An Affair to Dismember (25 page)

“I heard you got brains splattered all over your clothes. Some on your face, too. So cool. What was it like?” Officer James turned around and looked at me with his puppy-dog eyes, his fingers poking through the mesh wire that separated us.

“It was cool,” I said. “Brains are very cool.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

“Man, I would have loved to see that.
Kapow! Splat!
” He giggled, a low, warbling laugh. “You think I could have your autograph later?”

“Because of the brains?” I asked.

“No, the picture. The underwear. I’ve brought in all my friends to see it. I can’t wait to tell them I finally met you.”

Sergeant Brody let out a slow, appreciative whistle. “What do we have here? That’s a beaut.”

We were tailing a Lamborghini. It was red and shiny.

“Wow, you don’t see one of those in Cannes every
day,” I said. “It’s like a movie star’s car or a drug dealer’s car. Oh, I know. I know. It’s probably stolen. Don’t you think so?”

James and Brody looked at each other and sat up straighter in their seats.

“I was just kidding,” I said. “I’m sure it’s not stolen.”

“I’ll bet five dollars it’s hot,” said Brody.

“I’ve always wanted to get behind the wheel of one of those,” I said. “Talk about a sexy car.”

Brody ran the plates, and sure enough, the Lamborghini was stolen. The patrol car was filled with electricity. Even if Brody and James were idiots, they were still good at their job. Within a couple of minutes, they had pulled the Lamborghini over, handcuffed the driver, and stuffed him in the backseat next to me. They left me with him while they inspected the car outside and filled out paperwork.

“Hi, I’m Paul,” said the prisoner. He was about forty years old, and he bore a distressing resemblance to my elementary school principal, right down to the short-sleeved button-front shirt, brown tie, and comb-over that wound around his head like a turban. He adjusted his position on the seat, trying to get more comfortable with his hands cuffed behind him.

“Hi, Paul, I’m Gladie.”

“Beautiful day, isn’t it? Warm. I’m glad they kept the windows open. Nice breeze,” he said.

“Yes, beautiful. It’s good to see you haven’t let this get you down.”

“The arrest? All a big misunderstanding.”

“You didn’t steal the car?” I asked.

“Oh, I stole it. I got a good business going. I used to be in encyclopedias, but nobody wants an encyclopedia these days.”

Didn’t I know it. I tried selling encyclopedias door to door for two days. What a waste of time.

“I make at least five grand on a Caddy or Mercedes,” he explained. “A friend I know convinced me to take it up a notch, and I picked up this car for somebody else. Big mistake. Way too flashy. But it wasn’t my idea. You see?”

I tried to see, but his reasoning was a little murky. “You’re going to tell them it wasn’t your idea, and they’re going to let you go?” I asked.

“Yeah, exactly,” he said, obviously thrilled that I had caught on. “Those cops sure like that car.”

Brody and James had finished the paperwork and were checking out the Lamborghini, taking turns in the driver’s seat.

“How fast you think this goes, Brody?” I heard James ask.

“As fast as you want,” said Brody.

Paul shifted in his seat. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I’ve seen this before.”

“What?” I asked.

“While we wait for the tow, we could take it for a little ride,” said James.

“What would it hurt?” asked Brody.

After a coin toss to see who would drive, they hopped in the Lamborghini and peeled out.

“That leaves just you and me,” said Paul.

It was then that I noticed the door was locked and impossible to open from the inside.

I craned my head to see if the Lamborghini was on its way back, but it was gone. Then I heard the crash.

“The steering on that Lamborghini is a bitch,” said Paul.

“WHAT DO you think that was?” I asked Paul.

“By the sounds of it, I would say the Lamborghini hit the brick retaining wall down the street, which means there’s no more evidence to charge me.”

“Do you think they’re dead?” I asked.

“There’s a good chance. Hey, don’t look like that. I hate when women cry. Maybe they pulled through. They were young. Strong.”

I pictured their young, strong bodies smashed against the wall.

“I have a cellphone!” I announced, remembering my purse. I pulled it out and called Spencer.

“Cops! Wall! Car!” I yelled into the phone. Sentences formed in my brain, but I couldn’t get them to come out of my mouth. “Wall! Car! Cops!”

“Shit, I’ll be right there,” Spencer said.

“Would you look at that?” Paul said. “I would never have believed it.”

Brody and James hobbled up the street. James held his left arm at a weird angle, Brody had a slight limp, and both were disheveled, with bits of their clothing burned away. Brody’s sunglasses hung down one side of his face, still clinging to one ear, and neither had held on to his hat. But they were alive, mobile, and not much worse for wear. I was gobsmacked.

“It’s like a miracle,” said Paul. “I can’t wait to tell everyone at church.”

My door opened, and Spencer pulled me out.

“What happened?” Spencer asked. “Are you okay? Pinkie, what did you do?”

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t me,” I said.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at Paul.

“I’m Paul,” Paul said.

“Who’s Paul?” Spencer asked. “Why were you locked in the back with Paul? Wait. Don’t tell me. I need to hear things in batches. I can’t take it in all at once.”

“Hey, Chief. Don’t worry, we’re fine.”

Brody and James made it back to the patrol car and put on their best professional and authoritative faces in front of Spencer. Spencer eyeballed them, letting his eyes travel from their scuffed shoes to their singed hair.

“We caught a car thief,” said Brody.

“Who you put in the back of the car with a civilian,” supplied Spencer.

They looked at me. “Uh …,” said James.

“And then what?” Spencer asked. “Where’s the stolen car? Will someone answer me? My mind is thinking up all kinds of crazy scenarios. What? Was it stolen again?”

“This is so good,” Paul said from inside the patrol car.

Spencer pointed at Paul. “Do I need to ask him what happened?”

“It was an accident,” James blurted out.

“We ran it into a wall.”

“Ran what into a wall?” Spencer asked.

“It was such a sweet ride,” said James.

“Hold on. You took a stolen vehicle on a joy ride?” Spencer was close to stroke level. His face was purple and his body shook slightly.

The tow truck and another patrol car arrived. It was a perfect time to get out of there.

I touched Spencer’s arm. “Maybe we can let them handle it. You look like you could use a distraction and a good breakfast. You want to take me home?”

Spencer nodded. “Leave your guns and your badges with the desk sergeant,” he told Brody and James. “And come in tomorrow so we can talk. If I talk to you today, I’ll break your noses.”

The ride to my grandmother’s house was quiet. I sensed Spencer’s blood pressure lowering the farther we got from the smashed Lamborghini.

There were at least a dozen cars parked in front of Grandma’s.

“What day is it?” I asked Spencer.

“Tuesday.”

“Oh, no. It’s the Second Chancers singles meeting.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Not as bad as the Pregnant and Looking meeting. But still.”

The parlor was packed. Instead of the normal, organized session with women sitting on the overstuffed furniture and my grandmother presiding with a kind but firm hand, it was bedlam. The women stood in small groups, talking to each other at different levels of panic. Grandma was nowhere to be seen. Spencer’s entrance was first met with hushed appraisal, and then it was like I had thrown live meat into the tiger exhibit at the zoo.

“I’ve got to go. Not feeling well,” Spencer told me, his eyes darting between the women who approached en masse, ever so slowly, like a scene from a zombie movie.

“What’s the matter? Allergic to meaningful relationships?” I asked.

“Look,” he said, showing me his arm. “Hives. I’ve got to get out of here.”

I took him by the hand. “Mine,” I announced to the ladies. “Mine, mine, mine.” There was a general murmur of disappointment, which quickly turned to disbelief. They continued to advance. “Mine,” I said a little louder. I heard a guffaw and a snort. They didn’t think I could snag a good-looking police chief. I was insulted down to my disposable hospital panties under my unisex one-size-fits-all scrubs.

“My hair doesn’t normally look like this,” I said. “Mine.”

“Hers,” Spencer said, nodding my way.

He tugged my arm until my body bumped up against him, and he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer. His face was inches from mine, his breath sweet and warm. His eyes twinkled.
Take that, Second Chancers
, I thought.
You thought he was out of my league
. Spencer was playing a great game, fabulous for my ego.

But then his eyes grew dark. He ran his hands up my
back under my shirt, sending shock waves of sensation that caught my breath in my throat and melted my insides into estrogen-packed jelly. “Oh,” I sighed.

The hospital didn’t give out disposable bras. My breasts were pushed flat against him. He was hard everywhere, I noted to myself. My heart thumped against my chest so loudly I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. I had just enough time to register that playtime had ended when he captured my mouth.

Our lips touched, sliding across each other in greeting, getting to know the taste and feel of each other. I opened my mouth slightly, and he explored me with his tongue, the kiss deep and slow. I tried to remember where I was, that I was kissing and getting nakeder in front of a houseful of desperate women. But I didn’t care. I cared only about Spencer’s hands on my back, searing my flesh wherever they touched, and Spencer’s mouth, fitted so perfectly on mine that I forgot where I began and he ended. I was on fire and burning up pretty quickly.

I raised my arms and wrapped them around his neck. I allowed my fingers to comb through his hair and rest there. Closer. Closer. I wriggled against him, and he groaned.

“Ahem.” I heard it from a distance, like I was on a mountain somewhere, but the disgruntled onlookers were not standing two feet from me.

“Ahem!”

Spencer stopped. He slid his lips off mine and rested his head in the crook of my neck. “Whoa,” he croaked. His breathing was ragged. I removed my hands from his head and dropped my arms. He released me, letting his hands travel slowly from my back to my waist and finally again at his sides.

His face was red, his lips swollen, and his hair was
standing up in every which way. Spencer looked good and used.

I inhaled a ragged breath and steadied myself.

“Any questions?” I asked the Second Chancers, my voice coming out deep and gravelly like Yosemite Sam. There were no questions. Sometimes showing is better than telling.

I turned back to Spencer. “We need to find Grandma. Something’s wrong. She would never let a meeting go wild like this, normally.”

Spencer nodded and gulped air like it was his first breath in quite some time.

“You know, maybe they need more convincing,” he said, pointing at the women.

“They’re plenty convinced,” I said. “You did a great job.”

“Oh, yeah?” He perked up. He straightened his shirt and smoothed out his hair. “Great job? You weren’t half bad yourself. You might need a little more practice, though.”

“Does that line normally work for you?” I asked. “Do women fall for that line? Is that how you hook supermodels and cocktail waitresses? With that line?”

Spencer smirked. “I hook them with something else. Want to see it?”

“You are two years old,” I said.

I FOUND Grandma in the kitchen with Bridget and Lucy. She still wore her housedress, and her hair was still up in rollers. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Lucy gripped me in a bear hug. “Oh, Gladie, thank goodness you’re here. Your grandma is unwell. She’s absolutely paralyzed with inaction.”

“Grandma, what’s the matter?” I asked.