Jump the Gun (13 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Bonkers was right by the front door to my apartment when Mickey and I got there. He was rubbing against my legs as soon as I stepped in, and I swooped him up in my arms. “Bonkers boo, I love you. How are you, my excellent kitty?” I gave him a few kisses and put him down. Then I went into the kitchen to feed him. I heard Mickey say, “Hey there, cat. Yeah, good cat. Yeah…Yow! Stop it!” He walked in, sucking on his hand.

“Jesus, Annabelle, Bonkers just bit me!”

“He thinks men like that kind of thing. He's just playing. Get a Band Aid, that cupboard right there.” I pointed, and Bonkers started rubbing against Mickey's legs. Mickey looked down at him and growled. Bonkers split.

After I fed Bonks, I cleaned out his litter box and changed my clothes, opting for a black cotton beret this time—it doesn't cover up my ears, but I think it makes them look smaller—to go with my black cotton capri pants and black t-shirt, while Mickey sat in the living room and turned on CNN. The place was still a disaster. It reminded me of the final scene of
The Conversation,
except that Gene Hackman had torn apart his own place, looking for a bug, the listening-device, I mean, and at least my floorboards were still intact. Anyway, I wanted to get out of there as soon as we could. It cranked up my anxiety to an all-time high. I was certain we were on the verge of finding the explanation for this insanely terrifying situation. I couldn't stand any more murderers, kidnappers, thieves, or liars. I even yearned for my boring life back.

I checked my messages, but there weren't any. This made me remember my new cell phone, so I pulled it out of my purse and checked that voice mail. “No new messages,” said the automaton-like voice.

“Mickey!” I called from the bedroom.

“Yeah.”

“Luis, have you heard from Luis?”

“No.”

“Don't you think we should have heard from him by now?”

“Well, he probably has a lot going on with his captain, and I bet if he had found out anything more to tell us, he would have called.”

I walked into the living room. “I think we should check in with him. I'm going to call him.”

Mickey was standing at my desk, sifting through a pile of papers. He looked up and blurted out, “No!” We froze for a few seconds eyeing each other.

“What are you doing?”

“Just straightening out some stuff.” He patted the desk. “But don't call Luis. We shouldn't bother him. He'll call us.”

Nothing about Mickey seemed perfect in that moment. I didn't like him snooping around my stuff. I didn't like it that he didn't want me to call Luis—not now, and not when we were in the car. Marilyn Monroe once said, “A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left.” I wanted to run. Maybe Mickey was using me for some reason, and had been ever since Chicago. Maybe our chance encounter wasn't by chance at all. I could be dead wrong about him.

“What's the big deal? If I want to call Luis, I'll call Luis. I want to know how he's doing, anyway. I mean, maybe he's in trouble now, too. Why shouldn't we call him?”

Mickey was jittery, kind of rocking back and forth, left to right. He ran his hand through his hair. Then he looked at his watch. “It's 9:45. You're going to be late to see Mrs. Hobbs.”

I stared at him. My stomach churned and I figured the buffaloes would be showing up any minute. I didn't know what was up with Mickey, but I didn't want to be talking to Luis now with Mickey acting all secret-agent-man. I'd call him later. I put my phone in my pocket and grabbed my purse. “Are you coming with me? Or do you want to meet later to go up to Tall Oaks?”

“I'll drive you to the café where you're meeting her and drop you off. I'll pick you up at eleven. I have to go back to the hotel and change and check my emails.”

“Fine.”

I gave Bonkers a last hug, and Mickey and I left the apartment. San Francisco is usually cool in June, but right then, it felt like a flash blizzard had just hit my city. I was cold all over.

Chapter Eighteen

We didn't speak on the way to the café. When Mickey pulled up to the curb to let me off, I got out without a word. I walked toward the door, but I stopped and turned around after he had taken off. I watched the Mustang head down Bush Street, then it pulled over again, then it stopped. Mickey didn't get out.

I pulled out my phone and called Luis. It rang once and switched over to voicemail. Either he was busy with another call and not answering mine, or his phone was turned off. Could Mickey have Luis on the phone right now? I dropped my phone in my jacket pocket, and headed in to meet Beth Hobbs.

I knew it was her the minute I saw her­—she was the only middle-aged woman in the place, already seated at a table, nursing a cup of coffee. As I walked over, she noticed me and stood up. “Annabelle?” I greeted her with a hug.

I think of myself as a pretty nice person, basically compassionate, and while not generous to a fault, at least open-minded and essentially nonviolent. But two things were going on during that coffee klatch. One, I was preoccupied with Mickey's odd behavior, and two, I took an immediate dislike to Mrs. Hobbs. First off, her hug was limp. Then, as soon as we ordered coffee from the hovering waiter, her phone rang and she pulled it right out with no apology, and spoke into it, “Yes.” Pause. “Right.” She disconnected, put the phone down on the table, and looked at me. “I don't have a lot of time, Annabelle. It has been a very hard couple of days, as I'm sure you understand. So why don't you tell me everything you know? You're not involved in my daughter's murder, are you?”

Okay. Deep breath. I understood that she was in shock, and sad beyond description, and angry, and all of that, and really, I could have let that comment go. My problem was that she was too cool and too calm. And then there was her lipstick. It was a god-awful orange, and I won't lie, that color alone would have warned me off anyone sitting across a table from me. I don't trust orange lipstick. Except maybe on Anne Hathaway, who could wear any color on her face and still have the screen presence of Elizabeth Taylor. But all that aside, I remembered a story, looking at those lips, that Cassie had told me about her mother on one of our walks. We were chatting about dieting and exercise and fashion and make-up and how our women-must-look-a-certain-way society was insulting and depressing and just plain wrong. Then Cassie laughed and said that one of the things she loved about her mother was that she never wore make-up, except for Cherries in the Snow red lipstick. She never left the house without it.

So there I sat, freaking out inside, wondering, again, what the hell was going on. My heart started racing, the buffaloes were stampeding in my innards. I couldn't speak until she prodded me. “Well, don't you have anything to say?” She pressed her lips together.

That raised my hackles—although I have no idea what hackles are—even further, and my bravado prevailed. “Show me your identification, lady, and do it quick before I shove your iPhone down your throat.”

She acted shocked but not really, if you know what I mean—she never would have made it as an actor. Really, worse than Andie McDowell, who, if you ask me, couldn't act her way out of a Cialis commercial. “How dare you,” she simmered, or tried to simmer, while she snatched her iPhone.

I grabbed her wrist before it left the table. “Where's Beth Hobbs?”

“Let go of me. Now.”

I didn't let go. Instead, I took her purse with my other hand and shook it upside down on the table. Her wallet fell out and I picked it up. It wasn't a wallet at all. It was a badge holder. This lady was a cop. I let go.

“Jeez. This is the best the SFPD can do? Detective Nancy Mellon? You thought I would reveal some deep, dark secret, thinking that you were Beth Hobbs? Do you know who Andie McDowell is? Because even SHE would have done a better job!” I stood up.

Officer Mellon stood up, too. “Surprise. I'm no Andie McDowell. Sit down, Annabelle.”

I rolled my eyes and stalked out. Mickey wasn't due to pick me up for another forty-five minutes, but there was the Mustang, still parked down the street.

Mellon came out of the café. “Look, Annabelle, Brad and Mick figured you might want to reveal something to Beth Hobbs that you wouldn't feel comfortable telling the police. You're right, I blew it. But if you're holding anything back, now might be the time to tell me.”

I stared at her. “Brad and Mick? Brad and MICK? Do you mean Brad and MICKEY PAXTON?”

She nodded. “Yes. Detective Mick Paxton.”

“He's a DETECTIVE??” I was backing away from her then, away from the café, and away from the Mustang.

“Annabelle, come on, let's go back in and talk.”

I was already turning to run, one block over to Sutter Street, and then down the hill, finding it hard to breathe, and wishing I could fly.

After a couple of blocks I turned right on Grant and then a left on Post and ducked into Gumps. If you don't know Gumps, make sure you go there on your next trip to San Francisco. It's full of exquisite, expensive objects, from Japanese painted scrolls to framed exotic bugs to hand-engraved fine crystal cake platters that would be perfect for a cozy dinner for eighteen, served by a maid showing off Schwarzenegger biceps in order to lift them. Upstairs features custom Asian-style furniture—red-lacquer chests, bamboo chairs, ceramic garden stools—among some odd designer pieces. That's where I darted and plopped down on an overstuffed zebra-printed ottoman, hoping, even at that anxiety-filled moment, that it was faux zebra. I consider animals God's creatures; we humans are supposed to be learning things from them, not turning them into comfy footrests.

I dropped my head between my knees and tried to slow my breathing.
Sea of Love
came rushing back to me, and I sure didn't want to be in that movie anymore. Ellen Barkin didn't know that Al Pacino was a cop, either, let alone that he thought she was a murderer. Maybe it wasn't such a great film after all.

Then Kevin came up and softly laid his hand on my shoulder. I knew he was Kevin because he said, “Miss, I'm Kevin Morgan, furniture sales associate. May I help you with something?”

I didn't sit up. I shook my head and mumbled, “No, thanks.” Then I heard Mickey.

“Thanks, Kevin. My wife and I are simply having a little disagreement on the price of a new chair. If you can give us a few minutes, I'm sure we'll work this out quietly.”

“Certainly, sir, take your time, and let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Kevin walked away. Mickey's nice Cole Hahns stood on the floor in front of my feet. He squatted down. I still didn't sit up.

“Annabelle, let's get out of here.”

I shook my head.

“I saw you run. I was looking in the rear-view mirror.”

I didn't move.

“I saw you talking to Officer Mellon. I guess she told you…”

I still didn't twitch one muscle.

Mick reached out to brush my hair back from my face. I swatted his hand. “Don't touch me.”

“I had to lie to you.”

I snorted. “Really. All day long, every day since we met, or what?” That's when I straightened up and faced him. “You bastard.”

Mickey rose. “Everything was the truth, except the part about my being a sales rep. Everything else was true. Everything, Annabelle.” He sat down on a leopard-print stool next to me, or maybe it was cheetah. Who would buy such a thing?

My eyes drilled into his. “And you didn't tell me because…?”

He sighed. “I was undercover in Chicago. On a completely unrelated case. I didn't want to bring you into that, or to have this whole catastrophe mixed up with that.”

I kept aim on his eyes. “I'm listening.” See? Remember what I said about being open-minded and compassionate? That was me at this moment, even though I was preparing myself to jump up, punch him in the nose, and throw the zebra chair over the railing onto the fancy crystal platters below.

“I was at the book convention to investigate a matter that has nothing to do with books but everything to do with the convention center and the union. An extortion case. Then I met you, and the convention was over, and I had gotten the information I needed, and like I said”—he gave me a tentative smile—“I met you.”

“Hmm. And when we were being chased all over hell and my roommate is murdered and you meet my parents, for god's sake, it didn't occur to you that you should tell me the truth? And then you set me up, Mickey, you SET ME UP, to meet a cop with orange smackers who couldn't act her way out of a Cialis commercial?”

“What?”

“How could you send me off to that meeting this morning, knowing what was going on?”

Mickey reached for my hand, but I pulled it away from him. “How?”

“I didn't like it.”

I turned my head away from him.

“I didn't like it, Annabelle, but Brad told me that they had to confirm if you are involved in all of this, and you can see his point, really, that they had to make sure you weren't hiding anything, even though I told him I was sure you weren't. So he came up with this plan and I went along with it, because if I didn't, he wasn't going to trust me, either.”

I let my mouth fall open. “You're kidding me, Mickey. How can cops be this stupid, to try a harebrained plan like this?”

He tried his little smile again. “Brad was never the brightest guy at the academy, and Detective Mellon, well, who knew she was a worse actress than Andie McDowell?”

“You heard me tell her that?”

“Tell her what?”

“The Andie McDowell thing? You said that on your own?”

He wrinkled his forehead. “I wasn't hooked up to any listening device.”

“Oh jeez. How can it be that I have found this man who likes
Silverado
and doesn't like Andie McDowell, and whose pants are basically a great fit, only to find out that he's a big fat liar?” I sprang off the ottoman.

“I'm with you in this thing. Really, I am.”

“I don't want you in this thing anymore.”

“That doesn't matter too much at this point.”

“ExCUSE me?” I was ready to punch him now.

“I'm basically assigned to you. I promised Brad I'd stick with you. Otherwise, he'll bring you into the station for a long spell of questioning, and you won't make it up to Tall Oaks.”

It was a face off. Sergio Leone's theme music from
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
would have provided the perfect backdrop.

“Mickey, where do you live?”

“New York. I told you, I didn't lie about anything else.”

“How come you have so much money?”

“Parents. Had a lot. Died young, left me with, well, a small fortune.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“You told me that your dad was a plumber and your mom a hair stylist.”

“That wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth. Dad was an inventor of sorts, too. Came up with a new pipe sealant, sold the patent to WaterWorks Tools for a pile of dough.”

“Fuck you, Mickey. How much else have you told me that's ‘just not the whole truth'?” My voice had risen, and Kevin started walking toward us again, but I half waved at him and mouthed that I was sorry, making the motion of zipping my lips. He leaned against a bamboo secretary—a desk, not a person—and stayed there, keeping an eye on us.

“I know. Fuck me. I know. I handled this badly. I was trying to keep my cover, I had to try to figure out what was happening in Las Vegas, I had to figure you out, I…”

“Why were you looking through papers on my desk this morning?”

He paused. “Bad habit. Murder scene. Papers all over your desk. I'm a detective. I shouldn't have done that. I wasn't thinking.”

“Do you think I'm involved in this? Do you think I'm one of the bad guys?”

He didn't smile. “I know you're not.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw you tie up a guy with dental floss. I caught you when you collapsed when you heard about Cassie. I met your parents. I met your cat.” He paused. “I made love with you.” He paused again. “I'm
in
love with you.”

“Really.” Then I punched in him in the face. My fist didn't land squarely—I haven't practiced punching in a long time, basically since my eleven-year-old attack on the kid next door—and he dodged it, but I got the side of his nose well enough that he yelled “Ow!”

I turned on my heel and marched toward the stairs. “Kevin, we're leaving. My husband would like to purchase that cheetah bench there. Cost is no issue. In fact, he wants ten of them. Charge his VISA. I mean his American Express.”

“Have a wonderful day,” replied Kevin, while Mickey followed me out, holding his nose with one hand and apologetically waving at Kevin with his other, his credit cards safe in his wallet.