Secrets and Ink (7 page)

“Hm, I see your point. What about you, Nick?” She turned a sharp gaze on Nick and paused for a second. I was sure she was going to ask him about his opinions on personal imperfections, but instead she said, “Any brush with celebrities?”

Inwardly, I sighed in relief. I sensed a touch of combativeness in Charly, and it was so out of character for her.

“I pulled over a couple of B-listers when I was on patrol, but nobody big.”

“Did you ticket them or let them go?” She asked.

“That depended on their attitudes.”

I figured out a way to move the conversation to neutral waters. “Nick, tell Charly the story you told me, you know, about the trunk.”

Nick obliged, and his delivery was even better this time. Charly laughed so hard she gasped for air. I’d noticed nurses have a yen for the morbid and gruesome. By the time the appetizers arrived, she seemed to have let go of whatever quibble she had with Nick. Although, she convinced him to try her sweetbread dish and didn’t tell him what it was made out of till after. Nick paled then for a second but kept his meal down.

Over the main course, Nick told us about the things the movie got wrong on police procedures. “No cop in his right mind would stick a pencil in a gun barrel and lift it up. The scene wasn’t even processed yet! And there is only so much enhancing you can do with blurry security footage. There’s no way they could read the guy’s name tag. Totally unrealistic.”

“I know how you feel,” I said solemnly. “I can’t bear watching grocery-store scenes in movies. They always get the shelving wrong.”

“Really?” Nick looked at me as if working in a gourmet store made me an expert in anything that mattered.

I grinned back. “Nah, I’m making shit up.”

He scowled, and Charly giggled.

“Neither of you were bothered by the scene where Carson drove a motorcycle from the top of the building straight into the helicopter?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“That’s just movie stuff,” Nick explained.

By then Charly and I were well lubricated with wine. We’d ordered a bottle of red for the three of us, but Nick only took a token sip. Somebody had to pick up the slack. Wine made me mellow, but it turned Charly into an indiscreet and sentimental sap.

“You should have patience with Jem,” she said, leaning close to Nick. “He thinks he’s been cursed.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Nick replied.

I shook my head at her disapprovingly. “I don’t think that. I know it. Ms. Jones said, word for word: Sir, may all your hubris fall around your ears like a ton of bricks. Three days later, a literal ton of bricks fell on me. Well, okay, technically, it was poured concrete, but that’s a tiny detail. I’ve had nothing but bad luck since.”

Like my sister, Nick was a doubter. “Don’t be ridiculous. Life’s not a fairy tale.”

“Don’t I know it? But the curse is real. I saw a psychic, and she categorically declared I was under a curse. Don’t give me that look,” I added, because Nick was rolling his eyes now. “Madame Layla is for real. She’s also a witch, so she knows this stuff.”

If only they’d met her. Madame Layla had shown none of the kitsch appeal of twenty-dollar palm readers. She’d been all class in her sea-green dress and thick black tresses peppered with a few gray strands. The room where she’d seen me had been full of sunlight, color and the scent of burning incense. She’d held my hands between hers for a long time before reaching for the cards. Without me disclosing any details of my troubles, she’d told me I’d suffered a great physical ordeal and it had been brought on by a curse. She’d mentioned a woman of power, and even zeroed in on this woman’s color—deep red, close to purple. I’d known then Madame Layla had been the genuine article. I’d tried to explain it to Charly once, but she’d been a devout skeptic. I didn’t expect any better from Nick.

He visibly struggled to keep his face straight. “Why didn’t you have her break the curse, if she’s a witch?”

“Don’t you think I thought of that? Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of curse that can be broken. The good news is, it won’t last forever. I just have to wait till it runs its course. Course of the curse. That’s a bit of a tongue-twister, isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

I lifted my glass. “Au contraire, my friend. I’m nothing if not possible.” I drank the wine and put the glass down. “Now if you excuse me, I need to visit the little jinxed boys’ room.”

After dinner, we first dropped Charly off at her place.

“I like him,” she whispered into my ear as we hugged good-bye.

“Me too, unfortunately,” I whispered back.

The freeway wound its way along the side of the San Gabriel Mountains, and all I could see on my side were dark lumps of shrubbery whooshing by. However, from the other side I caught glimpses of the city shimmering below like some underwater kingdom. I watched Nick drive, illuminated only by the dashboards and the headlights of passing cars. I took in the serious set of his jaw and his assured hands on the steering wheel. Strange and familiar. Longing swelled in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

He gave me a sideways glance. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for coming,” I said, pulling myself together.

“I had a good time. Your sister is protective, isn’t she?”

“I apologize for that. I might have told her something about you being a jerk, after…you know.”

“So she knows?”

“Yeah, I told her. Does it bother you?”

He considered the question. “Better this way. Secrets tend to cause trouble.”

Just then I almost told Nick about the second photo, but I didn’t know how to start, how to explain I had no idea whose cock I’d had in my mouth. I was afraid it would repel him. As I hesitated, the moment slipped away.

Nick got off the freeway. It was several exits too soon and taking the surface streets would make the trip longer, but I didn’t mind. At least I’d have time to interrogate him. “So, out with it. What did you and my sister talk about behind my back?” I asked as we drifted through speed-bump-infested side streets.

“Nothing much,” he hedged.

“Bullshit. She likes you, and she’s a blabbermouth when she drinks.”

“Fine. She warned me that you use wisecracks to hide behind when something’s troubling you.”

Yup, that sounded like my sister, all right. “Pfft. Ever since she got her nursing license, she thinks she can psychoanalyze people too.”

“I dunno. She might have a point.”

“Everyone has problems, and we all deal with them in our own ways. It’s essential to keep a sense of humor. As they say, if you can’t laugh at yourself, who will?”

He gave me a doubtful look. “Who says that?”

“Well, my neighbor, Mrs. Gallagher told me it’s an old Polish proverb, but sometimes I get the feeling she’s putting me on. I like it, though.”

“Charly mentioned you had a spell of depression after your accident. She’s worried you could fall back into it.” He spoke like a man picking his way among eggshells. I hated it.

“Oh, not you too. She filled your head with rubbish. I’m not a basket case. Okay, so I find myself in the dumps time to time. You’d be too if a house fell on you, your lover forgot you existed, and you had to learn to walk and talk again, and then all kinds of crappy stuff kept happening to you. But this curse will run out eventually. I just have to wait it out.”

While I talked, my roving left hand found a cozy spot to rest—on top of Nick’s thigh. I didn’t even notice it right away, and when I did, the warmth and strength soaking into me through the fabric felt too good. Nick’s surprised look got me out of my reverie, and I snatched the offending appendage away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

To my bewilderment, he reached out and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “It’s all right.”

My train of thought derailed; I stayed mute.

Nick pushed the conversation back on track. “You’re not cursed.”

“Oh really? My car got stolen twice in four years, windows broken another couple of times. I also got rear-ended by an uninsured motorist once, but at least that happened at low speed. My credit card number got stolen and then my whole wallet. I had a bed bug infestation that took me six months to eradicate. Those fuckers are nasty. Last year, a mocking bird built a nest outside my bedroom window. Did you know they sing at night? I hardly slept all summer. If it comes back, I’ll get a BB gun and shoot it. On top of everything, I’m undateable and will probably die alone. Oh yeah, and my cat ran away. I won’t even bring up my recent calamities.”

The corners of his lips quirked up. “Okay, I admit, you had some bad luck.”

“Tell me about it. But you know, it could be worse. I keep telling myself that. The world is full of people with much bigger problems. And I have all sorts of things to cheer me up.”

“Like?”

“Going for a swim, reading books, watching movies, watching the sunset from my balcony. But I really miss Pancake. She was great company.”

“You could get another cat.”

“It would just run away too. You should do the same, before it’s too late.”

“I’m not superstitious.”

“You should be, in your line of work. Flee. I’m like a black cat crossing the street.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

We’ll see about that, I thought but didn’t say.

“And I don’t think you’re undateable either.” He turned to me as he said it, but there wasn’t enough light for me to read his expression.

“Oh really? I have a string of personal disasters to prove you wrong.”

“Your sister thinks you sabotage your relationships because you’re afraid of getting hurt again.”

That did it. Charly would get an earful next time we met. “Does she now? Would you mind telling me how I sabotaged our relationship? And remember, I don’t have a working time machine.”

Now, that shut him up.

Chapter Five

I had an early shift the next day—there are no weekends off in retail—but at least I got home early too, still buzzing with unspent energy. I decided to do an overdue spring cleaning. It had absolutely nothing to do with the possibility of Nick dropping by. As a friend. Because friends did drop by at each other’s places, even unannounced at times.

I started with the kitchen—scrubbing down the stove, cleaning out the fridge, washing down the shelves and then organizing the cabinets too. I also reorganized the bedroom closet and filled a trash bag full of clothes I hadn’t worn in ages. I’d drop them off at the thrift store later. At the back of the closet, I came across a container of catnip. I should’ve thrown it out but instead put it back on the shelf. From the balcony I collected the ceramic pots of plants that had died on me, and piled them next to the Dumpster. May someone else have better luck with them. I even did a load of laundry but ran out of steam to put it away too. The sun was still fairly high in the sky when I called it a day.

Proud of my accomplishments, I stretched out on the sofa and reached for the iPad. I hesitated between one of the many books I’d downloaded and Plants vs. Zombies. The game won—I had yet to complete the roof level. At the sound of purposeful knocking, I paused the game and jumped up with the same motion. To my disappointment, it wasn’t Nick at the door. I’d never seen the balding, middle-aged man with heavy jowls before, but he immediately put me at unease.

“Jeremy Mitchell?” he asked.

“That’s me,” I warily admitted.

He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and held it in front of my face. “I’m Detective Gary Lipkin, LAPD. I’m here about a Riley Moore.”

I stared at the badge under my nose but hardly took it in. “Riley? What about him?”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Moore was killed. Have you seen him recently?”

“Yes, last night. What do you mean killed?” It seemed surreal, and all I could feel was numbness. Strangers and people on TV shows got killed, not people you knew.

Lipkin’s face was unreadable. Frigging cops. “It would be best if you came to the station to give a statement.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He gave me the address and driving directions while I put on shoes and grabbed my keys. Confusion and disbelief churned in my head during the whole drive. Riley dead? Seemed impossible—I’d just seen him less than twenty-four hours ago. “Killed” was such a vague word. It could’ve meant anything from a car accident to having his head bashed in by a homophobe. I was still in a daze as Detective Lipkin steered me through the bustling police station and into an interview room. At least it was quiet there.

“Coffee? Soda?” he asked.

“Uhm, coffee.”

He left, and I looked around. Small desk, a couple of chairs. No mirror, only a clock hanging on the scuffed wall. It was the Hollywood Station, the same where I’d been taken at my arrest many years ago, but they’d just thrown me into a cell back then. However, it was also where Nick worked. I hadn’t seen him as we’d come in.

Lipkin came back with a paper cup and a brown folder. He handed me the coffee, I had a sip and put it aside. It tasted like warm mud. He asked me about the last time I saw Riley, and I told him I’d met Riley on personal business, we talked for a few minutes, and then I left.

“You still haven’t told me what happened,” I reminded him.

“Mr. Moore was strangled in his apartment. His roommate found him,” he said with his eyes fixed on me.

I stared back at him in disbelief. “Strangled? By whom? Why?”

“We’re investigating it. Another roommate said you and Mr. Moore were arguing.”

Oh. That had to be Ginger. Just then it dawned on me—I was a suspect. Thinking about it, it made perfect sense. I’d had an argument with Riley shortly before he was murdered, and we had a history. The situation seemed unreal, like a movie. A weird feeling took over me, as if I stepped out of my own skin and watched myself with the detective.

“What did you argue about?” he asked.

“Nothing serious. We used to be lovers.” I looked him squarely in the eye, searching for reaction and getting none. “He was playing head games, trying to get me back, or get back at me. I don’t know. I went there to tell him to knock it off. Then I left.”

“A witness stated you’d been shouting about a photograph.”