Flight of Aquavit (37 page)

gave me a sly sidelong look and easily slipped his

left hand into my right and continued to focus on

the music. The simple gesture was astoundingly

seductive. I reacted inside as if I’d just been pre-

sented Jeff Stryker on a platter. No, strike that, I

wouldn’t know what to do with a porn star. I made

a show of being at ease and pretending to listen to

the piano player but really I was studying the

compelling features of James’ profile and quelling

the butterflies in my stomach.

Finally when the set was done James turned to

me with a warm smile and said, “You met my

parents.”

“What?” I sputtered.

“You’re the guy who showed up at their place

last week saying you were an old friend of mine.

My mother gave you my phone number. That’s

how you found me.”

There was no use in lying to him. Obviously

one of his parents, probably his mother, had told

him about my visit and he’d put two and two

together since we’d met that afternoon. I nodded.

“Do you know how I knew it was you?”

I shrugged. I could feel his index finger slowly

running up and down the top of my hand. It made

me shiver and my mouth went dry.

Anthony Bidulka — 293

“Because she told me the man who visited was

very handsome.” And then, without further pre-

amble, he leaned over and gave me a light kiss on

the cheek. Before he pulled back I heard a pull of

air as he stole a gentle whiff of my skin. “It had to

be you,” he murmured. He sat back and let his

eyes caress me. This man was inexplicably beguil-

ing, far beyond his years. “I’d like to kiss you,

Russell,” he said.

I swallowed hard. “I think you just did,” I said.

His head shook so slightly it would have been

easy to miss. “Not like that. I’d like to kiss you on

the lips. In private.”

I was flattered. I was horny. I was weak in the

knees. But I was also thirty-two years old and

knew how I’d feel in the morning if I let my hor-

mones overrule my professional goal in this situa-

tion. So I overcompensated. “My offer still

stands,” I said.

If only I hadn’t said that right then. Or in that

way.

“Offer?”

“Money, James. My client is willing to offer a

great deal of money to put this business behind

him.”

I could see the hurt building in his eyes as cer-

tainly as snow gathers on a doorstep during a bliz-

zard. And no amount of shovelling was going to

stop it now. He didn’t say anything. He first

looked away, then back at me, then away. He

withdrew his hand from mine, slid off his stool

and left The Townhouse bar.

Nice one, Quant.

294 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

The several blocks back to the hotel were as cold

and miserable as any December night in

Saskatchewan, heavy on the miserable. But truth

be told, it wasn’t so much the temperature or bit-

ing wind as it was how much I felt like the biggest

louse in the world. My Friday night in the big city

had not ended up the way I’d planned. It had

come close, but as if on purpose, I screwed it up.

But did I have a choice? If James had been anyone

other than a suspect in a case I was working on,

perhaps I’d have been in a much warmer place.

Instead, since James Kraft had a crush on me, I

turned around and crushed him. What a guy. But

what if James
was
Loverboy? He was an actor after

all. How hard would it be for him to put on an act

in order to distract me from my real purpose?

Someone who was capable of blackmail was cer-

tainly capable of trouncing on my feelings to pro-

tect themselves. The problem was, I didn’t know

which was the accurate scenario. In my heart I felt

James Kraft was innocent, but was my heart the

best judge when it came to an attractive man?

Especially an attractive man who found me attrac-

tive too. Had I failed? Had I come all this way and

failed in what I’d set out to do? Was my inexperi-

ence as a private detective beginning to show?

Sure, I had found out the identity of Jo and

tracked him to New York, but then, my options

were limited. What would have been the best way

to find out if he was the blackmailer? I’d tried to

bluff the information out of him. The trouble with

a bluff is that you can never be one-hundred-per-

cent certain whether or not the bluff worked if the

Anthony Bidulka — 295

bluffee is actually innocent. Perhaps I should have

found a way to be invited to James’ apartment—

to find some incriminating evidence. Whatever

that would be.

I let the elevator man take me to my floor with-

out exchanging more than a few words. I was not

in a chatty mood. By the time I reached my door I

was seriously considering calling James. I didn’t

care that it was after midnight. There was some-

thing about him…the way he ran his finger over

the back of my hand. I shivered again at the

thought. What was happening to me? I would call

him. I just had to. It would make me feel immea-

surably better. But as soon as I entered my room

and closed the door behind me, I felt much worse.

The attack was quick and brutal and wholly

unexpected.

I was thumped to the ground with surprising

speed and force. The right side of my face scraped

against carpet and I felt an agonizing burn. Before

I had a chance to react, my assailant grabbed my

wrist and wrenched my right arm behind my back

and pushed it up with one knee while the other

knee pressed into my lower back.

Pain receptors began to fire all over my body.

I wondered if I would survive.

Chapter 16

ONCE THE INITIAL SHOCK WORE OFF, I realized that

whoever was on my back wasn’t very heavy.

Probably a woman or small man. I also realized

that when I stopped struggling, he or she stopped

pushing and pulling my body parts in every con-

ceivable way that could possibly cause me pain.

So I did.

“Who are you?” I asked. The right side of my

head was squished against the carpet so the words

came out like I was speaking through guppy lips.

“Never mind.” A woman.

We remained in that awkward position, my

right arm pinned between my back and her torso,

for another few seconds. I knew that with not

much effort I could probably just stand up—but I

didn’t know whether she had a weapon (other

than her pseudo-brute force). I didn’t think so, or

else why would she have jumped me?

I had to give her credit though. If this was who

I thought it was—Parka Woman—then she had a

lot of balls to think her five-foot-nothing frame

could keep me nailed to the floor. Even though

she’d only said two words thus far, I could tell

from the tone of her voice that she was flustered. I

had probably surprised her as much as she had

surprised me. I would bet her intent had been to

get a look around my room—not to confront and

attack me. She hadn’t expected me back so soon,

but when she heard me coming she’d had little

Anthony Bidulka — 297

choice. It was take or be taken. Unfortunately for

her I probably had sixty pounds and over a foot

on her. She didn’t stand a chance in a hand-to-

hand battle. I could just sit on her (not unlike what

she was doing to me now). I imagined she knew it

too. I almost smiled as I thought about her sitting

up there slowly coming to the grim realization

that she was a dachshund trying to take down a

St. Bernard. That’s why she didn’t want to talk.

She was dancing as fast as she could, trying to

decide how to get out of this without damage to

her physical being or pride. As for me, I saw the

situation as a temporary advantage. As long as

she wasn’t yanking on my arm too much I wasn’t

in any particular discomfort other than a smarting

cheek. And from this position I’d get more infor-

mation out of her than if I was chasing her down

a hotel stairway. So I tried again.

“Who are you?”

“Would you shut up already?” Her voice was

feminine but more deep and strong than soft and

high. “What are you doing here, Mr. Quant?” I

could hear some hesitation as if she were wonder-

ing why I wasn’t fighting back or if maybe I was

too stupid to think I could.

“So you know my name,” I pointed out the

obvious. “Why are you following me?”

“What are you talking about?”

Oh puh-lease. “I know you’ve been following

me. First here at the hotel, FAO Schwartz, then

Rockefeller Center. And certainly you haven’t for-

gotten our little foot race down Broadway

Avenue?”

298 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“Yeah well, maybe you’re seeing things. I’ve

never been to Rocketfellow Center.”

My ears pricked up. Rocketfellow Center?

Rocket-fellow? Certainly no New Yorker would

call it Rocketfellow Center. Who
was
this woman?

Where was she from?

“I want to know what you’re doing in New

York City, bub. Are you here alone? Are you meet-

ing someone? And who’s the fancy broad?”

She’d obviously seen me with Sereena. I didn’t

think most women liked the term “broad”—but

obviously my attacker was not most women.

“What are you talking about?” I thought I’d use

her own line against her. See how she liked it.

“Shit!”

“What?”

“You made me tear my parka!”

“I…?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “I

made
you tear it? Like I asked you to lay in wait in

my hotel room and jump me from behind like a

wild hyena!”

I don’t know where the hyena thing came from

but it did the job.

“Hyena! Who the fuck are you calling a hyena?

Just because I don’t have a twenty-two inch waist?

You sexist pig-dog bastard!”

She tightened her grip on my arm and pushed

it a little further up my back. I grunted according-

ly like the pig-dog bastard I was.

“I want to know why you’re here in New York

City!”

“I’m doing my Christmas shopping.”

“Don’t be a smartass!” She said with growing

Anthony Bidulka — 299

frustration. How did she know? “We’re on to you,

bub, so just spill it.”

We? Hmm. I turned my face as much to the left

as I could and strained my eyes in that direction to

get a look at the woman on my back. She leaned

away so I couldn’t see her face. I’d had enough

with playing prisoner. I said frankly, “I think I’m

going to get up now.”

The chuckle surprised me. Her too, I think. But

she knew she couldn’t keep me down unless she

had a couple friends helping her. She released my

arm and crawled off my back. I half expected her to

run, but she didn’t. I rolled over onto my back and

she was holding out her hand. I grabbed onto it and

let her pull me up. As I’d guessed, it was Parka

Woman. Up close she was prettier than I remem-

bered, but she still had the look in her eye of a WWF

wrestler and an untrusting set to her jaw. Despite a

diminutive stature, this was someone who wasn’t

used to letting people get the best of her.

After helping me up she began fussing with

the tear on her parka sleeve and her hair which

had gotten dishevelled during our tussle.

I reached over to switch on the light so we

weren’t standing in dimness. “You know who I

am,” I said. “Now will you tell me who you are?”

She stopped playing with her sleeve and gave

me a baleful look. “I’m Jane Cross.”

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“Regina.”

“Saskatchewan?”

“Do you know of another one?” she asked, pre-

senting a snarly attitude that I thought was most-

300 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

ly a bluff.

“Well, actually I do. Are you telling me you fol-

lowed me all the way from Saskatchewan to New

York City?”

“I ain’t telling you nothing, bub. Not until you

tell me a thing or two.”

I wished she’d stop calling me bub. “Like

what?”

“Like why are you here? I’m not buying this

‘shop ‘til you drop’ bullshit. Although God knows

you’ve done enough of that!”

Aha! “How would you know that if you

weren’t following me?”

She tried an Elvis lip curl. “Is there any store in

this goddamned city you didn’t go into? You’re

such a woman.”

“Now who’s a sexist pig-dog bastard?” And