dropped her bra on the floor. It was dark, but she was back-lit by a faint nimbus of moonlight shining through the window, and I could see her silhouette: slender, high-breasted, her metal navel pierce shimmering when she turned toward me. After she slipped her arms around my back and kissed me again, I guided her down to the bed, but she resisted.
“I want you to do something for me,” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Hurt me.”
I took a step back. “I’m not into that.”
“No big thing.”
“It is to me.”
She ran her finger down my chest. “I want you to.”
“No.”
She reached back and slapped me across the face.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted.
“I told you what I want.”
I shook my head.
Then she slapped me again, so hard that blood began to bead at the corner of my mouth.
My face burned. I grabbed her shoulder so hard that she fell to her knees. Her eyes were shiny with a wild look of abandon and defiance. She leaned over, licked the blood off my lips, and kissed me, probing deeply with her tongue.
I pinned her wrists to the corners and held her legs down with my knees.
“I want you to-”
“Shut the fuck up.”
She wriggled her legs free and wrapped them around my waist. As she pulled me toward her, I could see the reddish outline of my palm print on her shoulder.
The bedspread and sheets were twisted on the floor. The mattress was half off the box springs. She wiped my brow with her fingertips, daubed the moisture on her lips and kissed me. “I like that voodoo that you do,” she said, crawling out of bed and dressing.
“What’s going on?”
“Having some work done at the gallery early tomorrow morning. Got to get back.”
I wearily climbed to my feet, feeling hungover, dressed, and drove her home. She rested her head on my shoulder and dozed. At her door she kissed me and said, “I had a swell time.”
“So did I. But what’s up with this?” I said, swatting the air.
“You’re a little numb for my taste.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I do.”
“If that’s what you need.”
She shut the door and called out as I walked to my car, “Maybe it’s what you need.”
CHAPTER 17
I drove home thinking about the night. I didn’t know if it was the violence or the intensity, but Nicole had tapped into some part me that drew me to her. I didn’t know why, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I just knew I wanted to see her again.
When I was at my desk in the squad room, I called her and left my home, work, and cell numbers on her answering machine. As I hung up, Ortiz pulled a chair over and sat down. “Let me lay out the facts as I see them.” He pointed to his watch and said, “You’re ninety minutes late for work. I called you three times last night, and you didn’t answer your phone. And when I check out your demeanor and body language right now, I notice that you’re not wound as tight as usual. Now I’m a detective. So putting all these leads together I come to one conclusion: You ignored my advice, went out with that broad last night, and nailed her. Am I right?”
“Let’s go downstairs,” I said.
As we stood outside PAB, sipping our coffee, Ortiz extended an arm toward me, wiggled his fingers, and said, “Give it up.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
“I hope this doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass.”
“Why shouldn’t I go out with her? All she did was give me a little background info. She’s not a witness. She’s not a suspect. Big fucking deal.”
“I.A. might not look at it like that. So just keep this thing on the Q.T.”
“You’re the only one who knows.”
“Who’d you say put you on to her?”
“Papazian in art theft.”
“That geek? Then she must be a real firecracker,” Ortiz said sarcastically.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“You’re pathetic,” Ortiz said. “You’re so desperate, you’ve got Papazian pimping for you.”
“She’s just some art expert he met on a case. He figured she could help me.”
“She helped you all right,” he said, leering at me. “You know, homes, this whole deal doesn’t sound like you. Pumping some broad you just met on a case.”
“She’s different.”
“Famous last words,” Ortiz said.
I tossed the rest of my coffee on the grass and walked back to the elevator.
I headed out to South Central and cruised down the street where Fuqua’s sister lived, a working-class neighborhood of tidy homes and freshly cut lawns a few blocks east of Crenshaw. I hoped he’d show up for her birthday. There was an empty lot about thirty feet from the sister’s house with an 18-wheeler parked in front. I parked behind the truck, which gave me a clear view of the sister’s front door, but my car was obscured enough so I could take Fuqua by surprise. Setting my binoculars next to me, I rolled the window halfway down and waited.
The afternoon was warm and sunny, blue overhead, the horizons the color of burnt butter. I could see a few fleecy clouds hovering above the Hollywood Hills. I loosened my tie, pulled the six-pack out of my murder book, and fanned myself.
When my cell phone rang, I made the mistake of not checking Caller ID.
“No visits, no phone calls, no nothing,” my mother said. “How am I supposed to plan for Shabes dinner?”
“Sorry, Mom. But I just located a suspect. Been very busy.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“You coming for Shabes?”
“I’m tied up with a case.”
“And you consider that a good excuse?” she snapped.
“Look Mom, I’m parked on a South Central side street, on a stakeout. I can’t talk.”
“How long have you been there? Have you eaten? Do you want me to bring you something to eat?”
“I’m trying to keep a low profile here.”
“I could just drive by, slow down, and hand you a sandwich.”
I massaged my temples with my thumbs. “No.”
“So how was your date?” she asked coldly.
“What date?”
“The date with that Syrian person.”
“Lebanese.”
“Does it matter? So how was it?”
