Jumping into his truck, clearing the area, bloody face turned away as patrol cars screamed past him. Six blocks out, pulling over beneath an underpass. Spare gear in the back, change of clothes, baby wipes to clear the crusted blood from his face, Los Angeles Angels hat to cover his clotted hair.
Beelining across the city, closing the seventy-five miles to Castle Heights in fifty-three minutes. Lowering his head so the brim of his cap shaded his face. Running the stairs, into the lobby.
And smack into Ida Rosenbaum.
“Excuse you!” she barked.
“Sorry, ma’am, I’m just late for … a dinner party.”
“Well, I hope you’re not going dressed like that.”
“No, ma’am.”
She squinted, nose quivering, then extracted a wadded-up tissue from her sleeve, failing to get it past her chin before she sneezed in his face. “It’s all the goddamned animals they’re letting in here. It’s like a zoo.” She assessed him once more, seemed underwhelmed per usual. “I hope you’re going to bring something.”
It took everything Evan had not to edge past her and make a break for the elevators. “Sorry, ma’am?”
“To the dinner party. My Herb, may he rest in peace, had a golden rule. Would you like to know what it was?”
Evan felt a bead of blood starting to work its way from beneath his cap down his forehead. He tilted his head back slightly to slow its pace. “Yes, ma’am.”
She jabbed an arthritic finger at his chest, her aggressively floral perfume crowding out the oxygen. “Never show up empty-handed.”
For once her unsolicited advice struck home. He hadn’t even begun to think about what to bring to Mia’s brother. “What would you suggest?”
“Something environmentally friendly,” she said. “The young people today are all about climate change and whatnot.”
“What’s an environmentally friendly dinner gift?” Evan asked.
“I don’t know,” she snapped, shuffling by him. “I’m not your personal shopper.”
Evan had forgotten about the disco-Velcro motif of the penthouse until he barreled in the front door. Hurrying through the great room, he halted by the empty chair where Vera III had sat before he’d hurled her against the wall. Something pinged in his chest. Guilt?
He reversed course to the kitchen, yanked open the trash compactor. There she lay atop the other garbage in a pile of glass shards and rainbow pebbles. Crouching, he picked her up gingerly and brushed off her exposed roots.
“Sorry.”
She glowered at him.
“We’re not having this conversation right now.” He set her in a glass salad bowl on the island, hesitated, then plucked a leaf from her. Snapping it in half, he dabbed aloe on the reddened skin at the back of his neck. “Thanks.”
Through the great room, down the brief corridor to the master, passing beneath the seventeenth-century katana sword that Joey had remounted on the wall. The same ping in his chest intensified as he pictured her curled up on the floor crying, punctured by his words.
No time for that either.
Through the bedroom, stripping off his clothes. Into the bathroom, the shower retiled and finished, eight rain nozzles sticking out of the walls to hit the body at various heights. Another Joey embellishment.
Aggravated, he stared at the confusion of nozzles for a second before turning the handle to hot and climbing in. The water ran pink at his feet, the jets washing him clean. It was different, foreign, new, scratching at his OCD compulsion that demanded that everything be kept as it was.
He hated to admit just how much he enjoyed it.
Evan screeched up to the curb, grabbing the bottle on the passenger seat before it could roll into the footwell. The mailbox was ensconced in a miniature decorative re-creation of the house itself, a cornflower-blue old-school Valley house befitting the Tarzana neighborhood. As he hopped out, Mia appeared at the door, strolling up the walkway to meet him.
She smiled big. Her chestnut curls were for once tamed into a semblance of order, cascading down the right side of her face. “You’re usually so punctual.”
“Hung up with a work thing.”
“Look at you, all dressed up. Are those your fancy cargo pants?”
“Fresh back from the dry cleaner.” He touched a finger to her chin. “You okay? Your coloring seems off.”
“Proximity to family makes me blanch.” She looped her arm in his, pivoting them up the walkway.
He did a double take at the mailbox. Beneath the trim a cutesy hand-painted sign read WALLY AND JANET DONKERSGOOD. “Your maiden name is…?”
“We don’t talk about that,” Mia said.
He was grinning, so she poked at his ribs.
“It’s Dutch,” he said.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” She tipped her head toward the house. “C’mon now. I should warn you about my brother. He’s a bit … let’s just say he’ll be the craziest person you’ve met this week.”
Evan said, “I doubt that very much.”
Wally Donkersgood lowered a twenty-four-ounce can of Bud Light from his mouth and gestured magnanimously at the spread of gherkins, beet stew, and rookworst. He wore a Santa Monica Police baseball cap, a T-shirt, and—inexplicably—a piano-keyboard tie. “Lord, please demonstrate your mercy by blessing this food. My wife’s an awful cook, so it really needs it.”
From the kitchen: “I heard that!”
Peter was rubbing his tongue back and forth across his teeth. “I just got my braces off, and everything’s all slimy. Feel!” Grabbing Evan’s hand, he rammed his index finger into his mouth, swiping it across his front teeth.
Evan withdrew his finger, wiped it on his napkin, resisted the urge to go wash his hands with soap and water. Mia watched him, mouth brimming with amusement, keeping herself from smiling.
Evan felt unmoored here, less sure of himself than when he’d walked into the Leones affiliate headquarters with nothing more than his bare hands and a focused mind. He’d known the rules of that situation, how to engage. Everything reduced to life and death, the age-old dominance hierarchy, kill or be killed. The Donkersgood home presented a confusion of arcane etiquette and unspoken rules, and his finger was moist with a nine-year-old’s spit.
Evan raised the Air Company vodka he’d brought, housed in what resembled an old-fashioned milk bottle. His movements felt stiff, mechanical. “This is … uh, a carbon-negative vodka. It’s made from thin air, so it’s … um, environmental. Which people like for dinner parties. I’ve been told.”
Wally was staring at him, beer can frozen halfway to his mouth. Mia hid her lips behind a fist, but her eyes were laughing.
To Evan’s chagrin he realized that he was still talking. “The conversion reactor they employ is solar-powered,” he was saying, “so they manage to eliminate the agricultural process. No irrigation or crops, no greenhouse gases, and each bottle … uh, is equivalent to eight trees in terms of daily carbon intake, so…” No one seemed engaged, Peter least of all. Evan’s voice continued to fade. “It’s got a bit of sweetness, so maybe pair it with a dry vermouth for a … martini.…”
He ran out of steam.
Wally blinked a few times. Then produced a surprisingly good-natured smile. “A drinker!” He offered a toast with the tennis-ball-tube-size beer, then set it aside and reached for a Bordeaux glass. “In that case you’ll enjoy this fine vintage, I believe.” He gestured to Evan’s overpoured glass and then lifted his own and made a big show of swirling the wine around beneath his nose. “Good legs,” he remarked, and took a sip. “Earthy finish.”
Janet entered from the kitchen, bearing an honest-to-God casserole between oven mitts. “Oh, honey, we were out of the good stuff, so I opened the box wine from Costco.”
Some of the wattage left Wally’s grin. “Oh.”
Evan glanced at Wally’s shiny face, shadowed with stubble and wearing a smile that seemed a permanent fixture. That Evan was here at Wally’s of Tarzana drinking box wine rather than at Wally’s Fine Wine and Spirits in West L.A. perusing fine vodkas at the end of a night like this seemed a particularly cruel twist.
“And watch your blood sugar,” Janet said. “We don’t want a repeat of the Almond Joy incident.” A pleasant-looking blonde, she wore neat, dated bangs and an apron that read DON’T KISS THE CHEF! in goofy lettering. “Evan, so glad you could come for a bite. We were happy to hold dinner.” She came at him with the Pyrex pan.
He pivoted to protest gently. “I’m not actually that much of a casserole aficio—”
But her manicured hand set down on his shoulder, turning him firmly around in his chair. A spoonful glopped onto his plate and then another.
He cleared his throat. “I’m really—”
His shoulder bumped her serving arm, spilling casserole down the front of his active camo cloaking shirt. “Heavens to daisy,” Janet said. “I’m so sorry. Let’s get you out of that right away.”
Now she was pulling at his shirt, the magnetic buttons yielding with painful ease.
Abruptly he was shirtless.
Evan folded his arms across his chest, going for casual. Janet’s gaze lingered on him. “I’ll just … throw this in the wash and get you one of Wally’s shirts.”
She vanished.
Mia looked at Evan. “Nice six-pack,” she said. “Do you, like, work out?”
He scowled at her.
Wally was talking at him. “So Peter here tells me you’re into gear. Samurai swords and whatnot. I’m a bit of a gearhead myself.” He grabbed his tie and wagged it at Evan. “This was a gift from the guys at the station. It plays musical notes. Touch-sensitive polyester fabric, plastic speaker hidden here at the knot. See?” He leaned forward. “Want to play it?”
“No, thank you,” Evan said.
“I will!” Peter popped up to his knees in his chair to face Wally. He typed furiously against his uncle’s sternum, but nothing happened. “It doesn’t work.”
Wally grimaced down at the tie, his double chin tripling as he read the back label. “‘Batteries not included.’ It takes triple-As. JANET! DO WE HAVE TRIPLE-A BATTERIES?”
Janet’s disembodied voice floated down the hall. “Stop yelling from the table!”
Wally ripped off the tie and cast it aside, dejected.
Peter on turbo speed. “Uncle Wally. Uncle Wally. Uncle Wally. Would you still love me if I looked like this?”
Flared nostrils, buck teeth.
Wally said, “Yes.”
“How ’bout now?”
Underbite, tongue sticking out.
“Yes.”
Janet returned with a shirt, which Evan pulled on with relief. He stared down at the large red lettering: CERTIFIED BIKINI PAGEANT JUDGE. Mia looked away, her shoulders bouncing. He noted tears at the corners of her eyes.
Janet reclaimed her seat and the plates began to circle. “Hat off, Wally.”
Peter: “How ’bout now?”
Fish cheeks, crossed eyes.
“No,” Wally said. “Absolutely not. That’s where I’d draw the line.”
Mia had caught her breath. “Peter. Eat.”
She speared some smoked-sausage segments onto his plate. Peter tentatively poked at them, his sleeve dragging through the anthill of ketchup he’d soft-served onto his plate. He considered his cuff, shrugged, then sucked it clean.
Mia said, “Have some stew, too.”
Peter leaned forward and sniffed the serving pot, crinkling up his nose. “It smells like sour-feet milk.”
Mia face-palmed, but Janet seemed undeterred. “Wally. Please take your hat off at the table.”
Grudgingly, Wally removed his cap, revealing a nasty red lump above his left eyebrow.
“Your forehead,” Mia said. “What happened?”
Wally waved her off. “An on-duty incident.”
Mia set down her fork, concerned.
“He locked himself in a Porta-Potty with a wasp,” Janet said. “And bonked his head trying to get out.”
Mia grimaced. “You’re kidding.”
“You know I’m allergic,” Wally said.
“You think he got it bad,” Janet said, “you should see the Porta-Potty.”
“Funny, Janet,” Wally said. “A real crack-up.”
Mia turned to Evan. “Wally works Santa Monica. A bike cop.”
Evan realized a response was required of him. “Motor unit?” he offered.
“No,” Mia said. “Bicycle.”
“First of all,” Wally said, “it’s a mountain bike. Okay? Easier for pursuits on the Promenade. And it’s called the Bicycle Coordination Unit.”
“Well, then,” Mia said.
“Listen,” Wally said, jabbing at Evan with his fork. “Civilians don’t always understand the requirements of the job. Given the high pressure, the constant risks, you need the right tools. And a mountain bike is the right tool for maneuverability and transport in that particular area of operation.”
“Sounds like it.” Evan was having a hard time not staring down at the red lettering emblazoned across his chest.
“Just be grateful you have a nice safe job pushing papers, Evan, importing cleaning supplies and whatever. That you’re not out there every day, a potential target. That’s why I’m always alert. See here? I’m sitting with my back to the wall, right? Facing the door. That’s how I always sit. And I check reflective surfaces, right? Like I could hold up my spoon.” He demonstrated. “If I need to see over my shoulder.”
“Subtle,” Evan said. “Cutlery tradecraft.”
“Yep. At the academy they taught us to read people. You have to develop a nose for it. You never know when you could be looking at a stone-cold killer.”
Evan poked at the casserole’s spongy edge, which resumed its shape like Jell-O when he let go. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It’s a duty we bear, but we bear it proudly.” Wally glugged down the rest of his wine. “We’re working on cracking a theft ring this week.” He shot a wink at Peter. “Sunglasses going missing left and right at the Loews Hotel. Twelve pairs last week, seventeen pairs this week. And that’s only what’s reported.” His nod moved horizontally in and out, a birdlike jutting of his head. “We’re thinking of putting a coupla UCs in place.” A glance at Evan. “That’s ‘undercovers.’ Seeing what we can stir up.”
“Does the hotel sell sunglasses?” Evan asked.
“Yeah. There’s a shack at the pool.”
“Have you talked to the owner?”
Wally smirked a bit. “Why would he need more sunglasses?”
Evan chewed a chunk of the sausage, which needed chewing.
“Oh,” Wally said. “Oh.” He nodded a few times, then a few times more, then stood and hitched up his oversize pants. “I gotta make a quick call.”
Keys clenched in his fist, Evan sat at the kitchen counter as Mia helped Janet clean up at the sink. They’d spurned his help but asked for Wally’s, though Wally seemed to be in a foul mood since reporting in to his superior officer about the newest suspect in the sunglasses caper. He sat gloomily in the adjacent living room with a tiny eyeglasses screwdriver, fixing his piano-keyboard tie with surgical intensity. At his side Peter peered down at the failed dissection.
“Let’s put on some music,” Mia said.
Wally at last lifted his head. “I just downloaded the new Josh Groban Christmas album,” he said.
“It’s August,” Mia said. “Plus: Josh Groban.”
“He can knock a ballad outta the park.”
Mia was already calling something up on her phone, and a moment later Oscar Peterson’s piano trickled out through wireless speakers. Janet passed off a wet dish to Mia, who wiped it down, starting to dance. She caught Evan looking at her and smiled, and their eyes locked.
All at once it was as though he’d passed through a threshold where he could see her at all ages—bashful bangs and girlish cheeks, the flirty coed with intelligent eyes, and all her lush maturity as well, crow’s-feet and womanly hips. For a moment he felt like he had all of her, she was showing him all of herself.
Mia and Janet were dancing together now, laughing, and they twirled over and collapsed into the kitchen chairs.
“Evan,” Wally said. “Evan, can you help with this goddamned thing?”
Evan walked over, plucked the screwdriver from Wally’s hand, and lifted the battery cover from the back of the tie. Wally pressed in two slender batteries and the tie lit up, playing a crazy polka, Peter clapping his hands with delight.
Evan felt an unfamiliar warmth in his chest but then he heard Janet calling out, “Wally! Evan! It’s an emergency!”
His first thought went to the last time he’d been called to a Mia emergency, which had turned out to be an artisanal-candle party. But Janet’s tone was hard and sharp, the kind of tone he was accustomed to not from this world but from his. He moved swiftly to the kitchen.
Mia was slumped back in her chair, eyes rolled to white, face as pale as death.