I hung back, pretended to browse mouthwash, strolled to the next aisle, sauntered back, keeping my head down. Now she was over by the lipstick. Same routine.
She moved through the store that way for ten minutes, concentrating on small articles. Dental floss, contact lens cleaning solution, aspirin, candy. Boosting double the amount of whatever she put in her basket.
I bought a ten-pack of gum, was behind her when she checked out.
She walked cheerfully to her Cherokee, swinging her bag and wiggling her tight little butt. I managed to get to the SUV first, slipped out from the front of the vehicle, and took hold of the black bag.
She said, “What the—” then she recognized me.
“Cop.” She nearly choked on the word.
It seemed a poor time for full disclosure. I said, “You’ve got a little problem, Kayla.”
Green-gray eyes widened. Glossy lips parted as she contemplated a reply. Such a pretty girl, despite the hook nose. Such empty eyes.
She said, “I was doing research. For a term paper.”
“What was the subject?”
“You know.” She glanced off to one side, cocked a hip, tried to work up a smile.
I said, “Where do you go to school?”
“Santa Monica College.”
“When?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s late June. School’s out.”
“Maybe I’m in summer session.”
“Are you?”
No answer.
“What’s your major?”
She stared at the asphalt, raised her head, chanced eye contact. “Design . . . um . . . and psychology.”
“Psychology,” I said. “So you know the name for this.”
“For what?”
I took the bag from her, pulled out a bottle of contact lens solution, some shrink-wrapped Tylenol and Passionate Peach lip gloss. “For this, Kayla.”
She pointed to the Tylenol. “I get headaches.”
“You’ve got a big one now.”
Her eyes darted around the parking lot. “I don’t want someone to see me.”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
“Please,” she said. “C’mon.”
“We need to talk, Kayla.”
“C’mon,” she repeated. Arched her back. Removed her beret and tossed her hair and let loose a blond storm.
She blinked twice. Batted her lashes and did something silly with her head. Golden hair shimmered. “C’mon,” she said, nearly whispering. “I can fix it.”
“How?”
Slowly spreading smile. “I’ll blow you,” she said. “Like you’ve never been blown before.”
I took her car keys, positioned her behind the wheel of her Jeep and ordered her not to move as I slid in on the passenger side. Keeping my door open an inch. Her car was her territory. Hopefully the open door would insulate me from a kidnapping charge if the truth ever got out.
She jammed the beret back on her head. Carelessly; golden strands leaked out.
“Please,” she said, staring out the windshield. Her middy blouse rode up. Rapid breathing pulsed her flat belly.
I let the silence sink in. Cars drove in and out of the Rite Aid lot. Tinted windows afforded us privacy.
I wondered if she’d cry.
She pouted. “I don’t know why you won’t just let me do it—I’ll make you feel real good, and I’ll return the stuff. Okay?”
Sonny Koppel had talked about stuff being a burden.
I said, “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll return everything and promise never to do it again. But first, you’ll talk to me about Gavin Quick. If you’re honest and open and tell me everything you know about him, we’ll call it even.”
She turned quickly and gawked at me. Her hawk nose was powdered. Beneath the film I saw delicate freckles. The gray-green eyes had turned calculating.
She said, “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She laughed. “Cool. I wasn’t really into giving you head. Speaking of Gavin.”
“That was Gavin’s thing?”
“Wham bam was Gavin’s thing. Even for a young guy, he was fast. Even if he came twice in a row. I mean they all start out that way, but you can train them. Not Gavin. The twenty-second man. So I stopped.”
“Stopped having sex with him.”
“It was never sex,” she said. “That’s the point.”
“What was?”
“Being with him felt like . . . playing basketball. He shoots, he scores, he zips up, you go out for coffee.”