In the thick of planning his evening, a bachelor’s evening, with his spirits on the upswing, the phone rang. He stared at it, considered letting it go to voice mail, then thought it might be Brouchard with news of Weston’s autopsy, so he picked up.
“Lawless.”
“Detective Lawless?” a young male voice asked.
“That’s me.”
“This is Tommy Wu of the Bee.”
Lawless didn’t know any reporter from The Modesto Bee by name. “How can I help you?” he said, hoping to keep it short.
“I understand a rancher, Hank Weston, was found dead this morning and that you’re working the case.”
“That’s right. We don’t know much about it yet. Autopsy should have been done today, tomorrow at the latest. Not much I can tell you now.” So leave me the hell alone.
“Hmm ...” Wu said. Then, “I hear he died under suspicious circumstances.”
Lawless frowned. Suspicious circumstances? “We haven’t released any details about his death, it’s too early in the investigation. I don’t know who you’re talking to, but—”
“My source was an eyewitness,” Wu cut in. “He says Weston’s feet were found by the canal and he died crawling to his truck. Care to comment on that?”
My source?
“Your ‘source’ doesn’t know how Hank Weston died. No one does. I can’t comment on the case until I get some facts. I’m sure you know that.”
“I also heard an MID employee was killed yesterday, also under suspicious circumstances.”
“Yeah, so what? I can’t comment on that case, either, for the same reasons.”
Then Tommy Wu dropped a bomb: “Did you ever find his arm, or Weston’s legs?”
If Wu knew about the missing body parts, he must be talking to someone in the coroner’s office, or the Sheriff’s Department. Probably Cruff or McCain. No, he couldn’t picture either of them hanging out with someone named Tommy Wu. Maybe that guy that works for Brouchard, Louper, the odd one.
“As I said, I can’t comment on the cases. Call me again next week.” He showed a little attitude, hoping to rattle Wu and get him off the phone.
“Detective Lawless, the story’s going to press tomorrow whether you talk to me or not. I was just hoping you could fill in some of the blanks.”
Going to press? Lawless wondered if there was a hack-reporter vocabulary list they had to memorize.
“I’m afraid the blanks will have to stay blank for now.” Lawless slammed the phone down. Wu’s story would end with, “Detective Daniel Lawless of the Sheriff’s Department is investigating both deaths and refused to comment.” Refusing to comment made it sound like you could comment but for some dark reason wouldn’t. He was usually polite to reporters, it made for shorter phone calls, but Tommy Wu had the misfortune of calling at the end of a very bad day.
He left the building without saying a word to anyone, got in his car and drove straight to Consetti’s, a small Italian restaurant and bar with bland food but an outstanding wine list. The bar was small, dark, and private, with the added bonus that few cops ever drank there. He ordered a forty-two dollar bottle of California zinfandel from a small Amador County winery he was familiar with. The wine was over fifteen percent alcohol; none of the sissy twelve-and-a-half percent stuff tonight.
He drank at the bar, brooding over his day, thinking that everything looked like a snake now. He was halfway into his bottle when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t want company, would tell the tapper so, turned around and saw it was Sandra Jensen, the bilingual deputy with the mesmerizing eyes. He almost didn’t recognize her; she wore a low-cut white blouse and a navy skirt, short and tight but not cheap. Fendi red pumps made her taller. Red, white, and blue: Old Glory never looked so good.
And she did look damn good, even to a man indifferent about the opposite sex. Indifferent about sex period.
And to think all that got hidden under a starched Sheriff Department uniform.
Still, he wanted to drink alone.
“Detective Lawless, what are you doing here?” Jensen said, smiling.
What a silly question. “Drinking.”
“I know you’re drinking, I meant are you here by yourself?”
He didn’t know how to answer that — wasn’t it obvious? — so he said, “You on a date?”
“I’m meeting a friend for dinner, but I’m early. Mind if I sit down?”
He did, but instead found himself saying, “No, help yourself. Can I get you something?” Her skirt rode up her thighs a couple of inches as she slid onto the barstool and, when she leaned forward to set her purse down, her blouse fell open. He looked, and liked what he saw.
“I would love a glass of wine. What are you drinking?”
“Zinfandel. What do you like, white wine?” He had yet to meet a woman who preferred red wine over white. Although women drank wine more often than men, in his experience, they always preferred the sweet, cold stuff over the dry, room temperature reds.
So he was surprised when she said, “Zinfandel sounds great.” She saw his eyebrows go up. “What?”
Her face was two feet from his now, and he noticed she had done something different with her hair, but wasn’t sure what, being ignorant about those kind of things. It fell across her forehead, down into her eyes a little in a way it never did while on duty. He also noticed her face was made up, almost like a model’s. Between the hair and the makeup, she looked amazing, even exotic.
“Every woman I’ve ever met drank either white or pink wine.” He waved at the bartender, who put a glass in front of her, filled it, and topped off Lawless’s glass.
“I usually drink white but I’m willing to try something new tonight.”
He turned and looked at her again, to see if her face gave any clue as to what she might have meant. Even Lawless, in his mostly-sexless state, could recognize potential sexual innuendo when he heard it. She peered at him with innocent eyes and swirled the wine in her glass, sniffing at the aroma. She gave nothing away, if there was anything to give away. She had small ears, but good-sized diamond stud earrings: nice jewelry usually meant a boyfriend.
She caught him staring and smiled.
Embarrassed, he wanted to turn back to his glass but made the mistake of looking into her eyes. As usual, he felt himself being pulled in, unable to look away.
He managed to say, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you out of uniform.”
“Do I clean up alright?” she said, not breaking eye contact.
He hesitated, then said, “You’re beautiful.”
It just came out. He meant to say something else, something safe like Yeah, you’re okay, but he had drank half a bottle of strong wine on an empty stomach and was looking into Sandra Jensen’s eyes.
He felt his face color, but couldn’t make himself turn away. Her expression changed and she broke eye contact, searching his face for signs of sincerity. Even in the dark room, she saw him blush.
“Thank you,” she said, nothing more.
He managed to tear his eyes away and sipped his wine, not knowing what to say or do. He blushed even more when he realized he had an erection. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead; he dabbed at them with a cocktail napkin.
“I didn’t mean ... I mean I don’t ...” he stammered, clueless about how to extract himself from an extremely uncomfortable predicament. He almost wished he was back in Brackston’s office, battling canal-snakes.
She said, “That was a very nice complement, Detective. Don’t worry, I’m not going to file an harassment claim.”
“I’m sure you hear that all the time, anyway,” he said, sipping from his glass.
“Not sincere like that. Usually it’s part of a bad pickup line, like, ‘Hey beautiful, you here alone?’ Or, ‘How come I’m sitting by the most beautiful woman in the room and I’m not buying her a drink?’ ”
She said the lines in a low, stupid voice that made him smile. He realized
she was letting him off the hook. “Do guys really sound like that to you?”
“Guys who use lines like that do. And they always have a big stupid grin on their face. It must work some of the time because after I tell them to get lost, I see them use it on some bimbo ten minutes later.”
“You don’t go for guys like that, huh?”
“No. I require a little more than big teeth and free drinks.”
He risked a glance at her, but was careful not to look at her eyes. He saw, again, that she was swirling, sniffing, and sipping. “You drink wine like a pro.”
“Are you calling me a wino?” she said with mock offense.
“Winos don’t sniff their booze, they guzzle it. You’re swirling and sniffing, like you’re a judge at a wine contest.”
She smiled, and he felt more blood head south. What’s happening?
“I went on a wine tour in Napa with some friends last year,” she said. “We rode in a limo and pretended to be wine snobs. Well, at least I pretended. Napa’s such a snooty place, they take themselves way too seriously there. When they found out we were from Modesto, they made snide comments about Gallo being in Modesto, like we think wine only comes in jugs.”
He smiled. “Gallo actually makes some pretty good wines now. Most of them are from Sonoma County, of course, but they make some good wines out of local grapes, too.”
“I don’t think people in Napa know what’s going on outside of their own little valley,” she said.
Lawless emptied the bottle into her glass and held it up for the bartender to see. He came with another.
“Anyway,” she continued. “I learned to swirl and sniff and sip by watching the snobs in Napa. It was a good time. No one had to worry about traffic or parking and no one had to be a designated driver. We drank until we were silly. I might do it again some day. Not in Napa, though. Somewhere else.”
They quietly sipped wine for a minute.
Two middle-aged overweight men wrangled fat asses onto stools at Jensen’s end of the short bar and ordered bourbon. They took turns staring at Jensen, and shot Lawless envious looks. He found himself feeling proud, as if he were out with this hot woman, as if they weren’t just sharing a drink while she waited for a friend, probably a boyfriend.
“How’s your stomach doing?” she asked, changing her tone.
Surprised, he exhaled and said, “Not so good this morning, but not so bad tonight. Maybe all the antacids I ate today cured me.”
He could see her looking at him out of the corner of his eye.
“You really need to see a doctor. What if you have an ulcer?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “You said you had that dream again last night.”
Caught off guard, he stammered, “Yeah. Same dream, I think.”
“You still don’t remember any of it? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
They sniffed, swirled, and drank together. The man closest to Jensen stared at her legs and elbowed his friend in the ribs. The friend looked and shook his head, then gave Lawless another look. Lawless smiled: let them think what they want. What could it hurt?
The wine was already working itself out, so Lawless excused himself to go to the men’s room. After washing his hands and face, he looked at himself in the grimy mirror; his hair looked like it hadn’t been combed since morning, because it hadn’t; one eye was red; he needed a shave; and his suit looked ten days wrinkled, rather than one. Wasn’t this suit fresh from the cleaners? He couldn’t remember. And he was a jumble of nerves.
He’d come to the bar with the intention of getting drunk enough to sleep without dreaming, the old alcohol cure, and yet here he was drinking with a hot deputy who seemed to be interested in him; a scenario perhaps even more improbable than the canal-snakes. And, Get this, he told his reflection, he felt attracted to deputy Jensen, even aroused. He’d had a difficult time relieving himself because he still had an erection. He tried to remember the different departmental regulations he would be violating if he slept with her, and then laughed. Who was he kidding? She was just being friendly, and mooching free booze while waiting for a date.
Still, he ran his fingers through his hair a few times, straightened his tie, checked his fly.
He left the restroom but hesitated before entering the bar. He considered leaving without saying anything to Jensen; it would be easier for both of them, certainly for him. This was exactly what kept him from dating: the uncertainty of how to go about it. Relationships were confusing and he knew he would never understand women; better to avoid them altogether.
Then he saw her sitting alone at the bar, swirling and sipping, ignoring the now-drunk men two seats down. She looked better to him than any woman had ever looked. The drunk next to her got up, tried to suck in his belly, failed, made his move anyway. He wattled over to Jensen, stuck out his flabby chest, and gave her his best grin. The man’s mouth moved, after a moment Jensen turned and said something back; his grin disappeared and his gut popped out. He hustled back to his stool and ordered a double bourbon. His buddy turned away so his friend wouldn’t see him laughing.
Instead of making for the front door, Lawless found himself walking across the barroom, admiring how Jensen looked from the back. He took his seat. “That guy give you any trouble?” Then, with a terrible New Jersey accent, “You want I should kick his ass?”
She smiled into her glass. “He asked if I wanted to join them for a drink since you had left me ‘all alone by my little ’ol self.’ ”
“What’d you say? He practically fell down trying to get back to his chair.”
With a sly smile, “I didn’t know you were watching.”
He blushed, and she saw.
Desperate to change the subject, he said, “Your friend running late?”
She turned away. “Oh, she’s not going to make it. She called and canceled while you were gone, said something came up.”
Lawless glanced down at her purse; he didn’t think it had been moved and she sure wasn’t carrying a cell phone anywhere on her person. Hmm...
“So, you hungry?” he asked.
“Starved. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“You want to order here, or see if they have a table?”
“Let’s get a table. I’m tired of those assholes staring at me.” She made to get off her stool but misjudged how far it was to the floor, either that or she, too, was feeling the effects of the wine: she stumbled a little and fell against him; a firm breast pressed against his arm. Trying to regain her balance, her hand fell on his thigh, just above the knee. He turned and looked into cleavage five inches from his face; it lit him up.
“Sorry,” she said, removing her hand, but leaving her breast against his arm. “Too much wine on an empty stomach, I guess.” When she moved, he felt her nipple through his jacket, hard like a pebble.
For once in his life he knew exactly what he wanted to do with a woman; he wanted to rip open her blouse, hike her skirt up, and take her on top of the bar. Instead, he tried to hide his erection with his jacket, sure everyone would see it anyway. He grabbed their unfinished bottle and followed her into the restaurant.
Every pair of male eyes turned and watched her as the hostess led them to a corner table. He thought to push her chair in for her, then felt foolish for doing so. Did men still push women’s chairs in? Was he supposed to order for her? What else had he forgotten? What had he never known? He sat and hid his face with his menu. The hostess filled their wine glasses and left.
They chatted about the menu and sipped their wine. He ordered lasagna. She got the shrimp salad. Should he pay the bill when it comes? A bead of sweat roll down his forehead. He dabbed at it with the cloth napkin.
Jensen noticed and said, “Why don’t you take your jacket off, Danny?”
Danny?
“I’m okay.” He wondered if anyone else could hear how her voice dripped honey. Did she call me Danny? He was never going to make it through dinner: she would say something sexy, or even just p
ick up her fork, and he would explode.
“Anything new come up on the two killings?”
Saved by shop talk.
Their waiter brought bread and his dinner salad, and he wondered how much to tell her. His mind was fuzzy with alcohol and strange desire. He focused on the killing and was relieved to feel his erection ease.
He told her about the holes the divers had found in the grilles, looked to get her reaction while spearing a cucumber slice. She seemed troubled, even perplexed.
Then she blew hair out of her face and pursed her lips.
They made eye contact...
And he lost his hearing. He could see her talking, but no sound made it from his ears to his brain. He fell into her emerald eyes again, this time giving himself to them.
Time was suspended for Daniel Lawless. In her eyes, now, he saw and heard things he’d never experienced, things he’d never imagined. He saw them in bed, his bed, in his bedroom shrine to the shoe-god, writhing with passion. Their bodies moved in the primal dance of two; him thrusting, her lifting to meet his thrusts, their timing perfect. Their perspiration mingled with the perfume of intimacy; the smell of sex. Their passion was earthy and carnal, spontaneous. Lawless felt strong and alive, sure of himself, sure of her, sure of them. They grabbed at each other and clawed their way to orgasm.
Then his hearing returned and the vision vanished.
“Danny, what’s wrong?” Jensen had the face of a young teacher witnessing her first epileptic seizure.
He looked down and realized he was gripping the sides of the table, yanking it. The couple sitting next to them was staring. Had he been thrusting into the table?
He let go and pushed his chair back. His erection threatened to tear through his trousers, a miniature Boy Scout tent, so he scooted back under the table to hide it. Exhaling, he decided to tell her — almost — everything. Either she would go home with him that night, or he with her, or leave him to finish his meal alone and report to the sheriff tomorrow that Detective Lawless had lost his mind and was unfit for duty.
“I’m okay. Sorry.”
He looked to make sure their neighbors were minding their own business, then said “I had what I think is a premonition today.”
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