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Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate
Kyra Davis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my readers. Your letters and e-mails of support

and praise never fail to inspire and motivate me.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank my wonderful editor, Margaret Marbury, for all of her help and encouragement, and Police Chief John Weiss for helping me with this book’s ending. I also want to thank my stepbrother, Chris Sullivan, my mother, Gail Davis, and my stepfather, Richard Sullivan, for taking care of my son while I wrote this novel. Last but absolutely NOT least I want to thank my son, Isaac, for being my biggest fan and greatest motivator. Isaac, I love you with all my heart and soul.

1

Why sleep with the enemy when you can screw ’em?

—C’est La Mort

It’s not often that an old friend and mentor asks you to seduce her husband. I suppose it was the bizarre nature of the request that made me want to do it. Or perhaps it was because I knew that Melanie O’Reilly was at least partially responsible for my becoming a novelist. Or maybe I just agreed because I thought it would be a good way to get my mind off my ex-boyfriend, Anatoly Darinsky.

Whatever. The point is that after years of very sporadic contact Melanie invited me to lunch and asked if I would do her a big favor. My initial assumption was that she wanted me to donate some money to one of her favorite organizations or charities—the Salvation Army, the Symphony, the Boy Scouts…what have you. It even occurred to me that she wanted me to attend one of those five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners to support Flynn Fitzgerald, the majorly right-wing Contra Costa County congressional hopeful whose campaign was currently employing her husband, Eugene. The last really would have been a huge favor since I disagreed with almost everything Fitzgerald stood for, but for my favorite former writing professor I would have done it. But this…this one came out of left field.

It seems that Eugene had not been the same since he and a few of his evangelical buds had returned from a Moral Majority road trip, an excursion not unlike the MTV Rock the Vote road trip, except this expedition involved more Jesus talk and less talk of body piercing. Melanie was convinced that the Jesus van had doubled as a magnet for wayward sluts, and that her husband had been nibbling on the forbidden fruit.

But I digress. My mission had nothing to do with Jesus, nor was I supposed to emulate the Virgin Mary. My mission was to tempt Eugene by behaving like Mary Magdalene during her party years. Melanie explained that I was the only “younger woman” friend who had never met her husband. At thirty-one I wasn’t sure I still qualified as a younger woman, but it was true that I had never met Eugene O’Reilly. I was supposed to have gone to their wedding but a bout of strep throat put an end to those plans.

I wasn’t going to sleep with him, of course. Apart from the fact that this was only a fact-finding mission, one look told me that the man’s weight had to be somewhere under one hundred and twenty pounds. If a guy looks like Brad Pitt I’ll willingly compromise my political ideals in exchange for a little face time, but when confronted with a conservative who’s twice my age and skinny enough to make me feel fat, I emphatically refused to cross the party line.

I’d simply be testing him: if Eugene O’Reilly wanted to play “break the commandments” with me I would simply ditch him and report back to Melanie. If he resisted my charms, all was right with the conservative world.

I took one more sip of the lemon drop I had been nursing while scoping him out from my seat in the darkened corner of the Antioch bar, screwed up my courage and then crossed the room to Eugene.

“Is this seat taken?” I pretended not to notice the way my short red dress rode up when I climbed onto the bar stool.

The man didn’t even bother to look up from his Scotch and soda. “Not that I’m aware of.”

So far so good—still, I couldn’t help but feel a little hurt. I mean really, when an older man doesn’t bother to give you the time of day after you stick your boobs in his face you have to question your own sex appeal.

I tried to discreetly glance at myself in the mirror behind the bar. No major pimples, and as far as I could tell I didn’t have food in my teeth. My hair was a little out of control but no more than usual. My father was African-American and my mother had curly hair that was typical of her Eastern European Jewish ancestry, so when it came to my hair “a little out of control” was the best-case scenario.

I rested my elbow on the bar and tried another tactic. “I’ve never been to this place before.”

“Mmm.” He took another sip of his Scotch and casually looked around the room. I caught a glimpse of his hands, which seemed to be one of his few saving graces. They were big and strong…I’m into hands, but they need to be attached to a body that is at least a little appealing. Anatoly had great hands, and arms, and shoulders…but I wasn’t going to think of him right now or ever again. I was over Anatoly. Really.

“I don’t usually go to bars,” I said, bringing my focus back to the task at hand, “but tonight I just had to get out of the house. You ever feel like that? Like you just need to go somewhere no one knows you and forget your troubles?”

Eugene looked at me for the first time. “What are you trying to forget?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t really worked this story out in my head yet. “Oh, you know…family stuff.”

He nodded and turned his attention back to his Scotch.

“My younger brother dropped a big bomb on the whole family today,” I said quickly. In reality, the only sibling I had was a younger sister, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Oh?” His disinterest was palpable.

“Yeah…it turns out he’s ga…a homosexual.”

Eugene snapped his head back in my direction. “I’m so sorry.”

“It gets worse,” I said, encouraged by the reaction. “He has a boyfriend and they’re going to Massachusetts to get married.”

“No!” Eugene put his glass on the bar with a thud. “Did anyone see this coming?”

I shook my head and looked away. “He was always such a good kid. He consistently made the honor roll, played lots of sports in high school…he even got a full scholarship to Syracuse University.”

“Syracuse is a good conservative town.”

“I know! That’s why everyone in the family was so happy when he decided to go there instead of to the other university he was accepted to—” I leaned over and lowered my voice to a tremulous whisper “—UC Berkeley.”

Eugene exhaled loudly. “Clearly he made the right choice. But something must have gone wrong. Something must have happened to make him lose his way.”

“Yes, but what? Here we all thought he was busy studying and partying it up with a bunch of nice Republican fraternity brothers, and as it turns out he was spending all his free time campaigning for…for…” I dropped my head in my hands in what I hoped looked like a display of grief rather than an attempt to hide a smile “…for Hillary Clinton!”

“My God! Your parents must be devastated.”

“Oh, they are, and so am I. I keep replaying the whole sordid event in my head.” I glazed my eyes and pretended to relive the moment. “I’m eagerly awaiting his arrival with my parents at their place, he walks in the door, and before you can say ‘Green Party’ my whole world is turned upside down!”

Eugene put a hand on my arm. I held my breath and waited for him to use his thumb to stroke my skin or to somehow make the gesture more intimate, but he released me quickly, leaving me with nothing but the sense of being comforted by a well-meaning stranger.

“You need to have faith that your brother is going to be okay,” he said in a tone that was much gentler than what I was expecting. “People sometimes make mistakes, but with the love and the guidance of a good family many find their way back to the path of righteousness. You can’t give up on him.”

I looked up into Eugene’s eyes, expecting to see some kind of mad religious fervor, but all I saw was sincerity and conviction. He waved the bartender over. “Sir, I’d like another Scotch and soda and the lady needs a drink as well.” He turned and smiled at me. “Put it on my tab.”

I ended up closing the place with Eugene. I kept waiting for him to make a move on me, but everything he did seemed to be motivated by a desire for companionship. He sucked down a countless number of cocktails, and while the alcohol definitely made him more talkative, it didn’t make him more flirtatious.

“This country’s going to hell in a handbasket,” he said as he stumbled to his feet and tried unsuccessfully to help me put on my coat. “Immorality is everywhere—on the TV, radio, don’t even get me started about the Internet.”

“Tell me about it,” I said as I gently guided him out of the bar and into the warm night. “There’s this Web site, www.womenserotica.com—it’s despicable. I go on it every day to read the new entries and I’m horrified every time.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about!” Eugene slurred, too drunk to pick up on my sarcasm. “How are we suppose-ta raise children with good solid Christian values when they’re continually confronted with evil temptations?”

I nodded gravely. “I’m having a hard enough time just trying to shelter my cat from the filth they’ve been promoting on Animal Planet! Do you know that they had a whole show on elephant sperm?”

“My God!” Eugene shook his head. He looked at me in a blatant attempt to focus. “You realize that you’re not fit to drive.”

My lips curved into an amused smile. “And you think you are?”

“No, no. I’m gonna walk back to my hotel. I live in Walnut Creek. I’m jus’ here on business, my hotel’s only a mile away,” he slurred.

“It’s two in the morning, kind of late for a long walk.”

“Normally I’d take a cab,” Eugene conceded, “but tonight I need fresh air. You’re not the only one who had a bad day, ya know.”

I spotted a park bench on the other side of the street. “Why don’t we sit down for a while and talk? Like you said, I can’t drive and you’re obviously not in any big hurry to get to sleep, so you might as well hang out with me and talk while I sober up.”

Eugene nodded and followed me to the bench. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a green SUV parked at the end of the city block. Other than that, the area had already been deserted. The vehicle probably belonged to one of the bartenders closing up. I sat down on the bench and patted the seat next to me, but Eugene hesitated.

“Sophie, you’re a very nice girl and you’re very beautiful…but I’m married.”

“I saw the ring.”

“My wife’s been impossible lately, but I believe in the sanctity of marriage,” he said matter-of-factly. He sat down next to me and gazed at me with bloodshot eyes. “I practice what I preach.”

I felt myself soften toward him instantly. “I respect that, Eugene.”

“That’s the real problem with the world today,” he said, grandly gesturing out into space, “no one ever means what they say anymore. They’re all a bunch of bloody hypocrites. Moral corruption is everywhere, Sophie. Everywhere. Look! Look at that!” He jumped to his feet and picked up a discarded candy wrapper featuring a cartoon sea animal. “We now have sponges promoting deviant behavior!”

“Eugene, I think maybe we should get you a cab so you can sleep this one off.”

“Damn furry freaks if you ask me!”

How did Melanie end up with this man? I mean, he was honest and honorable, but his view of the world was incredibly whacked. I stood up and smiled at him sympathetically. “I think it’s time for me to head home. I have a long drive ahead of me.”

“But you’ve been drinking.”

“I switched to soda water a while back, you probably just didn’t notice—” because you were too drunk to notice anything “—because soda water can look like vodka and tonic.”

Eugene nodded. “Let me walk you to your car.”

I shrugged and waited as he staggered to his feet. I thought I heard the sound of an engine start up a ways behind me on the otherwise quiet street. We walked in silence for the three blocks to my car. I’d decided to be cheap and forgo the nearby garage, which meant that I had been forced to park a bit off the main strip. When we got to my Audi I turned to Eugene and put a hand on his shoulder. “Can I please give you a ride back to your hotel? It’s really no trouble.”

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I wanna walk.”

I suppressed a giggle. “I really think you should let me drive you.”

“No thanks, Sophie.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “It’s nice to know there are some decent people out there. You give me hope.”

And with that he stumbled off. I watched him until he turned the corner before getting into my car. I felt sorry for him. I wasn’t sure why he seemed so dejected, almost disillusioned.

I sighed, fastened my seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.

Just then I heard a quick series of loud bangs and the sound of a car screeching away.

My heart stopped. I quickly checked my rearview mirror, but there was no one on the block. The commotion had happened on one of the streets nearby.

Eugene.

Obviously the smart thing to do would have been to stay in the car and call 911 on my cell phone, but common sense temporarily abandoned me. I jumped out and ran to the street corner where I had last seen Eugene. As soon as I rounded the corner there he was, lying on the sidewalk, motionless. Blood was seeping through his previously white dress shirt.

I could see lights being turned on in the surrounding buildings as some of the residents tried to figure out what was going on. I sprinted to Eugene’s side and kneeled down. His eyes were at half mast and I heard a gurgling coming out of his throat.

“Eugene, it’s Sophie. Eugene, can you hear me?”

“Goddamned furry shit,” he muttered.

“Eugene, you’re delirious, just stay calm and I’ll get an ambulance.” But even as I said the words I heard the distant wail of sirens.

I also heard Eugene take his final breath.

2

People expect so much from the individuals they bear a fondness for. That’s why I focus my energy into being as disagreeable as possible.

—C’est La Mort

“Thank you so much for coming.” Melanie gestured for me to sit on her tan leather couch as she settled herself into an overstuffed armchair.

I sat down and stared blankly at the wall behind her. It had been three days since I called Melanie to tell her that she was a widow, and this was the first time since that awful event that I had seen her. I took three Advil before driving from San Francisco to her Walnut Creek home and now, forty-five minutes later, I still had a headache.

“Can I get you anything?” Melanie asked. “Johnny, Fitzgerald’s personal assistant, brought me a lovely fruit basket the other day. I could cut up a few pieces and some cheese if you’re hungry. Or how about a cup of tea?”

I shook my head mutely. Migraines and food didn’t mix.

There were a few moments of silence. Melanie squeezed her knees causing her linen pants to take on the quality of wrinkled paper. “I don’t really know what to say.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to say.”

Melanie winced. “You think less of me now.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” I asked, surprise overwhelming my discomfort. “What I think of you? How can that possibly matter at this point?”

“Your opinion has always mattered to me, Sophie. You were a very special student…my favorite, really.” A sad smile played on her lips. “I am so proud of all of your accomplishments. I understand that C’est La Mort hit the NewYork Times bestseller list in its first week! I like to think I played a small part….”

“Melanie, your husband’s dead. Your fanatically conservative, crazy, good-hearted and loyal husband is being embalmed right now.”

“I know.” Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her, and her rapid blinking seemed to imply that she was holding back tears, but her grief didn’t do a lot to alleviate my indignation.

“I’ve spent the last few nights awake berating myself for agreeing to entrap him. I can’t believe he spent the last minutes of his life with me and all I did was lie to him.”

“You always told me you were a good liar,” she tried to joke.

“I’m a great liar! And I enjoy it, but now all of a sudden lying seems ugly and…wrong! I spent all of three hours with your husband, and I know damn well that this was not a man who would have ever compromised his beliefs by cheating on you. What I don’t understand is how could you even suspect him of something like that?”

Melanie ran her hand over the loose skin that draped from her neck. “I did know him, but something had changed. Eugene didn’t like secrets. He always said that a husband and wife should tell each other everything.

“Let me give you an example,” Melanie said, apparently noting my incredulity. “Last year Eugene was trying to organize a boycott against The Da Vinci Code in keeping with the request of the Vatican. But I really wanted to see what all the fuss was about so I went ahead and bought the book, and once I started reading it I couldn’t put it down! I was just finishing up the last chapter when Eugene walked in on me. It was awful. At first I thought it was because he thought that reading it against the Vatican’s advice was a sin and that was clearly a problem for him, but what hurt him the most was knowing that I had tried to hide it from him. He saw that as a betrayal.”

“Not telling him that you were reading a book that everyone and their brother had already read was a betrayal?”

“I know it sounds extreme, but that’s just the way Eugene was.” I could have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a note of respect in her voice. “Lately I could tell that something was bothering him and yet he wouldn’t talk about it. It was so unlike him, and even though I couldn’t imagine him cheating on me I didn’t know what else it could be. We all make mistakes, and I thought that maybe he wasn’t as immune to temptation as I thought he was. I wouldn’t have left him, Sophie, I just wanted to know what I was dealing with. But now…now, he’s gone….”

Fresh tears trickled down the pale skin of her cheeks and I felt the unwelcome pang of guilt. I shifted in my seat, unsure if I should offer an apology, condolences or just get up and leave.

Melanie was right. I did think less of her. The dynamics of our relationship had changed so much over the past twelve years. She had started as my writing professor and then quickly become my mentor. When my father died I completely fell apart and Melanie had helped me pull myself together. After I graduated from University of San Francisco we had stayed in contact, meeting for coffee every few months. During our visits I began to see Melanie for who she really was: an intelligent, kind and altruistic woman with a lot of insecurities. Eventually she took a teaching position at Saint Mary’s College in Moraga and our visits became semiannual occurrences. That was my fault. It just seemed like every time she suggested we get together I had something else I had to do. When she got married to Eugene and moved to Walnut Creek our visits became even less frequent, although she never forgot my birthday or failed to congratulate me when one of my books hit the stands. I often thought of her but rarely picked up the phone to tell her so. I assumed that she was happily occupied with pursuits that didn’t involve me; perhaps mentoring another young writer. But looking at her now it was hard to admire her. For once it felt like I was the stronger one, the one with the most common sense, which was really scary since common sense isn’t always my strong suit.

“I didn’t want him to die, Sophie.”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to reassess the situation. Who the hell was I to give her grief? She didn’t give me a hard time when I told her I was getting a divorce after only two years of marriage, nor did she take issue with the content of the novels I wrote even though I knew they flew in the face of many of her religious beliefs. I leaned forward so I could take her hand. “Of course you didn’t want that, Melanie. I know that.”

“It never occurred to me that we would end this way.”

“It was just one of those awful random twists of fate,” I said. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one could have foreseen this.”

“Yes, a random drive-by shooting.” Melanie said the words slowly, as if trying to convince herself of them. “Or at least that’s what the Antioch police are saying.”

I pulled back in surprise. “You think they’re wrong?”

“They don’t know everything.”

“What else is there?”

“It’s just a feeling I have.” Melanie tucked a gray-streaked lock behind her ear. “As I said, Eugene was keeping something from me and he was so agitated and distant during the past few weeks. Definitely not himself.”

“Okay, but to assume that his recent attitude change had something to do with his death?”

“Thing is, he wasn’t just upset, he was nervous. All of a sudden he started looking over his shoulder when we’d be out in public. He’d double-, then triple-check the locks. For a while I thought that maybe he’d had an extramarital affair with a stalker, like Michael Douglas in that awful movie with the rabbit. In retrospect I feel terrible for thinking that, but still, something was wrong and I’m afraid that maybe, just maybe, that something got to him….” Her voice faded away once more.

“Melanie, you need to talk to the police about this.”

“I can’t! What if he was involved in something he shouldn’t have been? Reputation was everything to Eugene. If I did something to besmirch his name now, his memory would be tarnished—I just couldn’t!”

But testing him to see if he’d make a drunken pass at a woman half his age was okay? I bit back the remark and tried to smile reassuringly. “Eugene wasn’t involved in anything that he felt was immoral or unethical. I’d bet on it.”

“Sophie, forgive me for saying this, but you spent one evening with the man. You’re not in the position to make that statement.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s say you’re right. What are you going to do? Are you going to keep this information to yourself even if it means that the person who killed your husband might get away with it?”

“Sophie, I need one more favor.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I understand you’re dating a private detective. The newspaper mentioned it right after your brother-in-law’s killer was captured.”

My heart fell to the bottom of my stomach. I wasn’t supposed to be upset by references to Anatoly anymore. He was an idiot. A commitment-phobic, womanizing, egocentric idiot…with an incredible body and a sexy half smile that sent tingles down my spine and straight into my nether regions.

“Is he discreet?”

“Hmm?” I said absently as I briefly entertained a multi-orgasmic memory.

“Is he discreet?” she asked again. “Can I trust him to keep any information he digs up out of the hands of the media?”

“Are you saying you want to hire him?”

“I want to find out what happened to my husband, but I don’t want people to know that I’ve enlisted a detective outside the police department. This whole thing is getting enough publicity without making things worse.”

“Ah, right. The thing is, Anatoly’s really expensive. For a case like this he’d charge you at least ten thousand dollars.” I wasn’t exactly lying. Anatoly had quoted that price to me before. Of course that was only because he was trying to piss me off.

Melanie’s eyes fluttered at the figure. “He must be very good at what he does.” She nodded resolutely. “I’ll pay it.”

“Really?” Note to self, those who possess American Express Platinum Cards cannot be scared away by high prices. “But…um…I don’t think Anatoly’s available.”

“I see.” Her disappointment was palpable. I should have probably just put her in touch with Anatoly. No doubt he’d take the case and I could stay out of the whole thing. But for some reason I didn’t really believe that. I was the one who found Eugene. He’d want to talk to me about that. In fact he’d probably spend a lot of time questioning me, coaxing me to go over every detail and nuance. One thing would lead to another and before you knew it I’d be cuddled up in bed with my commitment-phobic Russian love god, sipping espresso. I just couldn’t go there again.

“Maybe you don’t need a detective,” I suggested. “Maybe you just need someone trustworthy who’s sneaky, good at networking and knows how to craft well-worded, probing questions.”

“Someone sneaky?” I could hear the hope creeping back into her voice. “You?”

“And good at networking,” I said a bit defensively. “I could talk to a few people…just try to get a sense of whether or not your fears are founded. If they are, then we could call a P.I. to do some more digging. But if Eugene’s problems can be explained by the typical stresses of working on a campaign then you’ll leave it to the police to find the person responsible for what happened.”

“So this would be a preliminary investigation…a fact-finding expedition, as it were?”

“Exactly.”

Melanie nodded slowly. “I suppose we could do that. Are you up for it?”

I hesitated and thought about what exactly I was up for. A couple of years ago the very idea of using the amateur sleuth tactics I wrote about in my novels in a real-life situation would have been laughable. But within the past few years I had been stalked by a serial killer and my sister’s husband had been killed. I had been instrumental in solving both crimes and I got some satisfaction out of knowing I helped. Furthermore, solving crimes was often a rather enjoyable activity. Kind of like playing Clue with live psychotic actors. Well okay, it wasn’t a lot of fun when people were trying to kill you, but the rest of it wasn’t so bad. Plus, for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I felt compelled to help Melanie with this. Logic told me that Eugene’s death was probably a random act of violence. If that was the case I could talk to a few of his co-workers, tell Melanie she was imagining things and leave it at that. Melanie could rest easy and I would never have to talk to Anatoly again. That was a good thing. I nodded eagerly. “I’m up for it.”

Melanie offered me a shaky smile. “Very well. Should we start the questioning now?”

“You mean of you?”

“Yes. I assume there’s information that you’ll need from me.”

“Um, yeah…okay.” I quickly tried to formulate a few passably intelligent questions. “Who was Eugene closest to on the campaign?”

“I’m not sure I know the answer to that. He was very close to Flynn Fitzgerald, perhaps more so than most of the other strategists and consultants. Fitzgerald’s media consultant, Maggie Gallagher, was a friend. We had her and her husband over for dinner a few times. Eugene was also an old family friend of Fitzgerald’s top political strategist, Rick Wilkes.”

“Had he complained about any problems at work?”

“No. Well, he was frustrated that Anne Brooke is always neck and neck with Fitzgerald in the polls. Considering her character, she should be trailing far behind by now.”

I took a deep breath. A lot of very unpleasant information had come out about Anne Brooke since she announced her bid for Congress. And if the Republicans had run someone who was a moderate, Brooke’s career would have been political toast. But the Republicans had given their endorsement to Flynn Fitzgerald, a man who was just to the right of Pat Robertson. Although Contra Costa County citizens were definitely more conservative than their Bay Area neighbors, they were understandably reluctant to vote for a man who had blamed single mothers and “queers” for the downfall of our society. Unless Brooke was caught making out with Fidel Castro, she could probably prevent Fitzgerald from getting a double-digit lead on her.

“Anything else?” I asked. “Was he having problems with any of his coworkers? Or anyone at all, for that matter?”

Melanie shook her head. “Eugene was opinionated, and that sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, but in the end most found that he had a good heart. He had a subtle charm that tended to transcend political differences.”

I smiled slightly. I had been exposed to some of that charm. It had been nice to meet a man who had really believed in something, even if his beliefs differed from mine.

“Tell you what,” I said as I pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll find a way to talk to some of the people he saw or worked with regularly and see if I can find out anything.”

Melanie swallowed hard and looked up at me from her seat. “Do you want me to introduce you to anyone? Because—”

“You don’t want people to know that you’re looking into Eugene’s death…or rather his life,” I finished for her. “No, I don’t need introductions, but if anyone in his circle invites you to a social event and you can find a way of bringing me along without it looking suspicious, give me a ring.”

Melanie f lashed me a relieved smile. “I can do that.” She got up and walked me to the door but hesitated before opening it. “There’s one more thing I was hoping you could help me with.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

“I just wanted to know what—” Her voice caught and she looked down at the floor. “What were Eugene’s last words?”

There were two ways to go with this. I could tell her the truth, that her husband’s last words had been “Goddamn furry shit,” (which was either evidence of the fact that he was completely delirious or that he truly had a problem with sponges that wore pants) or I could lie.

“Tell Melanie I love her,” I said confidently. “His last words were tell Melanie I love her.”

“Really? But wait…” Melanie’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Are you sure he said Melanie?”

“You really need to get over this jealousy thing. He wasn’t cheating.”

“I know, I know,” she said quickly. “It’s just that he so rarely called me Melanie. He always referred to me by my pet name.”

I swallowed and looked away. “Well, it was kind of a stressful moment, I could have misheard him. What’s his pet name for you?”

“Curly. He loved my curls.” She held up a lock of wavy hair that would have been f lat as a board without the help of her stylist.

“I’m sure that’s what he said. There was a lot to take in at that moment.”

For instance, I could have heard “furry” when in fact what he said was “curly.” My mentor and former professor could be a Goddamn curly shit.

I popped in the latest Gorillaz CD and turned over in my mind all the things I had just learned, which wasn’t a lot. With traffic it took me over an hour to get back to San Francisco. Even if I had misheard Eugene, it didn’t mean anything other than that he was in pain, delirious and pissed off at his wife. (Melanie wasn’t capable of violence.) Besides, I was ninety percent sure that I did hear him correctly. Eugene had been cursing someone named Furry. Which, of course, raised another question: was Eugene the adulterous type after all? Wasn’t it possible that someone who was dorky enough to call his naturally straight-haired wife “Curly” might also be dorky enough to call his mistress “Furry”?

But what kind of woman would sleep with a man who called her Furry? No, Eugene had to have been delirious. It didn’t really matter; this entire mess was much ado about nothing. I decided to shelve the whole thing until tomorrow and spend this time on more productive activities like cursing at the traffic.

My cell phone rang just as I was contemplating the best way to stir up a little road rage.

“C’est Sophie.”

“Hello, Sophie, it’s Melanie. I just thought of a social event that you could attend where you would meet almost all of Eugene’s friends and coworkers.”

“And what would that be?”

“His funeral.”

I felt the beginnings of another headache coming on. “Melanie, I can’t interrogate people at a funeral.”

“Of course not. I just thought you might be able to meet a few people and make connections. If someone happens to volunteer something useful you can pursue it at a later date.”

Gee, that sounded like great fun. Melanie would be busy receiving all of Eugene’s friends while I walked around by myself trying to initiate conversations with grieving strangers.

“If I come I want to bring a friend…actually, I want to bring Leah.” My sister was one of maybe ten Republicans who actually lived in San Francisco. If nothing else she’d be able to help me come up with topics of conversation that would play well with the politicians Eugene used to hang with.

“Then bring Leah,” Melanie said. “But…do you think she’ll be comfortable standing quietly by your side while you ask people about Eugene?”

I tried to imagine Leah doing anything quietly. “I’ll bring my friend Mary Ann, too. That way Leah will have someone to complain—I mean talk to, no matter what.”

“I think I met Mary Ann once. Is she the pretty girl with the long curly hair?”

“That’s her.”

“Very well, bring them both. And Sophie?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

I smiled and beeped at the idiot who had just cut me off. How many times had I said those words to Melanie? I owed her a lot, but I was fairly sure that when this was over we would finally be settled up.

3

I would rather burn in the fires of hell than spend eternity in heaven listening to a bunch of religious zealots say I told you so.

—C’est La Mort

It was like a black-and-gray sea of St. John and Brooks Brothers suits. I looked down at my own dark brown Old Navy dress as Mary Ann, Leah and I found seats in one of the rows toward the front, and then eyed their designer black dresses with undisguised resentment. “I thought you said earth tones were the new black when it came to mourning.”

“They are,” Mary Ann said slowly, “but being in mourning and attending a funeral are different things.”

“Oh?” I regarded her skeptically. “Don’t people come to funerals to mourn?”

“Really, Sophie.” Leah let out an exasperated sigh. “People mourn on their own time. They come to funerals to get credit for mourning. There’s a huge difference.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”

“I didn’t expect them to have an open casket,” Mary Ann whispered. “Gosh, it’s so sad,” she added, tugging at the ends of her hair. “And look, they put way too much blush on him.”

“Is anyone sitting here?” I looked up to see two men, both wearing the prerequisite gray suit. The one who had spoken was probably in his late thirties and was smiling down at Mary Ann. Or at least his mouth was smiling. His eyes were far too red to twinkle. He seemed fairly calm at the moment, so I wasn’t sure if the redness was due to a morning of crying or a night full of drinking. Still, he was cute in a teddy bear kind of way. His hairline was receding but he had a healthy tan that hinted at a love for the outdoors and a pug nose that automatically gave him a youthful air, despite his conservative attire. The other man was younger, taller and maybe in his mid-twenties. His dishwater-blond hair was cut a little too short for his round face and he was fidgeting with the knot in his tie in a way that made me think he wasn’t accustomed to wearing one.

Mary Ann scooted over enough to make room for them. The older man nodded his appreciation and slid in first; the younger sat at the aisle and pulled out the prayer book in front of him.

“I’m Rick,” the older said, presumably addressing all of us, although I noticed that his gaze lingered a little longer on Mary Ann. “And this is Johnny.”

“Hi there!” Johnny chirped, then immediately looked a little abashed as if his tone had been too cheerful for the occasion.

“I’m Mary Ann,” she said, “and this is Sophie and her sister Leah.”

“Sophie…” Johnny looked at me and his eyes widened with recognition. “You’re that novelist…the one who found him!”

“Yes, that’s me.”

Rick did a quick double take while Johnny kept talking. “It must have been horrible. The newspaper said you didn’t see the crime actually happen, but surely you must have seen something, the make of the car driving away, perhaps? It doesn’t seem possible that someone could do something like this and not leave any evidence behind.”

“Probably not, but if there was an eyewitness it wasn’t me.”

“So it’s true, all you really saw was Eugene,” he said glumly. He looked like a kid who had just been forced to witness a Harry Potter book burning.

“I can’t imagine what that was like for you,” Rick said. “You must have been terrified and—”

“Did you know Eugene well?” I asked, cutting him off before he could miscast me in the role of innocent damsel in distress.

“I spent time with him every day. I’m Flynn Fitzgerald’s main strategist. Johnny here is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant.”

So he was that Rick! Perfect! Networking made easy.

“Flynn Fitzgerald?” Mary Ann asked. “He’s a writer, right? I think I might have read one of his books a long time ago. Didn’t he write about parties and socialites?”

Rick knitted his brow and studied Mary Ann as if trying to determine if she was joking.

Leah cleared her throat awkwardly. “Mary Ann, you’re thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

Rick nodded in agreement. “I actually love F. Scott Fitzgerald. I just reread Tender Is the Night last month.”

“He was a great writer.” I patted Mary Ann’s knee. “But I’m fairly sure he doesn’t need an assistant or strategist.”

“Why not?” Mary Ann asked innocently.

Even sitting several feet away I could tell that Johnny was working hard to stop from giggling. “Well, for one thing, he’s dead, Mary Ann,” I explained.

“Oh!” Mary Ann put a gentle hand on Rick’s arm. “And you loved him! So much loss in such a short time! When did Scott pass away?”

For a second Rick just looked stunned, but then his expression changed and it was clear that he was amused despite himself. “I never actually met F. Scott Fitzgerald,” he explained. “Just Flynn Fitzgerald. The one running for the House of Representatives.”

“The man Eugene worked for!” Mary Ann smacked her hand against her thigh, the whole situation becoming clear to her. “That would explain how you knew Eugene.”

Rick broke out into a full grin. “Yes, that would explain it. Were you acquainted with Eugene?”

Mary Ann shook her head, causing her perfect chestnut curls to bounce around her face. “No, I’m just here to support Sophie.”

“That’s a shame. Eugene would have liked you.”

She cocked her head to the side. “What makes you say that?”

“Eugene liked sweet, compassionate, genuine people.”

Mary Ann blushed slightly. “That’s one of the nicest compliments anyone’s ever paid me.”

“They’re flirting,” Leah whispered in my ear. “They’re flirting at a funeral.”

I glanced over at our three other companions. Johnny was engrossed in the Bible and Rick had his head bent toward Mary Ann in a rather intimate fashion. I could make out that he was telling her about Eugene, but his voice was too low for me to really eavesdrop effectively. I would grill Mary Ann later. I shrugged and turned to Leah. “I had sex after your husband’s funeral,” I whispered.

“That’s different. You were bereaved, and bereaved people can have sex after a funeral. It’s a coping mechanism.”

“But I wasn’t all that bereaved….”

“Well you would have been if my husband hadn’t been an adulterous parasite. The point is that you and Bob were family, and any person who’s related to the deceased is allowed to have sex with someone after the funeral.”

“Melanie actually told me about this guy. Eugene was a friend of Rick’s family, which means they were almost related, so he should be able to almost have sex…or at the very least flirt.”

Leah clucked her tongue in disapproval. Just then a distinguished-looking couple walked down the aisle toward the front row where Melanie was sitting. The man was in his early forties, and was wearing a perfectly fitted, very expensive-looking suit. The woman on his arm was about ten years younger, dressed equally well, with sandy blond hair coifed in an elegant updo.

“There’s the boss man and the missus,” Johnny said, finally looking up from his reading. “I should probably sit with them. Never know when Fitzgerald might need his personal assistant.”

“At a funeral?” Leah asked skeptically.

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe he’ll need me to provide him with Kleenex.”

I started to laugh but checked myself when I noted that Johnny wasn’t joking. He jumped up and took a place at Fitzgerald’s side.

“Johnny’s very enthusiastic about his job,” Rick noted.

“Clearly,” I said, but I didn’t have a chance to add more since the priest had just taken his place at the pulpit.

The funeral consisted of one long-winded speech after another. Flynn Fitzgerald spoke, as did his speech writer, who claimed to have been close to Eugene. Neither of them said anything that would make me think someone would want to kill the man they were eulogizing. It was a full hour into the service before the priest called up Rick Wilkes. Rick walked to the front of the room and adjusted the microphone. His initial statements were basically the same as everyone else’s, just reworded. I was beginning to drift off when Rick started talking about Eugene’s previous vocations.

“Eugene excelled at everything he did. My father continually told me that Eugene was one of the best agents in the FBI, and everyone working on Fitzgerald’s campaign can tell you that he was a star….”

“Did you know about that?” Leah asked in a hushed voice.

“No!” I said a little too loudly. The woman in front of us shot me a mean look and I slipped down lower in my seat. “I can’t believe Melanie didn’t tell me,” I said in a much softer whisper. “If he was in the FBI, he could have been dealing with any number of unsavory types.”

“Maybe Melanie didn’t think it was important because he wasn’t that kind of agent,” Mary Ann whispered. “Maybe he was like a…a travel agent for the FBI.”

Leah started giggling and the woman in front of us shot us another glare. We all fell into silence as Rick continued to wax poetic.

When the service was over I tried to get a moment with Rick, but he was whisked away by other friends. I tried again during the wake at Melanie’s house, but while he took pains to check in with Mary Ann a few times, he never got more than a few words out before someone else took him away to discuss something. Flynn Fitzgerald was equally unavailable.

I was fiddling with my necklace while listening to Mary Ann and Leah discuss the wisdom of serving fondue at a buffet when Johnny sidled up to me, offering me a glass of wine. “I have a confession to make,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’ve read every one of your books. I just finished C’est La Mort. You’re one of my favorite authors.”

“Thank you, that’s sweet,” I said, referring to both the compliment and the wine.

“I’m an author, too, you know.”

“Really?” I asked. “What have you written?” My eyes sought out Melanie. She was in the middle of a group of women engaged in what looked like a friendly but somewhat somber conversation.

“I haven’t actually written anything, but I do have a book. It’s all up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.

I managed not to roll my eyes. I had long since lost track of how many people (from lawyers to waiters) had told me that they were really writers at heart. As far as I was concerned that claim didn’t mean a lot until you wrote something. It was a detail that most of these unrecognized “authors” didn’t seem to be willing to address.

“I was a computer science major in school,” Johnny babbled. “But computers aren’t exciting. I mean, can you see me as a computer geek? Not my thing. I’m still amazed I didn’t flunk out due to intense boredom. Then I got my master’s in poly sci and somewhere along the line I said to myself, hey, I can write political thrillers! I still think that’s my true calling, but for now I’m a personal assistant. I love my job and Fitzgerald’s great, but I don’t think I want to go into politics. I want to be a writer like you, or maybe a journalist.”

I wrinkled my nose ever so slightly. Johnny was a spaz. Maybe he could write scripts for the Wiggles or something.

“Look at poor Melanie. I feel so bad for her. I bet she’s feeling kind of alone. Maybe I’ll invite her to come to church with me on Sunday. I’m not Catholic, but maybe she’ll come. It might make her feel better. Just look at her standing in the corner by herself! Doesn’t she look sad?”

“By herself?” I looked back at Melanie. Sure enough, she had managed to extricate herself from the crowd and was now enjoying a rare moment of solitude.

“Leah, hold this.” I turned and handed my glass to my sister, who was standing a few feet behind me as she and Mary Ann continued to chat about the buffet.

Johnny started to say something but I ignored him and made a beeline for Melanie, who greeted me with a fragile smile. “Sophie, thank you so much for being here.”

“Don’t you think you should have mentioned that Eugene was in the FBI?”

“Is it relevant?”

“Of course it’s relevant! What if someone whom he investigated while at the bureau decided to get revenge? Maybe that’s why he’s dead!”

Melanie shook her head. “Eugene hasn’t worked for the FBI in over twenty years. If someone wanted revenge, they would have gotten it by now.”

“Are you sure? I mean, come on, Melanie, my theory has to be as good as the one you have.”

“I don’t really have a theory.”

“My point exactly.”

Melanie sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve given you nothing to go on. I suppose I’m not thinking straight these days. It’s just that nothing seems to make sense anymore.”

“Melanie,” I said, cutting her off, “I just need to know if Eugene was involved in anything or anyone else that might have led to his death. Is the FBI thing the only bit of information you were keeping from me?”

“That’s it…really.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Melanie gave me a pained look before turning her attention to a couple of well-wishers who apparently had no qualms about interrupting our conversation. I marched back to where Leah and Mary Ann were standing. Johnny had moved on.

“I can’t believe you just handed me a wineglass like I was hired help,” Leah spat.

“Sorry, I wanted to catch Melanie while she was alone, and I knew that was probably going to be my one and only opportunity to do so today.” I checked my watch. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting late and I’m not finding anything out.”

“Fine with me,” Leah said. “Liz isn’t expecting me for another few hours, but I like the idea of showing up early to make sure she’s not doing anything she shouldn’t. I think her boyfriend may be stopping by for the occasional visit while she’s watching Jack, which is completely unacceptable. I will not have Jack exposed to his babysitter’s love life.”

Yes, God forbid Jack be exposed to a healthy relationship between a man and a woman. Given a frame of reference he might come to understand how romantically challenged his mother and aunt really are.

“If you’re worried about your babysitter why didn’t you leave Jack with his grandma?” Mary Ann asked.

“Mama’s on a three-week cruise to Baja with her Jewish seniors’ group,” I explained.

“Baja?” Mary Ann repeated. “Wow, that sounds like a fun vacation.”

“Yes,” Leah confirmed. “Sophie and I have been enjoying it immensely. Now, let’s get our coats, shall we?”

“Did I just overhear that you were leaving?”

We all turned at the sound of Rick’s voice.

“We have to get back to the city,” Mary Ann explained.

“I see, well it was good to meet you.” He looked deep into Mary Ann’s eyes. “Thank you so much for talking to me. You made today a little more bearable.”

“It was good to meet you, too,” I said, although it was exceedingly obvious that he wasn’t talking to me. “I know this isn’t the place to ask for a professional favor, but I recently pitched an idea to…um…the National Review for an article dealing with the inner workings of political campaigns,” I lied. “I’d love to interview you for it…and Flynn Fitzgerald, of course.”

“The National Review?” Rick shifted his weight back on his heels. “That’s a fairly conservative periodical.”

“Yes, I guess it is.” And Microsoft is a fairly big computer company.

“Forgive me if I’m out of line, but Johnny was just telling me about your books. He said they were quite good, but he also said that your protagonist is a committed Democrat. I had assumed that you were a Democrat, as well.”

“Um…yes, I am, but a very conservative one.”

Rick cocked his head. “You must be if you’re writing for the National Review.”

“I’m like the John McCain of the Democratic party.”

“Really?” Rick sounded incredibly skeptical.

“Yes, I really think we should lower the income tax and I just love the idea of…school vouchers.”

“Is that so? Do you have children?”

“No, she has a nephew, my son Jack,” Leah said, eyeing the door longingly. “He’ll be attending Adda Clevenger Junior Preparatory and then I plan on sending him to the Bay School of San Francisco. I’ve spoken to people in the admissions offices of Harvard and Yale and everyone agrees that a Bay School education will be beneficial.”

Rick nodded appreciatively. “How old is your son?”

“Two. I’m truly sorry, Rick, but I have to pick him up now. Do you think you could give my sister your card so she can contact you later to set up an interview?”

“An interview?” Johnny had just popped up from nowhere. “Are you going to interview somebody? Are you researching one of your books? Can I help? I would love to help you research an Alicia Bright novel!”

“I’m actually writing an article for the National Review,” I muttered. I should have said that I was researching a book. That would have been a much easier lie to pull off.

“So you’re a journalist, too? That’s so cool!” Johnny gushed. “Who do you want to interview? Can I help?”

“This article is about the campaign process, so I’d love to talk to any of the top people on Fitzgerald’s team. You know, the people Eugene worked with.”

“I suppose I could help you with that,” Rick said, pulling out his card and pressing it into my hand. “Even when I’m out of the office I always check my messages.”

“Good to know.” I smiled at my companions. “Shall we?”

“Bye!” Johnny called after us.

When we got out to the car I threw my arms around Leah’s neck. “Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. All that stuff about making college plans for your two-year-old was perfect.”

Leah broke away and looked at me. “I didn’t make that up. My son’s going to Harvard. Yale’s just his backup.”

“Oh…right, of course.” I bit my lip as I got behind the wheel of my car and waited for Mary Ann and Leah to get themselves settled. I love my nephew, but I didn’t see him going to Harvard so much as I saw him going on Ritalin.

I dropped Mary Ann off first and then started toward Leah’s babysitter’s family home, which was conveniently located across the street from Leah’s. “How’s work?” I asked as I idled my car at a stoplight.

Not long ago Leah had been a stay-at-home mom married to Bob Miller. Now Bob was dead, which should have been sad except he had been such an incredibly awful and emotionally abusive man that pretending to be mournful over his early demise was kind of like shedding tears over the retirement of stone-washed jeans. So no one blinked an eye when Leah quickly pulled herself together, sold her large Forest Hill home for $3.4 million dollars, along with most of Bob’s things and bought a $1.6 million two-bedroom in Laurel Heights. She used some of her excess cash to get herself set up as a freelance special-events coordinator. Her Junior League friends helped out by funneling business her way, and it quickly became apparent that Leah was born for the job. Whether it was a corporate retreat or an elaborate birthday celebration for a debutante’s shih tzu, my sister managed to make the event an elegant affair to remember.

“Work’s fine,” Leah said as she adjusted the clasp of the new Tiffany charm bracelet she had recently bought herself. “I’m currently planning the retirement dinner for Delcoe’s CEO. I’ve convinced them to have it at the Marines’ Memorial to honor the years he spent in the service.” She paused a moment before changing subjects. “Do you realize that today was the first time I’ve seen Melanie since Dad’s funeral? Odd that it would take another death for our paths to cross again.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t like thinking about Dad’s funeral.

“You almost never talk about Melanie anymore,” Leah added.

“Melanie and I have both been busy living our lives in different towns and in different social circles. We still talk on the phone every once in a while and she’s still important to me.” I opened the moon roof to give us a little more fresh air. “You’re probably wondering why I agreed to investigate Eugene’s death for her.”

“I know why you’re doing it,” Leah said, “although I seriously doubt you know why you’re doing it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that the reasons that you have allowed your relationship with Melanie to fade into the background of your life are the exact same reasons why you continue to care about her so much. But of course you can’t examine any of that because that would require you to revisit painful memories that you’ve pushed into your subconscious.”

I gave Leah a questioning look as I turned onto her block. “Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Exactly my point. Aha! That’s Liz’s boyfriend’s car! That’s why that little harlot asked if she could watch Jack at her parents’ house, because she knew Bruce would be welcome there! And to think I bought her line about wanting Jack to be able to play with their new puppy! Let me out here. I swear, if either of them so much as has the top two buttons of their shirts undone I’m going to have them arrested for indecent exposure in front of a minor.”

“Mmm, that will go over well in a city that allows men to parade in G-strings during Carnival.”

Leah glared at me right before she shot out the door to scare a couple of overeager teenagers into a life of abstinence. As I drove home I made a halfhearted attempt to make sense of what Leah had said but quickly gave up the effort. Leah was a lot crazier than I was, so it seemed foolhardy to take her psychobabble seriously.

When I got back to my neighborhood I began the arduous task of looking for parking. After fifteen minutes with no luck I finally accepted the fact that I was going to have to give Anatoly’s block a go. Anatoly lived all of three blocks away from me, and over the past two months I had spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to avoid him. I would never make that mistake again. From now on if a man lived so close that it would make honoring a restraining order a challenge I would not get involved with him. I turned onto his block and, as Murphy’s law would have it, there he was at the other end of the block, crouched over, examining the front of his Harley.

It occurred to me that maybe this was why I hadn’t heard from him. It wasn’t that he had moved on, it was that he had been standing on his corner in the hopes that I would eventually drive by and pick him up.

But if that was the case he should have noticed my car by now, and he definitely had not. He was too absorbed with his tire.

I slowed the car from ten miles an hour to two. Something about Anatoly’s crouched position reminded me of certain things he used to do to me. Just drive by. If I stopped and talked to him I was bound to do something stupid, or he would do something that would make me feel stupid, and then I would be thrown into a downward spiral of lost pride and low self-esteem.

But of course, there was a parking place just a few feet in front of him.

Beads of sweat dampened my brow. I had two seconds to figure out what was more important to me—my dignity or parking. My God, it was like Sophie’s Choice. Of course, if I lost my dignity I could always turn to my friend Smirnoff for some much-needed comfort. But if I gave up the parking spot I might be stuck driving around my neighborhood for days, and there would be no solace since there are laws about drinking before you parked your car.

I took a deep breath and made the only logical choice by pulling into the empty space. Anatoly looked up as I did so and I felt his eyes boring into me. Here it comes. This is the part where he walks up and tells me that we should put our differences aside and indulge in safe, casual, early-evening sex.

Anatoly nodded in greeting as I pulled up on the emergency break and then returned all of his attention to the bike.

Okay, self-esteem gone.

I got out of my car. Turn around and walk away. I walked over to him. “Nice tire. Do you usually come out here to pay homage or is today a special occasion?”

“Someone hit my bike while it was parked here. The front fairing is seriously damaged.”

“I hate it when people try to screw with my fairing.”

“This is going to cost me at least twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“Seriously?” I tapped the part that he was examining. “It’s a flimsy piece of metal. How can that possibly add up to twenty-five hundred?”

“It’s not just a piece of metal, it’s the front fairing.”

Two months. We hadn’t spoken in two months and he wanted to complain to me about his fucking fairing? I felt my hands ball up into fists. “Well, good luck with this.” I turned and started to walk away.

“Doesn’t that hurt your palms?”

I slowly pivoted. “Excuse me?”

He had straightened up and was wearing that little half smile of his. “Whenever you’re angry you make a fist, and I’ve always wondered if your nails dug into your palms. They’re long enough that it seems like they should.”

“This is something you think about?”

“Occasionally I wonder.”

“Huh, what else do you wonder about?”

“Lately, I’ve been wondering how you are.”

“I’m fine.” I waited a beat before adding, “If that’s really been on your mind so much you could have given me a call.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to call.”

“Why would you think that?” I asked.

“Because you told me not to.”

“Oh…and you listened to me?”

“Didn’t you want me to?”

Of course I hadn’t wanted him to. I had wanted him to fight for me, to ask me to come back to him and to tell me that he was hopelessly in love with me and couldn’t live without me. “Yes, I wanted you to listen…I’m just surprised that you did.”

Anatoly nodded, then looked down at the bike again. “My insurance won’t cover this.”

And we were back to the fairing. “I’m sure one of your clients will give you an advance if you ask them to.”

“Business has been slow lately.” Anatoly stuffed his hands into his leather jacket and smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who needs a private detective.”