The story made me restless. I could feel the Masked Avenger aspect of my personality girding her loins, prepared to seek justice and to right old wrongs. At the same time, Henry’s accusations had hit perilously close to home. I’ll admit I’m (occasionally) foolhardy and impetuous, impatient with the system, vexed by the necessity for playing by the rules. It’s not that I don’t applaud law and order, because I do. I’m simply indignant that the bad guys are accorded so many rights when their victims have so few. Pursuing scoundrels through the courts not only costs a fortune, but it offers no guarantee of legal remedy. Even assuming success, a hard-won conviction doesn’t bring the dead back to life. In this matter, though I hated to be practical, I’d come around to Henry’s point of view. I intended to mind my own business for once.
I left the office just before three o’clock and walked over to the bank. Fortunately for me, the check I’d written to Hevener Properties hadn’t yet cleared. Maybe he accumulated rent checks and made a deposit on a regular basis instead of one by one. I put a stop payment on it, returned to the office, and wrote Richard a brief, apologetic note, indicating that circumstances had changed and I wouldn’t be renting space from him after all. Given my signature on the lease, he might well take me to small claims court. I didn’t think he’d do it. Surely, in his position, he’d prefer to avoid legal wrangles. At five-thirty I locked up. On my way home, I drove by the main post office and dropped the letter in the outside box. I reached my apartment twelve minutes later, feeling lighter than I had all day.
Before I unlocked my front door, I crossed the patio to Henry’s place. I wanted to tell him I’d heeded his words. In declining involvement, I’d offer him full credit for motivating this rare evidence of common sense on my part. His kitchen light was on. I tapped on the glass, expecting to see him come into the kitchen from the hall. No sign of him, no sound of his piano, no hint of activity. I picked up the tantalizing scent of one of his oven-baked stews so I didn’t think he’d gone far.
I returned to my apartment and let myself in. I turned on the desk lamp and set my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool. I gathered up the mail that had been pushed through the slot and was splayed out across the floor. All of it was junk and I tossed it in the trash. The message light on the answering machine was blinking merrily. I pushed the Play button.
Tommy Hevener.
“Hey. It’s me. I’ve been thinking about you. Maybe I’ll catch you later. Give me a call when you get in.”
I pressed Erase, wishing I could do the same with him.
I went into the kitchen. Saturday’s can of tomato soup was the last I had so I already knew there was nothing in the house to eat. Dutifully, I checked my cupboards and my refrigerator shelves. I’ve never actually seen a recipe that calls for two plastic packets of soy sauce, half a cup of olive oil, Cheerios, anchovy paste, maple syrup, and six rubber carrots asprout with something that looks like hair. A clever home economist could have whipped up a nourishing dish out of just such ingredients, but I confess I was stumped. I picked up my bag again and headed out the door. Dinner at Rosie’s-what a pleasant change of pace.
The night air was misty and smelled of basements. It had been raining, off and on now for six full days. The novelty had worn off and those who’d rejoiced in its arrival were now cursing the rain’s persistence. The ground was saturated and the creek-beds ran high, a noisy rush of water pushing debris in its path. Unless we had a few dry days, the torrents would jump the banks and flood the low-lying areas. There were already county roads awash with mud and stones, covered with creeping sheets of water that made driving perilous.
Given the ebb and flow of business at Rosie’s, the bar area was teeming. The Happy Hour crowd would be gone by seven P.M. as soon as the drink prices went up. The noise level had risen to a harsh, edgy pitch that seemed to reflect the mounting irritability levels. People were tired of raincoats, wet shoes, and mold spores that made their allergies flare up in a rush of sneezes and clogged sinuses.
I left my umbrella propped against the wall by the front door, shed my slicker, and shook off some of the accumulated water before I hung it up. I made a useless display of wiping my feet just to be polite. As I stepped through the inner door, I spotted Tommy Hevener sitting by himself at a table near the front. I felt a flash of irritation, feeling cornered. How was I going to get him out of my life? He was drinking a martini, the wide-rimmed glass at his lips when he caught sight of me. I halted in my tracks-a split second of indecision-because the second person I saw was Mariah Talbot sitting in a booth at the rear. Adrenaline blew through my system like a hit of speed. Her telltale silver hair had been concealed beneath a dark, shag-cut wig, her blue eyes masked by glasses with plastic and rhinestone frames. The raincoat she wore made her body appear bulky. Unless you saw past the facade to the elegant bones of her face, she appeared frumpy and drab, not someone you’d notice in a crowd of this size. Tommy couldn’t be expecting to see her, but he might make the same leap of recognition if he glanced in her direction. Looks as classic as hers are nearly impossible to hide. The minute Mariah and I made eye contact, she rose from the booth and slipped into the seat on the opposite side of the table with her back to us. I hoped the shock of discovery hadn’t registered on my face, but I wasn’t sure how I’d manage to hide my astonishment. My gaze flicked to Tommy’s. His expression was quizzical, as though he’d sensed my surprise. He turned in his chair and scanned the rear of the bar. Abruptly, I crossed and sat down at his table. I touched his hand. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch last night.” His gaze returned to mine and he smiled. “Don’t worry about it. The fault was mine.” The mild Texas accent I’d found so attractive a day or two before now seemed to be an affectation. He was wearing a cashmere sweater, a soft downy gray that played up his florid hair color and the green of his eyes. He was making intense eye contact, enclosing my hand in his. He lifted my fingers and placed a kiss in my right palm. I wanted to shiver-not from arousal, but from dread. What had once seemed seductive was only cheap display. He knew he was handsome and he affected the shy country boy to enhance his appeal. I knew too much about him, and the force of his sexuality struck me as pure manipulation. In a quick recap, I realized that from the moment we’d met, he’d worked to dominate, beginning with my declining to drink a beer with him. He’d proposed a Diet Pepsi instead, popping it open before I could refuse. I’d taken the path of least resistance and he’d established his control. After that the transitions were smooth and well rehearsed. He’d enlisted my sympathies by rolling out the reference to his parents’ death and then he’d offered up his comment about California women being so stuck up. Immediately, I’d worked to prove him wrong. His final move was adroit. “Which do you prefer? Guys way too young for you or guys way too old?” I couldn’t believe I’d been so easily taken in.
Peripherally, I saw Mariah leave the booth and head for the ladies’ restroom. I rested my chin on my hand. “Are you free for dinner? We could go back to Emile’s or try somewhere else.”
“Buy me a drink first and we can talk about that.”
I pointed to his glass. “What are you having?”
“Vodka martini.” He lifted his glass and tumbled the green olive onto his waiting tongue.
I took his glass and got up. “I’ll be right back.” As I moved by him, he reached out an arm to halt my passage. I stared down at his face, which he’d tilted up to mine. I could smell his aftershave. I could feel his hot, proprietary hand on my ass. I shifted out of his grasp and leaned closer, keeping my tone light. “Don’t be a bad boy.”
His voice was low and laced with confidence. “I am a bad boy. I thought you liked that about me.”