“Hi, honey,” he says.
She pauses a moment, then says, “You stopped disguising your voice!”
“Do you like my real voice?”
“Yes! Thank you! But it’s been a year. Why now?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not so much.”
“I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Maybe pauses a minute to process this revelation. Then says, “I’ve been bad, Daddy.”
“Tell me.”
“I kissed a boy.”
The man on the other end of the phone pauses.
She adds, “I kissed a boy and I liked it.”
Maybe smiles, knowing he understands what she’s really done.
The man says, “Where is he now?”
“His place.”
“Did you leave any evidence?”
“Of course not, Daddy.”
“How did you meet him?”
“In the parking lot outside a sports bar.”
“Any cameras?”
“No.”
“How’d you get to his place?”
“I drove.”
“Where’d you leave your car?”
“I drove to a shopping center two miles from his house. Then I got my bike out of the trunk, attached the front tire to it, and rode it to his place. When I got close, I called and told him to open his garage door. When he did, I rode right in. Then he closed the door. You’ll be so proud of me!”
“Tell me why.”
“I wore a ball cap and put my hair in a pony tail. Put an extra shirt in my bike pack. Didn’t eat anything, or drink anything, and didn’t even go inside the house.”
“Did you let him touch you?”
“Just my boobs. He pushed me back against his car and started messing around and when he started trying to pull my pants down I reached in the back pocket, took the syringe, and stuck him.”
“And you pushed the poison into him?”
“Yup. At first his head went straight up, and his chin looked like it was going to hit the ceiling! He knocked my hand off the syringe, but the poison was already in him. He couldn’t reach the syringe, so I stepped out of the way and watched him dance.”
“Which way did he fall?”
Maybe frowns. “You don’t believe me.”
“Of course I do.”
She pauses, then says, “He fell forward, face first, onto his car.”
“And was he dead?”
“Not yet. His legs shook awhile, and he couldn’t get a full breath. Then he couldn’t get a half breath. Then he couldn’t get a breath at all.”
The man pauses before saying, “Did you happen to take a souvenir?”
“Of course not, Daddy! What, do you think I’m stupid?”
“You’re far from stupid, Baby.”
“Call me Maybe.”
He sighs. “I don’t like the name you’ve chosen, and I don’t like what it represents.”
“Until I decide how far I’m willing to go, I’m Maybe.”
“I understand that. But I don’t like it.”
“But you like me, don’t you, Daddy?”
“I love you.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“I love you deeply,” he says.
“I’m glad.”
“And you?”
“What?” Maybe asks.
“Do you love me?”
“No.”
He remains quiet, obviously disappointed.
Then Maybe says, “But I want to.”
She tries to imagine the expression on his face, but has nothing to go on but the sound of his voice. After a few moments he says, “How are things going with Dr. Scott?”
“I don’t want to talk about that. It’s embarrassing.”
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
“You already know. You’re the one who’s paying him to see me. You probably get updates after each visit.”
“It’s not the same as asking you about it.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
He pauses again. “I understand. So. Are you ready for a real assignment?”
Maybe’s face lights up. “Yes! Absolutely!”
“I want you to…kiss…a college professor. Can you do that?”
“Of course, Daddy.”
5.
Present Day… Donovan Creed.
“When you say she lost her head,” Callie says, “what do you mean?”
I shrug. “The top and sides of her head exploded.”
“Where was the bomb? In her mouth?”
“Inside her head.”
“What?”
“It had to be a very small explosive, either on top of her head, or inside her skull. Hard as it is to imagine, I think it was inside.”
“Like your brain chip?”
“Except that it explodes instead of heating up,” I say.
“Lucky’s company?”
“It’s possible.”
Jim “Lucky” Peters, the famous Vegas gambler, was murdered one week ago. As it happens, Callie’s lover, Eva LeSage, was murdered at the same time. Callie’s current love interest, Gwen, is Lucky’s widow.
Small world, right?
Twenty feet from us, in Callie’s kitchen, Gwen’s eating a bowl of Lucky Charms, oblivious to the irony. She’s wearing boxer shorts and a scarlet UNLV t-shirt with gray lettering.
Gwen isn’t Callie hot, but you could fry an egg on any part of her.
Callie sees me staring at her girlfriend.
“Down, boy,” she says.
