John Somers wanted to gush, to tell Iris how great she looked, that it was wonderful to see her, that she hadn’t changed a bit even though she had somehow. That she’d never left his thoughts. Maybe during the early years of his marriage, but not after that, and even then not really. He marveled at the twist of fate that had made their paths cross, even though he could have found her if he had wanted to. If he thought she might have wanted to see him.
How should he start? He showed her his shield. “I’m investigating the Alejandro Muñoz murder.”
Iris took the shield and looked at it up close, running her thumb over the bas-relief insignia. She looked at him. She laughed. “The family legacy caught up with you, huh?”
“Yep.” Somers laughed even though he felt stripped bare, as people out of the past can make you feel. “And you—what happened to that PhD?”
“Touché.” She laughed again.
Somers remembered that laughing had always made her face light up.
“Life’s weird, isn’t it?” she gave him his shield back.
“It has a way of creeping into your dreams,” he said.
“This is really cute.” Billy Drye laughed sardonically.
“Drye. Go home,” Iris said.
“Not on your life.”
“You’re investigating Alley’s murder,” Iris said. “Small world.”
“Yeah. Small world.”
“You didn’t know I worked here?”
“No. Well… I mean… I sorta knew. Those notices in the alumni magazine?”
“My own PR. How ungracious of me.”
“I was glad to see you’re doing well.”
“Things are good… Things are okay. So, you want to talk to me about Alley?”
“Everyone says you’re the one I should talk to.”
“You want to talk here? We can go into an office for some privacy.” She looked at Drye, who was staring at them with a bemused grin.
“How about dinner?”
“Dinner?” Iris said.
“Dinner?” Drye said.
Somers shrugged. “It’s dinnertime. Aren’t you hungry?”
“I don’t know if you can afford her on a cop’s salary, buddy,” Drye said.
“Shaddup, Drye,” Iris said. “I had some work to do, but… okay. There’s a place around the corner.”
“You going to Julie’s?” Drye said. “I’ll call the guys.”
“Dream about it tonight, Drye. Don’t forget the handcuffs and The Wall Street Journal.” She gathered her stuff and walked in front of Somers out of the suite.
“Interesting people you work with,” Somers said.
“It’s the boy’s locker room wardrobed by Brooks Brothers.”
On the elevator down, she watched the floor numbers. Somers watched her.
“You’re staring at me.”
“You look different.”
“I was twenty the last time you saw me.”
“You’re different, but you’re the same too.”
“Is this police business or something else?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Alejandro Muñoz.” Somers smiled at the elevator floor.
“No problem. I just want to know what the score is.”
They crossed a street logjammed with solo drivers fleeing downtown for the San Fernando Valley, Orange County, the San Gabriel Valley, the beach cities, or some other suburban safe harbor with clean people. Anywhere but here. Carpooling’s inconvenient and no one wants a subway stop on their street and only sad people without cars ride the bus and the bus would take just as long anyway so everyone commutes—two to five hours every weekday.
The restaurant had high ceilings and marble floors that elevated the noise level to a tinny whine. Happy-hour revelers waiting out drive time were wing tip to wing tip to pump, crowded around an oval bar in the center of the room, having garlicky focaccia and cocktails and virgin drinks. The place reeked of gabardine.
The host wore the uniform of the bored chic—a black suit with an oversized jacket over a black T-shirt. His hair was long, blunt-cut and bleached blond on top, and dark and shaved short on the bottom. A diamond stud sparkled in his earlobe. He took a long minute before he looked up from his table grid, then kind of looked past Somers and Iris and asked his obviously tiresome questions: “Have a reservation? Smoking or non?” Then he gave a look that said he expected they would answer a certain way. He raked his hand through his hair and stared off as he decided at which far corner and noisy table by a waiter’s station to seat them.
He wove through the crowd to a row of small gray marble tables with a padded bench on one side and a hard-backed chair on the other. Iris turned sideways to squeeze between the tables, dragged her skirt across the table top, and sat on the bench, her elbows inches from the people on either side of her. The host dropped menus in front of them.
A waitress with a wild mane of long, twisted hair dyed the red of the moment, wearing a leather mini and a tight, off-the-shoulder midriff top, recited a memorized list of specials, stumbling on the French sauces. Iris ordered a glass of chardonnay, the duck ravioli with pink caviar sauce, and an endive salad with raspberry-walnut vinaigrette. Somers ordered a beer and a burger, well done.
“Iris, remember the Hip Bagel Café? Sprouts, sunflower seeds, and cream cheese on a bagel. Washed down with a protein banana smoothie.”
“It’s a Fatburger now.”
“And the rock station is New Age.”
“I listen to that station,” Iris said. “It wakes me up every morning.”
“Music to find our lost souls by.”
“Lost souls?”
“I feel that way sometimes.”
The waitress brought their drinks.
Iris took the opportunity to drop the bait and move on. “So, do you have any leads about the murder?”
Somers shrugged. “Probably some cracked-out punk who didn’t like the way Alley walked. I found out today that you taught the deaf. When?”
“For a couple of years after I got my bachelor’s.”
“How did you land at McKinney Alitzer?”
“Restless. Wanted to see the world, or at least what was west of East L.A., make a lot of dough, live at the beach, lead the glamorous life I thought everyone else was having.” She lifted a shoulder and flicked a wrist. The subject was dismissed. “It’s been good… been great.”
Somers sipped his beer. “Ever get married?”
“Nope.”
“I’m surprised.”
“I thought we were here to talk about Alley.”
“C’mon Iris. I haven’t seen you in fifteen years. I’m curious. Didn’t you ever think about me?”
“Sure. From time to time. How’s Penny?”
“Fine, I guess. We’re divorced.” He shrugged.
“You dumped me for her and it didn’t even last?”
“You’re kidding. You know that’s not true.”
“Sure, I’m kidding,” she said. “How long ago?”
“Three years.”
“What happened?”
“Whatever happens. Things.”
“Sure.”
“You dating anyone?” he asked.
“I thought we were here to talk about Alley.”
“We are… I…”
“You’re just curious.”
“C’mon, Iris. We were friends once. It was pretty nice, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was.” She took a sip of wine and looked at the crowd.
“Careful, hot plates.” The waitress turned the plates to achieve the ultimate presentation.
Somers piled lettuce, tomato, pickle slices, and Bermuda onion on his burger. He wiped a knife full of mustard on the patty, then smacked on a glob of ketchup, trailing it over his fries. He took a big bite, sending a red-and-yellow stream out the back of the bun. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and smiled sheepishly.
Iris picked a walnut off the salad with her fingers. “Most people think the deaf are mentally deficient. You know, ‘deaf and dumb’?” She dragged her fork across the skin of the ravioli and brought the pink speckled red caviar sauce to her lips. She lifted the top off one and scraped out the duck filling. “The deaf don’t like the word ‘mute.’ There’s usually nothing wrong with their vocal cords. Please stop staring at me like that.”
“Like what? I’m listening.”
“You’re not interested in hearing about Alley.”
“I’m listening to you. Go on.”
“Alley was so sweet. He’d do anything for you.” She looked at nothing across the restaurant. Her eyes glassed. “Sometimes people were mean, mostly unintentionally. Could be just a look. Or a look away.” She looked back at Somers and touched her eye. “He used to put flowers from his yard on my desk.”
“Think he had a crush on you?”
“A crush? No. He was just that way. Very sweet.”
“And you were nice to him. And you’re… you.”
“Yeah… and… ?”
“I can see how someone could have a crush on you.”
“What’s your point?”
“I never got over my crush on you, Iris.”
Iris winced in disbelief. “You son of a bitch. This isn’t about Alley. You could care less about Alley.”
“Of course I care about Alley, but I’ll be frank with you. My partner and have a couple of leads and the murder is looking like a gang initiation. It’s cookbook. It’s sad, but it happens all the time.”
“Poor Alley. People are still using him for their own ends.”
“What do you mean?”
“What good fortune for you that a guy in my office was murdered. What an opportunity for you to come down here and drag up our ancient history. Damn, you’re jaded.”
“I’ve been a homicide detective for eight years, Iris. My investigative instincts are good.”
“Some instincts. Alley knew. He knew no one would dig beneath the surface.”
“What did he know?”
Iris threw her napkin onto her plate. “Nothing. What’s to know? It’s cookbook, right?” She fished her briefcase and purse from between the chair legs and squeezed between the tables, gathering her skirt in her hands to keep it out of the food.
“If it’s about Alley, call me at the office. Otherwise, any unresolved issues between you and me are strictly yours.” She spun on her heel and walked away, her pumps clacking against the marble floor.
Somers finished his beer while he watched the pink lobster caviar sauce seep into Iris’s napkin and studied the cold space in his stomach. He’d screwed up with her again.