Killer Riff (10 page)

“Hey, Detective,” Peter said with a mockingly perplexed tone. “I thought you guys were …” He made a gesture that looked as if he were an umpire calling someone out at home.

Both men looked at me with disconcertingly similar expressions, expectant but still trying to be polite. “I never said that.” I didn’t know whether to say it defensively to Peter or apologetically to Kyle, and it tumbled out in some faltering, semifalsetto midrange. Kyle and I were never going to get back on proper footing at this rate.

“You didn’t correct me,” Peter pursued as I tried to picture how far through his right foot I could drive the heel of my shoe before Kyle restrained me. If he’d even try.

There was something slightly absurd about this whole situation. I was, on a purely technical level, a single woman. Aside from the fact that I was still in love with one of these men and could not get the other out of my life, neither one had any right to be quizzing me about what I was doing with my evenings, especially at a point in the morning when I’d had little sleep, zero coffee, and an argument with my boss. My hands planted themselves on my hips of their own accord as I tried to separate my annoyance with Peter’s caring from my delight with Kyle’s concern from my irritation at being quizzed.

“Not that I particularly owe anyone an explanation for anything, but I was keeping the conversation on business,” I said. “Just like now.”

“So we’re all here for work,” Kyle replied.

“We are?” I asked with alarm, given Kyle’s field.

“And what’s your business?” Peter asked him.

“None of yours,” Kyle replied.

Peter gave him a big and completely insincere smile. “I’d forgotten you’re funny. How’d I manage that?”

Kyle surprised us both by sticking his hand out to Peter. “Happens to the best of us. Why not to you.”

Peter glared at Kyle for a long moment, then shook his hand firmly. “I’d love to stay and play, but I have work to do.” He tossed a look back at me. “Let me know what you find out,” he said as he walked out of the building.

Todd followed Peter, or retreated from us, or a little of both, then clung to his post at the front door. Kyle and I stood in the middle of the lobby, looking at each other. Not touching, not talking. After our glorious moment of reunion at the Bubble Lounge, I’d hoped our next meeting would be a little more romantic. But it seemed it was our curse that practical matters had the darnedest way of interfering.

“What made him think we’d broken up?” Kyle asked evenly.

Giving up on my romantic fantasy, I clenched my teeth. “Maybe the fact that we had?”

“You told him?”

“Not exactly, but he used the phrase
stopped dating
, and I thought it was about you and me, not about him and me. He and me. Whatever.”

Kyle’s forehead furrowed quizzically. “We hadn’t stopped dating.”

“Yes, we had.”

“We’d paused.”

“Even a TiVo can’t pause that long without wearing something down,” I said, both bothered and amused by his decision to play semantics at this point. Two could indulge in that. “Why did you tell him you’re here ‘because of work’?”

“I am.”

“I’m work?”

Kyle smiled. “Don’t set yourself up like that. I’m investigating a potential assault,” he continued quickly, not giving me the chance to react to the first half of the statement before I was surprised by the second.

“What happened?”

“How ‘bout you tell me?” Kyle suggested, pulling the folded newspaper page out of his jacket pocket and opening it with a snap. I got the feeling I was going to see a lot of that picture as the day progressed.

“That’s not assault.”

“Do you fully understand what constitutes assault in the state of New York?” Kyle asked helpfully, turning the paper so he could look at the picture again.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Not yet.”

“I was going to tell you. I’m not hiding anything. I’m not going to hide anything,” I said, trying to convey the full weight of the promise I was making.

“From anyone, apparently.”

“When did you start reading the
Post?”

“When a stack of about eighteen copies turned up on my desk this morning.”

“You’re amused?”

“So far. But I’d really like to hear the whole story. Wanna have breakfast at the Carnegie Deli?”

He looked back at me with calculated timing, so I knew the choice was deliberate. Our first meal together had been breakfast at the Carnegie Deli. Of course, I figured out not long after he sat down that he suspected me of murder and I left without eating, but it was still knee-wateringly sweet of him to offer to take us back to our roots. It’s what we really needed if we were going to, as Dorothy Fields suggested, pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again. He was being gracious and open, and I couldn’t stand how much I had missed him.

So I had to answer: “I’d love to. But I can’t.”

He folded the newspaper back up. “Should I take that personally?”

“No, it’s work.” There was that curse again. “I’m meeting Olivia for breakfast.” I reached out for the newspaper, but he slid it back into his jacket pocket. “She’s the one who got me into this mess.”

“Yeah, but that’s one of your charms. You like being in messes.”

“I prefer to think of it as straightening messes out.”

He nodded, but he dropped his eyes. “That too.”

“Could we have lunch together?” I said, not wanting to plead but prepared to do so.

“I’d rather have dinner. We won’t be as rushed.”

“We do have a lot to talk about.”

“That too.” His eyes came up again and held me in place while he leaned in and kissed me with appalling restraint. “Let’s say Wild Salmon at eight?”

“Wonderful.”

He offered me his arm. “Think Todd would mind if I got you a cab myself?”

“He’ll live,” I assured him.

On the sidewalk, I tried to concentrate on how wonderful it was to be standing with him again, our hands intertwined, our bodies pressed gently together, our eyes locked. He was the one who said, “Why’re you having breakfast with her?”

“I’m getting to know her. I have to spend a lot more time with her to write this article.”

“Even though her dad’s death was accidental.” He said it with the finality of a math teacher reminding me of an important theorem right before an exam.

“The article’s about her, whatever happened to her dad.”

“Okay.” He raised his arm without his eyes ever leaving my face, and I heard the throaty rumble of a cab pulling up behind me. “Just be careful.” I started to smile, expecting another snarky comment about Adam and Jordan, but he continued quietly, “People in pain get desperate for answers. Don’t offer her false hope.”

I knew he was right, and as he helped me into the cab, leaning in for a last quick kiss, I knew I should let it go at that. But somehow, I still asked, “So what would it take to get an accidental death investigated as a homicide?”

Lucky for me, he laughed. “Evidence.”

“How much?”

“Molly …”

“Just so I can tell her, if she gets too worked up.”

There was a little truth in that, so he answered, “More than you’re going to find, because the man’s in the ground and no one thinks he was murdered except his daughter, and she might be wrong. It happens. Leave it alone.” He kissed me again, hard, more in punctuation than passion, then closed the door and slapped the hood of the cab, as if I were a prisoner being taken away in a cruiser.

It took me two blocks to realize that the tingling sensation in my chest was not a result of seeing Kyle, but my phone trying to get my attention while I hugged my purse. Realizing I still hadn’t called Claire, I dug it out and retrieved the messages. The first was Tricia, laughing so hard about the picture that she could hardly speak. The second was from Cassady, and I expected more of the same, but it was an unexpectedly somber message, asking me to call her when I had the chance.

Laughs could wait. I called Cassady first and was surprised when she answered right away. “Are you okay?” I asked. I’d gotten used to her letting her voice mail do the heavy lifting now that she was so often busy with Aaron or catching up on work because she’d been busy with Aaron.

“I think okay is at least six blocks over from where I am,” she said darkly.

“What happened?” Anticipating a comment about the picture, I was puzzled by why it would upset her. I’d expected her to laugh even harder than Tricia.

“He stood me up.”

“Aaron?”

“Yes.”

This was huge. Cassady’s relationship with Aaron had been unfolding sweetly and smoothly; Aaron standing her up was out of character. But that was the lesser of the two hurts. The central issue here was that Ms. Lynch was experiencing something so rare that it might, in fact, be brand new. What man in his right mind would stand her up?

“Has this ever happened to you before?” I asked in disbelief.

“No.”

“Has he called this morning?”

“He called last night.”

My concern ebbed immediately. “Okay, then, he didn’t really stand you up.”

“He let me wait for forty-five minutes and then called with an excuse so transparent, you could read the newspaper through it. Nice picture, by the way.”

“So clearly not the issue.”

“I’m trying to demonstrate I have manners, even in the most difficult circumstances.”

“What was his excuse?”

“An emergency with one of his students.”

“Okay. Why is that transparent?”

“He’s a physics professor, not an obstetrician. What sort of emergency could there have been? An atom split without permission?”

“Now, that would’ve made the papers before I did. Maybe he’s really a member of the Justice League and the world needed saving. They keep that stuff pretty quiet.”

“He’s cheating on me.”

“Cassady, don’t.”

“It happens.”

“Not to you.”

“Not often. But it’s still possible.”

“But not probable. Have you talked to him today?”

“He said he’d call, but he hasn’t.”

That didn’t sound like Aaron, which didn’t sound good, but I wasn’t about to encourage Cassady to conjure up bitter scenarios. That was my job.

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation that might even involve a distressed student. How many times did we go weep on Dean Samson’s shoulder at all hours?” I asked, invoking the calm and benevolent dean of students who had guided us through plenty of undergrad crises. “He might be taking you for granted, but I bet he’s not cheating on you.”

“I could go for a lesser crime,” she said with a sadness that meant she was much crazier about Aaron than we’d given her credit for. “Have a great breakfast. Don’t let the paparazzi catch you with your mouth full.”

“They’re not going to be there.”

“Yeah, right. Call me later,” she said with the beginnings of a lilt, then hung up. She was laughing at my expense, but at least she was laughing, so I’d accomplished something positive. But I couldn’t figure out why she thought it was so funny.

Until the cab pulled up in front of Le Parker Meridien and the knot of people milling in front revealed themselves not to be patrons waiting for admittance, but half a dozen photographers. It struck me as an amusing coincidence until I got out of the cab and walked toward the front door. Suddenly, the photographers were between me and the door, snapping away.

I don’t like having my picture taken, mainly because I have a gift for closing my eyes and opening my mouth at the precise moment the shutter closes. So strolling down the red carpet while flashes pulse has never figured in my fantasies, and running this gauntlet was certainly not fun. I thought about striding past them with my gaze fixed, Gwyneth Paltrow—like, on some vaguely forward point and a polite smile on my lips. But after about two steps, the absurdity of the situation overwhelmed me, and I stopped, which had the benefit of surprising my new friends, who all paused at least three seconds before returning to their snapping.

“This is a mistake,” I said, trying the polite approach for starters. “You don’t want to take my picture.”

“There’s no need for threats, babe,” one of them, a burly, bearded guy in a khaki jacket who had apparently seen
The Year of Living Dangerously
at an impressionable age, called out to me.

“Don’t call me ‘babe,’” I said, struggling to hang on to my polite impulse, “and don’t take my picture. I’m not whoever you must think I am.”

“You’re Jordan Crowley’s new babe,” he said with deliberate emphasis on the last word.

“Adam’s,” another photographer, a tall, reedy woman with straight hair hanging down to her belt, corrected him.

“Wrong on both counts,” I said firmly. “Thank you anyway.”

As I turned away from them, I enjoyed a full two seconds of congratulating myself on handling the incident with aplomb and decorum before I slammed into the chest of the man who had walked up behind me. The cameras whirred into action again as the man slid his arm gallantly along my shoulders.