The scotch tasted good and the whore was beautiful. But Weiss felt heavyhearted, unsettled, on edge.
He sat in the chair by the bay window. The chair was turned to face the room. His back was toward the night and the city. He was looking at the girl. For some reason, even her beauty rankled him.
Her hair was red, just what he’d asked for. Not golden silky red-blond like Julie Wyant’s but still lightish red, as close as Casey could come on short notice. And she had the sweet face he’d wanted. A warm smile, fine, high cheekbones, a pixie chin. Weiss sipped his whiskey. Watched her as she began to undress. Watched with that saggy, hangdog expression of his. Unsettled, edgy. Afraid.
Afraid, that was the word. It was the dead lawyer that’d done it. Crouch hung up to dry in his own wine cellar. The coroner who came to take him away said it looked as if he’d been tortured. The cops were none too pleased about that. They were none too pleased that it was Weiss who’d found him either. They’d kept the detective around for hours, worked him as if he were a perp. And all the while the sense of urgency in him was building. Crouchy dead. Ridder dead. Julie Wyant…
He kept picturing himself charging up the stairs. Kicking down the door. Saving her in the nick of time. He kept thinking about that. And he was afraid.
The hooker peeled a strap down over her shoulder. She glanced at him sidelong. Licked her lips. It was supposed to be provocative but it just annoyed him. He never liked that phony, porno, come-hither shit. They were supposed to know that.
She began to breathe heavily. She caressed her own breast.
He made an impatient gesture, brushing the whole business away.
“You don’t have to do all that,” he said.
The girl dropped the act at once. “Oh yeah, sorry, they told me. I forgot.”
“It’s all right,” said Weiss. “Just get undressed.”
She did—quickly now, matter-of-factly, as if he weren’t there. She tossed her dress carelessly over the arm of the sofa. Then, in her bra and panties, she spread her hands for him, a comic flourish: ta-da.
“How’s that?” she said.
“That’s fine,” said Weiss. “Fine.”
She shook her head. “You oughta just get married. You’d be a lot happier.”
The ice in his scotch glass tinkled as Weiss shifted in his chair. He shouldn’t have asked for the red hair, he thought. That was stupid of him, childish. He was bound to be disappointed. You couldn’t imitate that color, not the real thing, that red-tinted gold.
“I was,” he said. “Married, I mean. And I wasn’t. I mean, happier.”
“Well, you try again, that’s all,” said the whore. “Find some nice girl to take care of you and give a shit sometimes. A guy like you? Come on.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”
“All the girls say what a great guy you are. I’m serious. You’ve got a really good reputation.”
Weiss smiled faintly. “Well…That’s nice to hear.”
“You’re a romantic, I’ll bet that’s what it is,” the whore said. “One of these guys—you’re into your fantasies more than you’re into real life.”
“Damn it,” said Weiss. “I told Casey: No more psychology majors.”
She had a pretty laugh. “Very funny. I’m going for my MBA, so ha ha.”
She reached back and unhooked her bra. Nice breasts, excellent breasts, first-rate. Round, high, large pink aureoles. Weiss caught his breath, sure enough, at the sight of them. But even now he was distracted, half his mind on that flight of stairs, that locked door…Every second counted.
The whore came to him. Still in her panties but with her breasts bare. She knelt on his chair, her knee between his legs. Stroked the hair above his ears and kissed his face gently. Weiss put his scotch aside. Brushed the girl’s flesh with his fingers. He was stirred down deep by the softness of her. But she whispered: “Hey, you, your mind’s wandering.” She crooked a finger under the big detective’s chin, tilted it up till his eyes met hers. “I want your complete attention.”
Weiss drew her down onto his lap. Hid his face against her and let her stroke him. Buried his face in the soft dark of her.
“Mm, now you’re with me,” said the whore, caressing him.
She stood up off him. Stood in front of him. Slipped her panties down and stepped out of them. Weiss was looking directly at the triangle of curls between her legs. The hair was black there. No hint of red at all.
And he thought: She’d’ve bought a wig.
At once, his heavy heart started beating harder. That was the first thing a woman changed when she wanted to hide herself: her hair. But Julie Wyant wouldn’t have wanted to cut hers, or dye it. Long as it was, silky as it was, red and golden as it was. If she wanted to hide—if she wanted to pretend to kill herself and then run away and hide—the first thing she would’ve done was buy a wig.
His weary eyes grew bright as he looked at the black triangle between the hooker’s legs. Someone would remember that, he thought: a girl with hair like hers buying a wig. Even now, even months later. That would stick with them.
The whore held her hand out to him. He took it. Rose heavily from his seat. He pictured himself, running up a flight of stairs, kicking in a locked door…
The whore led him into the bedroom.