look at Tinker Bell Jr.
If ever a kitten was destined to be gay, it was Tinker Bell Jr. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that.
Footsteps echoed along the tiled entryway, and Cat Peterson appeared in the doorway. She was smiling, shaking her head.
“How did you know her cat ran away?” she asked me, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. There was a hint of a smile on her face.
“Might be better if you didn’t know.”
She nodded, suddenly somber. “I see.”
I was motionless; she wasn’t looking at me. Suddenly, and with surprising speed, she threw herself into my arms and thanked me over and over again for finding her daughter’s killer. She didn’t let go and I let her hold me and cry on me, and we stood like that for a long, long time.
64.
It was a rare spring storm.
Cindy and I were sitting together on my sofa, my arm around her shoulders, looking out through my open patio doors. The rain was coming down steadily and hard, drumming on my glass patio table. In the distance, above the rooftop of the restaurants, the sky was slate gray, low and ominous.
“You like this kind of weather,” said Cindy.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s different. Don’t you ever get tired of the never-ending sunny days?”
“No.”
“Don’t you ever think that it’s nice for the land to replenish itself?”
“Only when you bring it up.”
“Wanna walk in the rain?” I asked.
“I thought your leg hurt in this kind of weather.”
“It does.”
“But it’s nothing like the hurt you’ve been putting it through these past few weeks,” she said.
“I was blinded to the pain,” I said, “pursuing an old dream.”
“You’re not blinded now?”
“No,” I said. “The blinders are off. And now my leg just hurts like hell.”
“What about your dream?”
“The dream was there for the taking. I didn’t take it.”
“Why?”
“People change. Dreams change. Life goes on. If I really wanted it, I would pursue it.”
“So you don’t really want it? Is that because of me? God, I feel horrible.”
“Not because of you. When I was twenty-two, I wanted to prove I could play in the NFL. I wanted to prove I was tough enough. I had no other goals in life, no other conceivable ambition. Then, suddenly, I was forced to rethink and refocus my life, and I discovered that I could live without playing football.”
“But you’ve always been…bitter towards being a detective. Because it was something your father did. It was something that caused him not to be in your life when you were growing up.”
“Father runs a big agency. I am determined never to be that big. But you’re right, I was bitter towards my job. It was not my first choice. But then something happened.”
“You discovered you were good at detecting,” she said. “Damn good.”
“Yes.”
“What about proving yourself in the NFL?”
“Maybe some things are better left unproven.”
“But you think you could have made it?”
“In a heartbeat.” I said. “Wanna go for that walk?”
“Okay.”
I knew she didn’t want to get wet, but she did it for me. We got our coats on. I grabbed an umbrella for her. I didn’t mind getting wet.
Outside, in the rain, we moved slowly along Main Street. The shops and stores were all open, and a trickle of tourists, looking confused at this unprecedented Southern California weather, moved past us. I heard one of them say: “We can get rain at home.”
“Can’t please everyone,” I said to Cindy.
“No.”
“Want some chocolate?” I asked.
“Mmm, sounds yummy.”
We ducked into The Chocolatiers. A massive peanut butter cup for me and a sugar-free almond rocca for Cindy.
“Sugar-free?” I asked, when we stepped outside again.
“You can’t taste the difference.”
“Sure.”
“Plus it’s half the calories.”
We sat down on a bench under an awning and ate our chocolate and watched the rain.
“How’s Derrick doing?” asked Cindy.
“His family is moving east. Hard to have a normal life after being accused of murder. Kid will be looked at differently, no matter how innocent he is. UCLA is interested in giving him a scholarship.”
“Did you have anything to do with that?”
“I happen to know a few people there.”
“So your work here is done?”
I looked away, inhaling deeply.
She reached out and placed her hand on top of mine. It was warm and comforting.
“You’re thinking of your mother,” she said.
I kept looking away. “Her killer is still out there.”
The rain continued to fall. She continued holding my hand. She squeezed it.
“You’re going to find him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know what I will do to him when I find him.”
“Does that worry you?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then it doesn’t worry me.”
65.
Jack was drinking a non-steaming cup of coffee. I was drinking a bubbling Coke. The dining room was empty. A very large teenage boy was filling some straw containers behind the counter. Minutes before closing.
I was toying with the scrap of folded paper.
“One thing I don’t get,” I said, turning the paper over in my fingers, “is why you always blow on your coffee. I mean, couldn’t you just snap your fingers and it would be instantly cool? Or, a better question: how is it even possible that God could burn his lips?”
“That’s more than one thing,” said Jack.
