Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies

by Evy Journey

  “Can I email it to you tomorrow?”

  “I don’t usually check my email at home. Can you write it on a piece of paper? I’ll pick it up at your work.”

  “Isn’t that more of a hassle than checking your email?”

  “Not sure. The thing is I forgot my password.” He pauses for an instant. “How about I come take you out for coffee tomorrow? Your day-off, right? Kind of like a pre-dinner thank you. And my coffee break.”

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  The turn of this phone call doesn’t exactly fit my image of the formal, business-like Lieutenant. But it suits me much better.

  I open the door to the Lieutenant at ten o’clock in the morning. Same jacket, blue jeans, sad eyes, and deadpan face.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” I say, stepping out and closing the door behind me. “Shall we go?”

  “Good morning, Regine.” His serious face gives way to a smile. “You put a smile on my face.”

  I smile back, quietly surprised that his face can actually light up.

  I’m wearing flat sandals and he seems taller. Neither of us says anything until we’re in his car. “There’s a place in Emeryville I like to go to. Is that okay?”

  “Sure if it’s not too much out of your way.”

  “No. Anyway, I need to get away from work now and then. I’m back to doing homicide cases.”

  “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

  He shakes his head, frowning. “It’s my job.”

  The serious face is back and I can’t think of anything to say. But strangely, I feel okay being quiet. Usually, with people I’m just getting to know, I find silences awkward.

  The coffeehouse is cavernous. A banquette lines a long wall. We claim the only empty table on a corner by the wall-length window. Except for the low drone of conversations at a couple of tables, it’s quiet and no music plays in the background.

  Minutes later, we sit side-by-side on the banquette. We’re having large lattes. Lieutenant Hansen asked for whipped cream on his low-fat latte. Mine has soy milk.

  I wait, amused, while he takes his first sip, scooping a good amount of the melting whipped cream with it. He says, “Whipped cream is my one indulgence.”

  I nod, handing him the piece of paper with Marcia’s address.

  He licks his upper lip before he takes the paper. “Thanks.”

  After entering the address and phone number on his cell phone, he tears the paper into pieces and says, “First name is Brent, Regine. That’s what friends call me.”

  “I got used to calling you lieutenant.”

  He grins. “I guess I have to bug you more, give you practice to say Brent.”

  “Okay. Brent. But why Regine?”

  “Suits you better. Something a bit exotic about you.”

  “I’m a quarter Chinese, a quarter French.”

  The hour or so we pass at the coffeehouse puts me in a happy mood. But I realize later that, though he gave me a lighter version of Brent Hansen, he told me nothing more about himself than that he has an older sister with fraternal twins and his parents live in Oregon.

  13

  Marcia convinces me we should invite Leon to be the fourth person at the dinner, but I’m hesitant to ask him myself. So she volunteers to call him.

  Leon is in Paris when Marcia calls. But he’ll be back the evening of the dinner to which he will surely come, although he may arrive a few minutes later than the designated hour.

  The day before the dinner, I call Lieutenant Hansen.

  “Regine. What can I do for you? I’m salivating just thinking about tomorrow’s dinner.”

  “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

  “I know I won’t be. How often does one get invited to dinner by two chefs from the best restaurant in the city?”

  “Marcia is a pastry chef. I’m just a line cook.”

  “Same difference to me. Anyway, can I help?”

  “Can I hitch a ride with you to Marcia’s place? Save us both a bit of gas. I can buy you a tankful.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure. But I won’t accept the gas. Remember, you’re giving me free dinner.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Hansen.”

  “Brent, Gina, remember? Lieutenant Hansen across a dinner table sounds a bit formal, don’t you think?”

  “Okay. Brent, can we go half hour earlier?”

  “That can be arranged. How about I pick you up at seven?

  Brent Hansen rings my doorbell at precisely seven the next night, a bouquet of white roses in his hand. He’s wearing the same dark suit jacket. But tonight, he has paired it with a beige shirt and well-pressed navy pants. No blue jeans. At my eye level, dark hair on his chest peeks from the opening on his shirt.

  I look up, a little embarrassed. Did he catch me staring at his chest? “Hello Brent. Come in. Let me just finish packing the main dish.”

  “Hello, Regine,” he says. The amused smile he’s trying to suppress tells me he did see me staring. He hands me the roses.

  “Thank you. They smell so good.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ve got another bouquet in my car for your friend.”

  “Can you wait a couple of minutes?

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “No, I’m almost done. I’ll just put these in a vase and finish packing my dish.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re approaching the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. Neither of us has said much beyond, “Nice night, isn’t it?”

  He casts a quick sideway glance at me. “I hope you don’t mind my saying how beautiful you look.”

  “No, I don’t mind. Thanks. You look good yourself.”

  “Thank you. I don’t often take these pants out of my closet. I live in denim most of the time. It’s rugged and easy for moving and poking around in. You never know what you’ll get into in a crime scene.”

  “It must be hard investigating assault and battery cases.”

  “For me, it often is. I usually handle more serious cases.”

  “You mean murder?

  “Yes. Cristi’s case was a little break I asked for.”

  “Do you get many—murder cases, I mean?”

  “Yes, more often than I’d care to, but that’s my job. This county has more than its share of killings.” He scowls, and the serious detective is back.

  “Is that why you have this sad look in your eyes?”

  “Do I?” His scowl deepens.

  “I think you know you do.”

  He’s silent through the rest of the drive on the bridge.

  “I’m so sorry. Did I offend you by what I said?”

  “No, oh no. I actually thought you’re very perceptive. Nobody has ever said anything about my ‘sad eyes.’”

  “You’ve got them, though.”

  “We’re trained not to get emotionally involved in our cases. But when you see so many dead victims and how they died … the anguish of their friends and relatives—that’s harder than anyone cares to admit. So, yeah, my cases depress me. But my real problem has to do with understanding why people kill. I don’t just mean the motives a perpetrator confesses to. Or the motive for killing a lawyer proves in court. And I do understand that opportunity can make it easier to kill. Homicides are high in this country because guns are easy to get. Studies have shown that time and again. Anyway, it’s hard to explain. It’s a philosophical question, not a moral one.”

  I fight the urge to touch him, to tell him that, though I can’t grasp the “philosophical question” he’s grappling with, I can sympathize with how he feels.

  “Philosophical questions may be above my head. But I understand moral concerns. What you’ve seen in your job, I can’t even imagine. I think most killings are senseless. I’ve sometimes wondered if humans are violent by nature. And I agree it’s so depressing that killings happen.”

  “I’m so glad you understand. It means a lot to me.”

  I rarel
y tell people about the murder of my grandfather. It’s not a secret, but it’s too personal to share with just anyone. Somehow, I don’t feel that way with Brent.

  “I do know firsthand that a killing can ruin the lives of loved ones victims leave behind. And those consequences can be felt by future generations. My grandfather—my mother’s father—was murdered.”

  The lieutenant jerks his head towards me. He clenches his jaw, and scowls once again. “Oh Regine, I’m so sorry.”

  “It happened before I was born. Mom was nine. She saw him in a pool of blood. I’m sure she suffered the most.

  But it’s not just the anguish. Much of that fades with time. For Mom, I think what’s been most harmful is she lost her desire to dream. She was caught up too young, coping with the day-to-day realities of losing her father. And we’ve felt the effect of that—she couldn’t teach us how to dream, either. Mine is a loving family,” I pause, frowning. “But we’re content to remain white trash.”

  Brent is silent. What can he say, after all? I glance at him. His frown has deepened and his shoulders droop. Like someone carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Neither of us says any more until we arrive at Marcia’s condo. He says, “You’re not white trash. Look where you are. You must have talent to cook for that restaurant.”

  “Thank you, Brent. We can park on Marcia’s driveway.”

  He nods. I open the passenger door but before I can step out, he grasps my hand, “Gina … .”

  Our eyes lock, but it’s through his hand on mine that I sense something like electricity pass between us.

  It takes him a minute full of unuttered words—words with meanings I can only guess at—before he speaks. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m sure I’ll never forget this evening, Regine.”

  He brings my hand to his lips and grazes it with a light kiss. My hand twitches as if it’s reacting to a matchstick ignited next to it, itches where his lips touched it. I withdraw my hand from his grasp.

  Conscious that we can’t meet Marcia while still in the grip of that “electricity;” I say blithely, “My pleasure. It isn’t as if you and I are on a date. It’s a dinner for us to get better acquainted, that’s all.” In my head and my guts, I am excited, bewildered, happy.

  Marcia opens the door before we reach it. She beams at me, then at the lieutenant. “I saw you both from my bedroom window. Come on in.”

  Once inside, I introduce Brent to Marcia. Brent offers her a bouquet of yellow roses before he shakes her free hand. Marcia leads him to the couch, and though I want to stay, I excuse myself. It’s what Marcia expects—we have planned this dinner so she can meet the lieutenant. “You two can get acquainted. I’ll finish this dish in the kitchen.”

  Before I go, Marcia says, “The smoked salmon you ordered is on the second shelf of the refrigerator. And Leon called to say he’s on his way. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

  I nod, and glance surreptitiously at the lieutenant. He seems unconcerned at the mention of Leon but I sense that he’s avoiding my eyes.

  I’m still in the kitchen when the doorbell rings and Leon comes in. I hear him greet Marcia warmly. Then he says, “Lieutenant Hansen, what a nice surprise to see you here.”

  “So you know each other?” Marcia says with feigned surprise.

  “Quite well, in fact. Wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant? Although, the lieutenant knows me much more than I know him.”

  Brent says, “Yes, you could say that. I got to ask all the questions. A lot of them. I guess this is your chance to ask, if you care to get to know me better.”

  “I’ll take you up on that. You’ve always intrigued me, especially when someone told me you have a law degree from Boalt Hall. We’re both Cal Berkeley alumni. Why do police work when you can make more money lawyering? Those credentials can get you anything you want.”

  “Meting justice starts with good police work. I decided when I graduated that I want to be at the beginning of the process.”

  “I can’t agree with you more on the ties between police work and justice. Marcia, I owe this guy here. He asked all the right questions and did such thorough investigation that I got a false charge dropped.”

  Marcia says, “I know the case. Had more media coverage than it deserved. I didn’t know Brent was the investigator in charge of it.”

  “Brent! Is that your first name? May I call you that, too? Have you two known each other long?”

  Marcia says, “No, we only met today.”

  “Oh! You looked so cozy together, I thought … where’s Gina, anyway? Is she here?”

  Brent says, “She’s in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll go see her. Brent, I look forward to talking to you more.”

  Only a wall separates Marcia’s kitchen from her living room and the door between them is open so I heard the whole conversation among the three of them. In the two or three minutes Leon and Brent talked, I found out more about Brent than he’s ever told me in the twenty-minute ride from my apartment to this place, or in the few short conversations we’ve had on the phone or in person. And yet, those are mere facts. There’ so much more about Brent that I think I know, but you can’t list them like you list facts.

  I hear Leon’s footsteps coming closer and my grip on the ladle tightens. Am I excited to see him again or am I dreading it?

  “Gina, there you are. I’ve missed you so much.”

  I put the ladle on a spoon rest on the counter and face him. “Hello, Leon.”

  Leon is scrutinizing me with his sticky gaze. “You look like heaven this evening. I’ve only seen you in white chef jacket or, once, in blue jeans. You’re stunning in royal blue.”

  I ignore his compliments. “How was Paris?”

  “Magical, as always. I’ll take you there sometime. I was mostly in meetings with clients, representing my father, so I didn’t get to see much of the city this time around. Anyway, I think, it’ll be much more fun when you come with me.”

  “But who says I’ll go with you?”

  He smiles gently. “You will eventually because I won’t stop asking until you say yes. That really looks good. May I taste it?”

  “Sure,” I say, handing him a fork.

  Leon takes a piece, chews it slowly. “It’s delicious. I can see it’s chicken but what did you put in it? Nothing like I’ve had before.”

  “That’s because you’ve only eaten at fancy restaurants. This is good old home cooking. A recipe from my mother. I do have a fancy first course.”

  “So what’s your secret ingredient? Mustard, maybe?”

  “You’ve got a good nose; good taste buds, too. It’s the best Dijon mustard I could buy.”

  “Finished with heavy cream?”

  “What else? My mother is half French.”

  “But what are these black bits floating on top?”

  “My mother is also half Chinese. They’re chopped up black mushrooms. It’s an experiment. You all have to tell me if it works. Do you cook?”

  “Not really. But Luciano often asks me to taste test dishes.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You have servants and a cook.”

  He chuckles, “He’s okay. Not as creative as you, though.”

  Marcia and Brent have joined us in the kitchen and they’re standing on either side of Leon.

  Marcia says, “Let’s eat. You’re making Brent and me hungry. I set the dining table before you all got here.”

  Leon says, “Good idea. I usually don’t eat the meals they give you in plane trips, although Air France has better food than most. So I’m starving.”

  I say, “Can we make this all very casual? I want a break from all the ceremony we put clients through at Du Cœur.”

  Marcia says, “Hear, hear. But we shouldn’t skimp on good wine. So where’s the wine, Leon? You’re usually my supplier.”

  “Sorry, Marcia. I didn’t have time to get wine. Shall I call my driver to get us a couple of bottle
s?”

  I say, “No, please. I saw a few bottles of wine in Marcia’s pantry. I’m sure those will do.”

  Leon addresses Marcia. “Have you drunk the merlot I gave you last time I was here?

  I cast a curious glance at Marcia, then at Leon. They know each other more than they’ve let on. “No, that’ll work. I also have a couple of bottles of Riesling.”

  The dinner is pleasant and noisy, more so as three of the four of us get more drunk. After the first glass of Riesling, Lieutenant Hansen refuses Leon’s offer of more wine with a simple, “I’m driving.”

  Although he’s the only one who has stayed sober enough to remember what he’s saying, Brent doesn’t say much until Leon prods him.

  “Brent, you promised to even the score by answering all the questions I ask you.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “I thought so. But anyway, here’s what I’ve been dying to know about you. We all want a truthful answer. Do you have a life? I mean you’re so dedicated to your work. Do you ever leave it at the office and do something you’re passionate about?”

  Marcia and I stare at the lieutenant with round eyes, barely able to disguise our curiosity. I’m sure he’ll dodge the question and give a vague answer. I decided early on that Lieutenant Hansen is a very private person, slow to share all but trivial details about himself.

  But he surprises me. He answers without hesitating. “I don’t really have one. Not outside my work anyway. I’m single and my time is my own. It may sound trite or pompous, but my passion is for truth and justice. So I’m where I want to be, doing what I want to do.”

  “No girlfriend?” Marcia says.

  “No, not at the moment. But I don’t want to talk about that, if you don’t mind.”

  Marcia grins. In a self-satisfied way, I think. “Fine by me.”

  Leon says, “I’m not sure if your answer satisfies me. I think you’re evading my question.”

  Brent says, “You asked for truthful. I gave you a truthful answer.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’re missing something?”

  “Like what? Excitement? There’s a whole lot of adrenaline you can get in my job, although for me, adrenaline kicks in from the process of solving a crime. Much of the rest of it can be gruesome, which I’m sure people would be glad not to have in their lives.”