by A B Plum
What the hell was wrong with her? Maj had sneaked into the bedroom—a trick she did whenever she got half a chance. She bumped the door. It closed behind her. Simple, logical explanation.
No one lurking in the shadows. PMS or no PMS, she definitely needed a checkup. A reason for acting weirder and weirder. Was she having a mental breakdown?
Mind racing, she stumbled into the living room. She needed to call Danny. Find out the latest in Stone’s case. Was she still Jericho’s only suspect?
Maj jumped on her lap as soon as she sat down and dialed Danny’s private number. The first ring set off another SOS. She slammed her cell on the coffee table. She dropped Maj and raced for the bedroom.
No. No. Nonononono. In some tiny part of her brain, she admitted she was acting crazy again. No one’s been in the apartment. She and the manager had the only keys. Danny had made the arrangements for the apartment, but she’d double-checked with the manager about the keys.
Logic did not prevail.
She ripped open the bottom bureau drawer. She pawed at sweaters and scarves like a dog with amnesia. Her shaking fingers closed around the book. She flipped open the cover and removed a black-and-white photo. She exhaled a long breath through her mouth and nose.
Wild, crazy eyes, dilated and bulging, stared at her from the mirror. Sweat dripped down both sides of her scarlet face. Stop holding your breath. Breathe, dammit. She drew air into her lungs. They felt like stone but lightened as they expanded.
Panic attack? She’d never felt such paralysis. Not even the times when Stone called her on-stage. She sucked in more oxygen.. The four extra keys she'd conned from the manager lay throughout the pages of a hard-back novel. Hands shaking, she stuffed the book under the bras and panties and shut the drawer.
In the bathroom, she focused only on the whoosh of the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. Maj jumped up on the lavatory. Ryn scratched an ear and cleared her throat. “Lucky we cancelled my other brain surgeries for the rest of the day, right?”
Maj bumped her elbow. Ryn raised her voice, made a circle with her thumb and forefinger, stuck her tongue through the hole, and made a rude noise. “The doc sez I ain’t crazy. So there!”
She dredged up something like a laugh, marched into the living room, and called Danny. He picked up on the first ring. Without waiting for him to initiate an exchange of greetings, she declared, “Comfrey says I’m not crazy.”
“Why would he think you’re crazy?”
“I beat up two guys this morning at the local Safeway.”
“Are you crazy?” Danny yelled.
“No, I just told you. Comfrey says I’m not.” Based on my omission about the Monkey Boys.
She imagined Danny holding the phone away from his ear and staring at it as if he held a poisonous snake.
“You beat up two guys in the local Safe—but you’re not crazy. Then, I guess I must be crazy ’cuz that definitely sounds nuts.” His long sigh sounded exaggerated. “But for just a minute, let’s say such behavior is both civilized and legal, how about extenuating circumstances? You know us lawyers. We like to consider everything.”
When Ryn finished the story, Danny sighed again. “Jesus H. Christ, Ryn. Your only defense is that you were insane—temporarily. You’re a black belt in karate. Once those guys find out who you are, they’ll sue your ass off.”
“Those two guys, Danny, probably move their lips when they read. They live on the planet Gork. How would they find out who I am? No witnesses, by the way.” Ryn stated this last assertion more confidently than necessary. She didn’t have a clue if there were any witnesses.
Danny clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You better believe the cashier is going to remember you. People will start coming out of the sidewalk once they find out who you are.”
“Are you born cynical to be a lawyer? Or does being a lawyer make you cynical? Those two jerks got what they deserved. The cashier will agree, I bet.”
“Uh-huh, I bet,” Danny retorted. “Until someone offers her twenty grand for her version.”
“Should I just go down to the police station and—”
“Are you crazy?” Danny dropped the phone. When he got control of it, he said, “Stay away from the police station. And away from Safeway. I’ll send Elijah White to check things out. If the guys didn’t go to the hospital, and if they’re really dumber than rocks, then we may be okay.”
“Has Elijah found anything in LA to help clear me?”
“Nope. Nada. Did you talk to Colin about hypnotizing you? That’s beginning to look like our only hope.”
Forget it. “I’ll talk to him on Monday.”
“I could call him at home and ask—”
“I’ll talk to him, Danny.”
“Okay, okay. You eating and sleeping? You sound a little … tense.”
“I’m a lot tense, but I’m eating and sleeping.” She lied. No use ruining his whole weekend. The eating part was true.
Danny cleared his throat. “Speaking of not sleeping … Beau’s robbing me of my beauty sleep. He called after midnight, begging to know where you are. He sounded in pretty bad shape.”
She pressed the phone hard against her ear. I’m sorry, Beau. “Don’t tell him, okay? I’m sorry to put you in the middle, but—”
“He swears he wouldn’t get in your way. Says he can’t live without that damn cat.”
“I’ll call him. Get back to you after Elijah gets here.”
Ryn hung up, kicked off her boots, and padded into the kitchen. Maj circled her ankles, crying and standing on her back legs, clawing Ryn’s thigh. The Cat Chow immediately resolved the situation without a meow of thanks.
Beau wouldn’t care. She replaced the cat food in the highest cabinet. He’d grown fonder and fonder of the cat he’d given Ryn seven years ago. He never made a secret of his love for Ryn, either. Stone had finally stopped teasing Beau—but only after she said repeatedly the jokes were cruel.
Stone had scoffed, claiming Beau didn’t mind. He’s burned out too many basic gray cells. Not the cells that make him a great drummer. But the kind that understand loving a cat as much as he loves Maj is nutty. Loving you is even nuttier.
Ryn shivered. Stone was the one who didn’t understand how he hurt Beau with his verbal cruelty. But was mild, gentle Beau nutty enough to put two bullets through his best friend’s heart?
Chapter 12
Guilt chased Ryn on each lap she paced around the living room. Guilt it had even crossed her mind Beau could kill Stone. Guilt because Beau’s sweetness carried her through some of the toughest times with Stone. Guilt because she too often had taken—still took—his sweetness for granted. After two hours of beating herself up, she left the apartment—without checking the hall closet or under the bed.
A stop by a Wells Fargo ATM gave her money to buy dinner. Across the street from the bank, Charley’s, a Chinese restaurant held ten tables. In no mood to wait for one to free up, she ordered takeout. Chinese chicken salad, Mu Shu chicken and steamed broccoli. Beau would love this.
Charley, the chef, interrupted her slide toward another guilt-fest. Plenty of leftovers for the next day, he predicted, but said she should come back later in the week for a table. The small talk distracted her until he returned with her order.
The mild evening air tempted her to walk a longer way back to the apartment. Nothing soothed her like a brisk walk. Sex with Stone used to leave you limp as a noodle.
The truth made her smile. Stone had been a gentle, but creative lover. One advantage of a younger lover. Smiling at random flashes of them in bed, she approached the apartment feeling grateful that angst and guilt and disbelief hadn’t erased all her good memories. She shifted her takeout to find her key, glanced over her shoulder, and caught a glimpse of a dark green Corolla turning the corner.
So what? Her heart didn’t miss a beat and once she was inside, her nose didn’t twitch. Maybe the thought of nourishment energized her brain.
She slipped the key
in the front door. She’d eat—and if all the planets came into harmonic convergence by bedtime, maybe she’d even sleep. One good night’s sleep and she’d no longer notice green Corollas, strong aftershave, or closed bedroom doors. She’d morph into a mellow, normal person. Neither an eight point earthquake or angels at the foot of her bed would jangle her. Revived by sleep, she’d transform into “Ryn The Calm,” radiating serenity and tranquility wherever she went.
Lost in her fantasy, Ryn saw the red-haired man in the elevator at the same time her brain yelled, Watch out!
A microsecond later, her nervous system went on red-alert and she bellowed, “Goddamn.”
She must’ve scared the hell out of the dumb cluck. His hands fell out of his slacks pocket, and his green eyes widened comically. Fists in front of his face, he vaulted away from the open door.
From another galaxy, Ryn watched her brown Chinese take-out bag slide out of her hand. The bag hung in mid-air for a heartbeat. Intending to catch the bag, she bent her legs to lunge forward.
WH-AAA-CK. Too late, plum sauce splattered across the shiny marble surface like a maroon comet. The dark red stain on Stone’s chest jittered in Ryn’s mind and she screamed. Her high-pitched shriek reverberated around the small space and wiped out all thoughts of Stone.
The red-haired guy charged through the elevator doors. Ryn pivoted on her left heel and leaned back slightly. Raising her right foot and arm, she twisted and kicked toward the redhead’s face. At least five inches taller, he knew enough to throw his hands up to protect his eyes and nose. But he missed a step, staggered, and slipped on a piece of lettuce. His feet flew out from under him, and he landed with a hard whump on his ass.
“Shiiit.” He squawked, scuttling backwards on his hips and the palms of his hands toward the open elevator door. He managed to drag his torso across the threshold, but Ryn grabbed his ankles while he clawed at the carpeting inside the elevator. “Christomighty, lady.” He looked back at her over his shoulder. “You crazy? Lemme go.”
“Who are you?” Ryn demanded, squatting on her heels to maintain her ankle hold. Careful. Don’t let him kick you in the face. She was tough, but a broken nose or a cracked tooth would definitely slow her down.
“Jack Kent.” He panted, still thrashing. “I live here. On the second floor.” His voice rose an octave. “You must be the new tenant on three.”
How does he know that? Ryn tightened her grip.
“The manager’s Dave Smith. He lives next door to the weight room.”
“Then it won’t take him long to show up and verify you live here.” She remembered the sixty-five-year-old Mr. Smith proudly showing her the two bikes and hand weights. He’d joked and flexed a flabby bicep, assuring her the building was safe and secure. Especially with three able-bodied men living here.
“Aw, shit,” Jack Kent groaned. “Dave’s out for the evening. I saw him earlier, and he told me he was spending the night with his daughter in Cupertino. The whole place is deserted.”
A shiver settled in the middle of Ryn’s lower back. “How convenient.”
“It’s Friday night, for god’s sake. You caught me—”
“You can say that again.”
He twisted a little, trying to hike his butt off the metal lip where the elevator and the entry floor came together. Ryn dug her fingernails into his ankle.
“Ouch.” His leg jerked. “Who are you in real life? The Woman of Steel?”
She jerked his ankle higher. “Want some advice? Stand-up comedy’s more effective when you’re on your feet.”
“Okay. I can get serious. You want to see my driver’s license? Or do you require a DNA test to prove I am Matthew Jackson Kent?”
Ryn waited a beat. “Toss me your wallet,” she said, trying to find a comfortable way to stand. Her calves were screaming from the tension the squat put on them. “If you try anything—”
“Wait.” Jack held up one hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t tell me. I go to the movies, too.” Clearing his throat, he pitched his voice lower. “If you try anything, I’ll break your leg.”
He raised his hips and slipped his wallet out of his back pocket. It was thin and flat—not much bigger than a credit card. He tossed it at Ryn. The smooth leather bounced off her knee and fell in the Chinese chicken salad.
“Hey, did I get my lines right?” He grinned—too cocky and too damned sure of himself.
Not unlike Stone. Ryn pressed her lips together. How was she going to hold his legs if she had to use one hand to find his driver’s license? He might know karate as well as she did. Jack Kent wasn’t a dwarf. If he got the advantage—”
“It’s right in the front,” he said in a tone that sounded faux-helpful. “It has my picture—one that even looks like me.”
“Lay your head on the floor,” Ryn ordered.
With a quiet sigh, he did as he was told.
Ryn mentally counted to ten in Spanish. When she released his ankles, he didn’t move a muscle. She stretched to reach the wallet, dragging it up on her knee, and clamped down on his ankles again. He raised his head.
“Down.”
“Down.” He lowered his head.
After a few seconds, Ryn flipped open the wallet. A miniature of Jack’s face on a Class C California license stared back. She scanned the small DMV print. Matthew Jackson Kent of 1344 Royal Ann Court, Apartment 2 in Los Altos. A forty-two-year-old male. Red hair. Green eyes. Six-foot three. Weight: a hundred and eighty-seven pounds.
Ryn stifled a laugh. Ah, hell, two strikes in one day. She was on a tear. But what the hell? According to Dr. Colin C. Comfrey, she was not crazy. Wouldn’t that opinion just give Matthew Jackson Kent a warm, fuzzy feeling?
He raised his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.”
Ryn released his ankles. When she stood, pins and needles bit her toes and heels, but she extended her right hand. “Actually, the picture’s quite good.”
“Taxpayers’ dollars at work.”
She grunted and tried to maintain her footing as he pulled himself off the floor.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were mad as hell—”
Jack took his wallet, held it in his one hand, and twisted to swipe at the seat of his pants. Nice pants. Tailored. Expensive. Ruined, probably.
“I’ll pay the cleaning bill. I’ll also buy you a new pair of slacks and a new shirt, of course.” His monogrammed, blue-striped cotton shirt looked handmade.
He lifted a shiny black-tasseled Gucci loafer out of the plum sauce muck with an expression that said bullshit wasn’t any worse.
“I’ll be glad to replace your shoes,” Ryn added, feeling a niggle of alarm at his silence. Hell, she’d buy him new underwear and throw in diamond cufflinks if he’d just say something.
He extended his huge hand. When he spoke, a childhood image of God pissed off, sailed through her mind. “You mind letting me see your pass?”
“What pass?”
His green eyes stared holes through the middle of her forehead. “Your pass from the insane asylum. Or did you escape, and you’re hiding out here where they’ll never find you?”
“You’re pretty close.” She pressed a thumb against her lips, trying not to laugh. Sometimes life was so ironic you had to wonder if there really weren’t a bunch of Greek gods up on Mount Olympus, shooting craps and deciding who got to hurl the next thunderbolt at the dunderheads on earth. She offered her hand again. “My name’s Kathryn Davis, and I don’t go totally over the edge until the moon is full.”
Jack Kent laughed and shook her hand. “I wear a garlic necklace all the time, and I speak only pig Latin during a full moon.”
Ryn snickered. Exactly the kind of remark she’d expect from Stone. Jack Kent was funny and a good sport. When the silence stretched out a little too long, she said, “I will pay for everything.”
He shook his head. “Not necessary.”
“Please. I feel like an idiot. If you don’t want to go shopping, tell me your sizes and I’ll b
uy—”
“It was an accident, Kathryn. Why don’t we go to supper, and you can tell me what I was doing that spooked you so much.”
“Uhhh, I don’t think so. I’m sort of tired. Had a … busy day.”
“We’ll come home by nine.” Jack pushed up his cuff and looked at his platinum Rolex. “No matter how pooped you are, you won’t go to bed before then, right?”
She doubted he’d believe a lie, and she didn’t want to go round and round changing the time or negotiating, so she gave in. “On one condition.”
“No arm wrestling over the check.” He held up a Boy Scout hand. “It’s all yours.”
Chapter 13
A knot of baby boomers stood outside Charley’s, but Ryn said she didn’t think she could face a plate piled with Chinese food right then. Fact was, she doubted she’d ever be able to look plum sauce in the face again. Jack added Chinese chicken salad to his foods to avoid. Stone and I used to act silly like this.
Jack’s suggestion of another restaurant half a block down the street slowed the irrational impulse to give in to the bone-deep ache about Stone. The throb ambushed her when she least expected such intensity. How fast would Jack run if she told him what had happened in her bedroom?
His non-stop accolades for his restaurant recommendation drifted around Ryn—clear, but with moments of static. “Four stars.” Two gunshots. “Impeccable service.” Blood everywhere. “Great food.” Popcorn. “Continental.” Buttered.
“Okay.” She nodded and resisted a new impulse—to lean into Jack as he took her elbow and guided her around people chatting in the middle of the sidewalk. She could walk by herself, but his small courtesy made her wonder if he’d picked up on those moments she leaped from the present to the past. The purpling dusk—her least favorite time of the day—was giving way to darkness. Ridiculously, feeling Jack’s body warmth dulled the sharp edge of loneliness.
“Here we are.” They entered a small courtyard lit by Chinese lanterns. “Beauséjour. French for ‘nice stay’—or the last name for a Chilean footballer.”