Better Read Than Dead (7 page)

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “it’s okay, really. So you make a quick call and the ticket goes bye-bye. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that this guy is a menace, and he’s not fit to be wearing a uniform. He got off easy with the meter-maid assignment, and it sticks in my craw that the man’s still employed by the Royal Oak PD,” Dutch snapped testily.

I got in the car not knowing what else to say. I didn’t want to argue about it, and I was beginning to feel really disappointed that our lunch reunion was quickly filling up with so many pitfalls.

We drove to the restaurant in silence, Dutch still simmering over his ticket and me trying not to provoke a long-winded dissertation on Bennington’s ineptness. After all, I’d heard it all before.

By the time we’d reached Maverick and Moon’s, Dutch seemed to be cooling off. He pulled into the parking lot and stepped around to my side, holding the door open. When I got out he hugged me and whispered, “Sorry about that.” He then kissed my forehead and said, “That guy gets under my skin, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

I beamed up at him and took his arm as we strolled into the restaurant.

Maverick and Moon’s is a popular, swanky haunt on the outskirts of Royal Oak. The exterior is white stucco with a shingled roof and mosaic patterns bordering the windows. The interior is eclectic, booths are round and cozy, tabletops are marble and no two chairs are alike.

The lighting is soft and romantic, and the fare adventurous and bold. It was one of my favorite restaurants, and I smiled to myself as I thought about how Dutch had remembered that I’d raved about it the last time we’d had dinner here.

In the lobby we were greeted by a petite hostess who took Dutch’s name and looked at her seating chart. “Yes, Mr. Rivers, the other half of your party is already seated. John, will you take these two back to table number twenty-four?”

A young man stepped forward, and we followed him in a fishtail path through other tables to a four-top, where a gorgeous brunette stood up to greet us. “Hello!” she said as we approached.
Oh, how nice,
I thought,
Dutch’s partner brought a date too.

“Abby, this is Joe La Bond. My new partner.”

My mouth fell open as if my brain had suddenly leaked out of my ear. The woman claiming to be Dutch’s new partner was at least five-ten with shoulder-length dark brown hair and full, seductive lips set prominently on her gorgeous face. Her eyes were huge brown orbs that gave her an innocent baby-doll appearance. She had olive skin, long limbs and narrow hips—oh, and her boobs were enormous.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—and yes, I
am
still comfortable with my looks, but
anyone
can feel intimidated when they stand next to Catherine Zeta-Jones.

The air hung around us as Dutch and Joe waited for some kind of reaction on my part other than, “Duh.” Finally I shook my head a few times and tentatively extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, Joe. Sorry, but I thought you were a guy.”

Joe chuckled, a smoky, seductive sound. “I get that a lot. ‘Joe’ is actually short for ‘Josephine,’ but you can’t be taken seriously in the Bureau carting a name like that around.”

Dutch and I laughed politely, although mine was a little more forced than his, and we all took our seats. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dutch looking slightly flustered. I had a feeling he’d been so distracted by his parking ticket that it’d completely slipped his mind to fill me in on his partner’s gender and appearance. To set his mind at ease, I shot daggers at him and mouthed,
You are so dead . . .
as I snapped my menu open.

“So!” Dutch said into the tension-filled silence, “what’s good here?”

Joe answered abruptly, “Everything, but the pumpkin tortellini is a favorite of mine.” Turning to me she added, “Dutch asked me where he should bring you for lunch, and I recommended this place to him. You’ll love the food.”

I fought back the venom I wanted to spit at my boyfriend, and instead said icily to Joe, “Yes, I know. He and I actually came here last summer the night before he left for Quantico.”

Dutch looked at me in surprise, then glanced around the room quickly. “Oh, yeah. I
thought
this place looked familiar.” So much for giving him points for sentimentality.

Joe mouthed
Uh-oh
and averted her eyes back to the menu while I glared at my boyfriend. “What?” he asked defensively.

Could men
be
more stupid?

“
Nothing,”
I snapped. “Nothing at all.”

There was a long period of uncomfortable silence as we all pretended to look at our menus; and after a minute or two our waiter, Bob, came by to take our drink orders. I ordered a glass of red wine; Joe and Dutch both ordered iced tea. I felt awkward being the only one at the table to order alcohol, so I tried to retract my order when Joe said, “No, no, Abby, you go ahead. Dutch and I are on duty.”

“On duty?” I asked, surprised as I glanced at Dutch, who began to cough loudly.

“Yeah, we’re on assignment right after lunch. We’ve got to catch a plane later on tonight, and we’ll need to stay focused,” Joe said smartly.

I looked at the her with my mouth hanging open. I could not believe the deluge of crap being spoon-fed to me in the course of the last ten minutes, so I kept the wine, sent the waiter scurrying to the bar and rounded on Dutch. “You’re going on assignment and you have a plane to catch?”

“Uh, you see, the thing of it is . . .” he tried to explain as he leaned over to lay a reassuring hand on my wrist.

I looked at his hand as if a turd had landed on my skin, and Dutch quickly pulled it away. Again Joe decided to get in the middle of it and make things worse. “It’s not his fault, really. We got our assignments yesterday, and you can’t really put off the Bureau just because you miss your girlfriend.”

At that moment the waiter came back with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order. Joe took charge and ordered the pumpkin tortellini, Dutch dittoed that and I rebelliously picked the most expensive item on the menu, the roasted duck with a side salad. Truth be told I didn’t even like duck and I had no real intention of eating Daffy, but I was hungry, so I’d have to make do with the salad.

When the waiter left I took a tremendous swig of my glass of wine and looked anywhere but at either Joe or Dutch. I was fuming and trying valiantly to tramp down my feelings. I pictured all sorts of scenarios that began with me thumping Dutch on the head and him pleading for mercy. Trying for small talk, Joe asked sweetly, “So, Abby, Dutch has told me so little about you. What is it that you do?”

So little about me?
“I’m a psychic,” I said icily.

Joe sputtered the iced tea she was sipping, “You’re joking.”

I shot a question mark at Dutch and found him picking at the lint on his napkin, avoiding my gaze. Feeling hurt at his obvious discomfort with the topic of conversation, I shifted my gaze back to Joe and said, “No, not joking at all. I’m a psychic. I look into a crystal ball and wear lots of scarves and dance under the full moon buck-naked while I howl like a coyote. Didn’t Dutch tell you?”

Joe tilted her head back and laughed heartily. She thought I was kidding. Dutch squirmed in his chair and I continued to take large sips of my wine. “No, really. What line of work are you in?” Joe persisted after she’d had her laugh.

I sighed and turned my cool stare directly on her as I said, very deliberately, “I
am
a psychic. I tell people their futures . . . for real.”

Joe smirked and cocked her head slightly as she looked at me, waiting to see if I’d crack a smile. Finally she said, “Okay, so what am I thinking?”

Oh, brother. Here we go.
“I said I was psychic, not a mind reader.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A big one,” I said dismissively as I downed the last of the wine.

“Like what?” she persisted.

I didn’t like this woman. Not one bit. Her attempts to be helpful were just a bit too over-the-top for me, and this whole warm and fuzzy routine was getting on my last nerve. I sighed heavily. “Psychics are able to see glimpses of events, opportunities and obstacles that may happen, or have already happened. Mind readers, who are sometimes referred to as mentalists, use extrasensory perception to get a sense of what you’re thinking or feeling.”

“Huh,” Joe said, looking at me with narrowed eyes. Then she smiled and said, “Personally I think the whole thing’s a bunch of baloney, but there are a lot of gullible people out there, so I’m sure you’re doing quite the business.”

The wine had hit my empty stomach and drained the restraint right out of me. I couldn’t believe what she had just said to me. I half stood out of my chair in a shaky motion; I was going to hit this bitch but good.

Dutch bolted up and caught my shoulders; pressing me back down in the chair he said, “Abby, easy there. What Joe means is that until she sees proof, she’s going to remain a confirmed skeptic. Right, Joe?”

Joe cocked her index finger and her thumb in a gun motion and winked at Dutch, “You got it, partner.”

I glowered at Dutch, my cheeks flushed with anger that he would so quickly take her side, but sat back down anyway. I rolled my eyes, crossed my arms and glared at the tabletop.
Screw them. Bring on Daffy . . . and another glass of wine!

While I pouted sullenly, Dutch and Joe talked softly between them mostly about some paperwork they needed to do before checking in.

“Checking in?” I asked, butting into the conversation.

Dutch coughed loudly again and made a small “no” motion to Joe as he stood up and excused himself to the restroom.

One thing I’d learned about my boyfriend was that he had the bladder of a hamster. As he departed the table I caught Joe visibly watching his derriere, and my anger, jealousy and now-empty glass of wine got the best of me. “Listen here,” I said with a deadly voice, leaning in, “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but Dutch is spoken for. Got it?”

Joe swiveled her head in my direction and regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Relax, Miss Cleo,” she said. “I’m not interested in your boyfriend.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .
“Dutch is my subordinate, and it’s against Bureau policy to date a subordinate. Although, if I
were
interested in him I’d have plenty of opportunity, given that we’re about to go undercover as a couple, and we’ll be spending pretty much every moment together. In fact, we’re headed out of town this very evening, and we’ll be rooming together—you know, so we can become better
acquainted
. . . .” She said this with a grin and a wink that I wanted badly to slap off her face.

“Oh! I get it,” I announced thickly, waving an unsteady hand at her in a flaring motion, the wine freeing up my tongue. “You’re
easy
. Well, allow me to divine your future, honey,” I said, bringing my hand up to my head in mock concentration. “It’s not very long, and it’s absolutely bound to be painful if you even think about—”

“Whoa!” came a deep baritone right behind me. “Abby, what the . . . ?” Dutch said as I swiveled my head to look back at him. He was wearing a look of shock that was quickly turning to anger.

“She—” I began, pointing an accusing finger at Joe, but he cut me off.

“Please excuse us for a minute, Agent La Bond,” he said, and grabbed my hand, practically pulling me out of my chair and escorting me to the front of the restaurant.

When he found a spot near the coat check that offered a small amount of privacy, he hissed, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“
Me?!
What about her?” I hissed back.

“
What
about her?” he asked, but his tone suggested he wasn’t the least bit interested in my answer.

“I’ve got breaking news for you, buddy,” I said, wobbling slightly as the wine wrecked havoc with my balance. “You may not realize it, but you’re partnered up with Miss F-B-I’m-a-whore over there, and you have the
nerve
to try to make me feel guilty about having to work tonight when you’re about to go off on some assignment with that . . . that . . .
that? !
” I couldn’t think of a good pejorative, so I just kept stuttering.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Abby!’ Dutch hissed again, “She’s my
superior!
There’s nothing going on between us—”

“Try telling
her
that,” I spat.

“Come on!” Dutch whispered impatiently. “Cut me some slack, will ya? For your information it’s against Bureau policy to date a subordinate. She could lose her job if she even—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I said loudly, no longer keeping my voice down. “I’ve heard that line before. The point is that you allowed me to feel terrible about not making our dinner tonight when you’re the one about to jet-set off with Miss Silicone Valley.”

“Listen,” he said, squeezing my arm, his body language pleading with me to lower my voice, “my plane wasn’t leaving until after ten, and if you had been available we still could have had an early dinner and gotten
reacquainted
before I had to leave.”

“Wham bam thank you, ma’am. Gee, Agent Rivers, how romantic of you,” I deadpanned, giving him a flinty glare.

“And why did you have to tell her you were a psychic?” he asked, changing the subject completely.

“Excuse me?”
I screeched, now utterly offended.

“I mean, come on! This is the first time you meet my partner and you have to open with the fortune-teller bit? How do you think I’m gonna live that one down?”

“What I do is not a ‘bit,’ ” I growled, my face feeling flushed with anger. “And she asked me what I did for a living. What would you have had me tell her?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” he said, sighing heavily and running a hand through his blond hair. “Anything, I guess—”

I didn’t even wait for him to finish the full sentence. I was completely fed up. I turned on my heel and exited the restaurant, stomping my way over to Dutch’s car.