kind of sellout.
I wondered why he was being so snotty. Maybe because he’d been forced to eat hotel food because of Jeff’s squeamishness?
“Nope, got the bug early, hammed it up in every school play, went to school at CAST in Minneapolis. Quit before I graduated and drifted west.”
“No legitimate theater for you, I take it.” David really was sneering. I shot him a questioning look, but he refused to meet my eye.
For an instant Montolbano stiffened then relaxed, and the lazy smile was back in place. “Nope. I knew I was prettier than I was talented. I figured I had a better chance in Hollywood.” A shrug. “I was right.”
Desperately, I shifted the conversation, bringing up the past November’s presidential election. We found common ground in approving of the new occupant in the White House, and we brushed through the rest of dinner without any further tension between the two men.
Montolbano dropped us off at the hotel. I walked up the red carpet and wondered what it would be like to walk a real red carpet—at a movie premier or the Academy Awards. David was stalking along behind me. He paused at the front desk to check for messages.
“Well, see you in the morning,” I said and turned to head for the elevators. “Do we know how we’re getting to the arbitration in the morning?”
“I assume Kobe will pick us up.”
“Look, if we’re going to be here for weeks, I’d like to have my own car. Can we rent something?” I asked.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” David said.
“Okay. Well, good night.”
He surprised me by saying, “Let me walk you to your room.” Vampires were all about the old-world courtesy, but this was a bit extreme. Something was up. I decided to try for a joke.
“I don’t think I’m going to get mugged in the Beverly Hills Hotel, but thanks.”
We rode the elevator in silence. Even with the nap I was pretty tired, and looking forward to sinking into the pillow-top mattress. At the door to my room I swiped the key card and, trying to forestall whatever was going on, said, “Good night.”
“I want to talk to you privately.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that. What’s going on?”
“Not in a public hallway, if you please.”
We went into the room and I was horribly aware of the unmade bed, strewn with various rejected outfits. “Looks like you put a lot of thought into what to wear tonight,” David said,
I didn’t like the implication. “I wanted to make a good professional impression. This is the guy who brought us in.”
“Really? That’s all it was? How hard can it be to pick an appropriate outfit?”
“For men? Not hard at all. You put on a suit. Your only choice is what color shirt and tie. Women have to think about so many other issues. Where’s the hem? What kind of neckline? Jewelry, how much and what kind? What shoes—” I broke off. “And why, exactly, are we talking about this?”
“You were clearly trying to make an impression,” David said.
“Yes, I said that.”
“There’s a certain standard of professional behavior that Ishmael, McGillary and Gold expects from its associates.”
“Why are you sounding like the prudish school teacher in a Merchant Ivory movie?” I was starting to get mad. “Are you saying my behavior wasn’t professional? In what way? What did I do?”
“You allowed him to take liberties with you!”
“What?” Shock had my voice spiraling into dolphin sonic mode. I regained control and decided to turn it into a joke. “Wow, rethinking that gay thing. Did you ever actually go out with a girl before you died? He was flirting, and he didn’t mean a bit of it.”
“I’m not joking. You were all over him.”
“And I was joking, and so was he. I think you should leave now.” I drew myself up to my full height and tried to look down my nose at him. It wasn’t entirely successful since he was six feet tall.
David did start for the door, but as he left he added, “I want you to keep an appropriate distance from Mr. Montolbano.”
The door closed behind him. I stared at the blank expanse of wood, emitted an enraged squeak, snatched a pillow off the rumpled bed, and threw it at the door. I then resolved to spend as much time as possible with Jeffery Montolbano.
4
Since I was still on New York time I woke up at 4:20 a.m. Lying perfectly still, and squeezing my eyes shut did not return me to dreamland. After fifteen minutes I gave up and got up. Since I had a lot of time before the car arrived I hied myself down to the health club and did a hard workout on the stationary bike and the balance ball. I can never remember if I have fast or slow twitch muscles, but the result was that I bulk up quickly. Which is why I don’t run or use the elliptical machines. The muscles in my calves get huge, and my handmade Konig dressage riding boots don’t fit. And since they cost twelve hundred dollars and take several months between order and delivery, I wasn’t about to run the risk.
Thinking about my boots had me thinking about the horse I rode back in New York. Vento was a sparkling white, young Lusitano stallion. I had done legal work for his owner, and in addition to paying my fee he loaned me his horse to ride. Jolyon Bryce had been crippled in a car accident and couldn’t ride any longer, but wasn’t willing to part with his horse. I could see why: Vento was great. And now I was going to be away from him for weeks and possibly months on end. It made me sad thinking about it, and I resolved to look for a stable. Maybe there was someplace I could rent a horse to ride in this vast megalopolis.
The sun was coming up when I returned, panting and sweaty, to my room, and the clouds seemed to be breaking up. I took a hot bath, did my hair, put on my makeup and picked an appropriate powerful professional woman outfit—black pencil skirt, deep purple blouse, and high black heels. After checking through my briefcase to make sure I had everything I needed, I headed down to the restaurant for breakfast.
Despite the wide window the room felt dark because of the carpet and paisley upholstery. I noticed one end had been screened off, granting privacy to the vampires and comfort to the humans. I caught the faintest whiff of blood. Somebody had been feeding. I wondered if it had been David?
An attentive waiter seated me and flipped the napkin across my lap with practiced ease within seconds of my arriving. I studied the menu. There was the Polo Lounge Famous French Toast, made with sun-dried cranberry bread, banana cream, and sugar-toasted pecans. (
I had a couple of text messages. One was from Caroline, a friend and fellow associate in the New York office. She reported that Gadzooks, John’s cat that I’d adopted, had handled the move to her apartment with an aplomb rarely seen in felines. The other was from Cecelia, another associate who was known for her sharp mind and smutty mouth.
My meal arrived. I ate, and read through my bookmarked, online newspapers. I had added the
There were photos from the Beverly Hills police station, a sort of Disneyesque vision of a white Spanish
