I’m not big on asking why and I don’t ask this time. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m off to keep our day-after-Daddy’s-murder appointment with the dear doctor. Lucky him, lucky me. I’ve been looking forward to the challenge for a long time.
There’s nobody around for once, nobody to pepper me with advice. There’s only Doyle. He’s preparing the garbage for pickup, moving small bags of trash into larger bags. The job is unpleasant enough, even when it’s cool. At the end of August, after a few days in the sun, the stink is almost visible.
As I pass, Doyle stops what he’s doing and stares at me, a wet bag of garbage in one hand. But he doesn’t say anything until I’m ten feet away. Then he empties the contents of his heart.
“At least I’m not crazy.”
I shake my ass at him and keep on going.
Most men, like Doyle, are afraid of me. Most women hate me. I’m too much of a challenge for the man who does your taxes and yet I’m the focus of his erotic fantasies. Me and women like me. That’s fine by Eleni Grand. I have little interest in women—my sisters are hassle enough—and I want to eliminate the incompetent. Maybe that’s what happens when you only get laid every three weeks, all that pent-up demand.
I’m guessing the man who steps out of the dear doctor’s office building isn’t afraid of me—or anyone. He’s wearing a suit and tie, the suit tan, the tie only a shade darker. His stride, as he turns toward me, is perfectly balanced. Not catlike, not artificial, but naturally light. His expression projects the same attitude. Entirely in control, yet entirely relaxed. No worries in the world. And if the planes of his brow and jaw are a bit too strong, I’m encouraged by a line of pits in the hollow beneath his cheekbones, the remnants of a long-vanquished acne. His self-confidence has been earned, not given.
Right away, I’m thinking to hell with the dear doctor. It’s been … I have to think for a moment before I can put a time to when I last felt the touch of a man. More than two weeks since I lay next to a lover, physically spent, only to have him roll onto one arm and gently kiss me on the mouth. Too long, too long.
The tender caress of a man is something the prunes have never known. Not from the day they were born. Never.
“Ms. Grand?”
My brain doesn’t want to let go of the fantasy and I freeze for a few seconds before I recall the memo left by Serena. The man is a cop, the one who confronted Serena last night. She described him as “intimidating,” but I’ve been with enough cops to know the front they project comes of long practice. If you know which buttons to push, you can get behind it.
“And you are?” I ask.
The question provokes a smile. “I think I heard this song before. Last night, in fact.”
“You’ll probably hear it again before you’re through. My apologies, but we’re crazy, which I suppose you already know, being as you’ve spoken to our therapist.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, still smiling, he extends a hand, palm up. “Detective Ortega, at your service.”
He clasps my hand, his touch as gentle as it is erotic. The prick intends it, too. I can see it in his eyes, in his soft smile, a challenge to equal my own. I’m not playing anymore. There’s no point.
I finally remember the name Serena included in her memo. Bobby Ortega. I lift my head and his eyes lock on to mine. He’s not trying to dominate me, just taking a hard look. I leave my palm in his hand for a second too long, then glance at my watch. His eyes dip, then rise, nose to toes and back again. I’m wearing a sheer white blouse and my blue skirt is just tight enough to provide my butt with the small lift it needs. I’m thirty-seven, with enough bulges and sags to prove it. Attractive is the aim these days, not teenage street hooker.
Ortega’s smile expands and he says, “I’m glad I ran into you, Ms. Grand. I was going to stop by your apartment anyway. Now I can save myself the trip. Your father’s body hasn’t been formally identified and I’m hoping you’ll come to the morgue this afternoon, around three.”
I don’t give a shit about my father’s body. What I’m wondering is whether the cop does either. His tone is steady enough, but the smile tells another story. I read that smile as a question I could answer now, but where’s the fun in that?
“It’s too hot to take the subway. You’d have to pick me up, drive me there and back.”
“I will, definitely. And I appreciate the favor.”
I’ve been with quite a few cops. They make good lovers, the ones I’ve picked out at least. They’re aggressive, but never cross the line between forceful and forced. Now I’m looking at Ortega the way he’s looking at me. I’m measuring the swell of his chest, the flat belly, the smooth line from his lower ribs to his hips. All that concealed power.
Victoria’s voice sounds in my ear at that moment, as if she’d been there all along. “Are you crazy? We’re suspects in a murder he happens to be investigating?”
I make the same answer I’ve been making for years. No risk, no reward.
“Around three? Consider it done?”
He smiles and steps aside. “I assume you have an appointment with Dr. Halberstam.”
“Sad, but true.” I walk past him, then turn into the entrance to Halberstam’s building. I’m not expecting anything beyond a careful scrutiny of my ass, but Ortega ups the stakes.
“Were you at the Golden Inn Hotel last night?” he asks.
I understand the question to be part of the challenge—in his eyes, in mine. Foreplay with a razor’s edge. “Is that where he was killed?”
“Well, I couldn’t have been there.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I didn’t exist.”
“That’s another one I heard yesterday.”
I open the door and step inside before he can ask a follow-up question, one I’d prefer not to answer: Have you ever been to the Golden Inn Hotel?