The press blocked the driveway to the condo’s underground garage and thrust their mics at me, while their cameras and TV lights almost blinded me. I opted for a friendly smile as I rolled slowly forward, and they moved aside.
It was just after seven when I finished unloading the groceries and assembled a meatball sandwich and veggies for supper. The dining room taunted me with memories of meals shared with Wukowski, so I settled on the couch with my plate and a glass of wine, put on a Netflix episode of Doc Martin, and prepared to lose myself in the story. Unfortunately, Martin’s and Louisa’s rocky romance did little to soothe me. I decided to switch to the Science channel’s How the Universe Works. World-destroying comets and exploding stars matched my frame of mind much better. Four small chocolate butter star cookies from Sciortino’s topped off a meal of indulgence, both gastronomic and emotional. It was time for bed.
Although sleep would probably elude me anyway, I knew it would be impossible if the clean male smell of Wukowski wafted up from the sheets. I stripped off the bed linen and tossed it into the laundry room to deal with tomorrow. Later, with the bed made and the teal and gold damask jacquard comforter back where it belonged, it struck me that the room was decidedly feminine. Did Wukowski feel out of place here? How could I have overlooked that? Some shopping therapy beckoned.
The weepiness of the day was gone, for the moment. Right now, self-care and business concerns were the focus. I showered and climbed into bed, a second glass of wine and a new V.I. Warshawski novel at hand. I woke up hours later, hugging Wukowski’s pillow, with the book on the floor. Reaching over, I clicked off the light, snuggled into the pillow, and lay half-awake until the alarm sounded.
Chapter 32
The end is where we start from. — T.S. Eliot
A new client request awaited me in the office the next morning. It involved the bread-and-butter of the business. Someone was fudging the cash drawer at a local eatery, whose proceeds were down dramatically. I decided to turn Bobbie loose on it.
He rolled in at the usual time, around ten. After settling his things in the conference room, he strolled out and perched on a corner of my desk. “How ya doing?”
The concern in his voice almost overcame me, but I swallowed hard and said, “So-so. Last night was tough. But we have a potential new client”—I waved the printouts from the inquiries of the morning—“and I’d like you to handle it.”
“On my own?” His eyes opened wide in excitement.
“Yes. I think you’re ready. Get in touch with the restaurant owner and set up an interview. Then give me your written notes and we’ll talk about whether it’s a good fit for the agency.” I handed him the paper for his case.
“I’m on it, Ange. What about the Wagner case? Are we closing it?
“Not yet. I need to find out who put Hank in the crosshairs. Papa’s making some inquiries for me among his contacts, so the Wagner case is in a holding pattern right now.”
He started toward the conference room, but stopped midstride. “As for the nights, you can call me any time.”
“I know that, and I really appreciate it. Now scoot.”
I started a to-do list: find a new cleaner for my condo, schedule a haircut and pedi, sit down with Bobbie to finalize office furniture for his work area, talk to Marcy, talk to Papa, talk to Bart, talk to Spider and Bram, redecorate bedroom. On second thought, I might save that last one until the time neared for a reunion with Wukowski.
Ten minutes later, a knock at the office entry door broke my zoned-out reverie of nights spent in that bedroom. “Come in,” I called.
Two burly guys in overalls entered. “We’re here to pick up Ms. Neh’s office furniture.”
“It’s all over there.” I gestured toward Susan’s corner of the room, with its stacks of cardboard boxes, empty filing and shelving units, desk and a chair. The neither-here-nor-there nature of it depressed me. I hoped I’d feel better once the deed was done. “Be very careful with the shoji storage units. The sliding paper fronts are fragile … and expensive.”
The older man made a note on his clipboard. “Ms. Neh here?”
Susan bustled in just as he spoke. “Here I am. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem, ma’am. We’ll start by loading the big pieces.” His partner brought in a dolly, filled to the top with folded furniture pads. “Jeff, you take care of the desk, filing cabinets and chair. And be sure to cover the corners. That’s where the damage always happens. I’ll do the screened shelving units.” They set to work, wrapping everything in pads and taping them down.
After a minute of the sound of ripping tape, Susan and I repaired to the conference room. “Okay if we invade your territory, Bobbie?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “So, it’s the big day, Susan. Excited?”
“Oh, yes. And scared. And sad.” She gave me a mock glare. “I want
