The Misfortune Cookie ed-6

by Laura Resnick

  “None of whom are speaking to me yet,” he said. “Though my mom still calls regularly to tell me she’s not talking to me.”

  Lopez went straight back to the city early the next morning, leaving his family fuming. He returned to work, though he was supposed to be on leave, because he had to fix what he had done. He couldn’t live with it. So he retrieved the evidence he’d hidden. Then he did the next stupid thing, he said, in an impressive line-up of idiotic moves. He shifted the evidence so that someone else at OCCB would find it.

  “I figured we’d still get the right result,” he said, “but it wouldn’t be my fault that you lost your job and your friend went to prison.”

  However, no one else spotted the evidence he tried to slide subtly under their noses. This made him so exasperated and guilt-ridden that he quarreled with a number of his colleagues, none of whom knew why he was being such a temperamental ass.

  So Lopez finally realized he had to man up, “find” the evidence, and bring it to light.

  “There was no other way. I couldn’t face myself, you, my family, my colleagues, my priest—anyone—until I did what I should have done from the start. My sworn duty. My goddamn job. What I’m supposed to do.”

  He was still worried about how I’d react, though. So he decided the best way to handle the problem would be to raid Bella Stella immediately, since I had told him that I wouldn’t be working there until after the holidays. That was why he started pushing and prodding impatiently for a quick bust, which further irritated all his colleagues and his boss.

  “Everyone was ready to kill me by then. I don’t why they didn’t just drop me off a cliff one night and cover their tracks,” he said. “And New Year’s Eve was an idiotic night to run a big operation, of course. But we couldn’t do it before that, because of the way I’d messed around with the evidence for days. And I wouldn’t let them wait until after that, because I didn’t want you involved in the bust—and I knew you’d be working after the holidays.”

  Now, as if finding someone else to blame for his woes, he glared at me. “How was I to know that a shift had opened up and you’d be working there that night? Not just working, but dancing on tabletops—”

  “Oh, would you let that go, already?”

  “—while I was going through hell because of you. Because of the way I felt about . . . because I didn’t want you to . . .” He made a disgusted sound. “Well, no, mostly because I’m an idiot.”

  “At least that’s one thing we can agree on,” I said mildly.

  “So I was caught totally flatfooted when you started saying, in front of all of Bella Stella, Esther—”

  “Oh, how did you think I would react to seeing you in those circumstances, after you hadn’t even—”

  “I know, I know. Never mind. But when you said that I’d gone a whole week without calling you . . . It was news to me. I was so squirrelly, I hadn’t clocked that at all. I had no idea it had been a week since we’d . . .” He shrugged. “I was thinking about you constantly and worrying about all kinds of stuff. But not about that—about how long since the last time we’d talked.”

  “We didn’t talk that night,” I said. “You had your way with me and then left.”

  “We talked a little.” After a moment, he said, “Anyhow, that’s it, Esther. Everything. All of it. Well, until I arrested you.”

  “You did get me out of jail, though.” I wasn’t angry anymore. I was stunned, sad, amazed, sympathetic, and worried, but not angry. I was still a little irritated, though. “Not to harp on this, Lopez, but you should have called. Everything that was going on, all the stuff you’ve described . . . It didn’t occur you to that you should tell me at some point?”

  “I was going to tell you,” he said defensively. “I was going to get it all sorted out and taken care, clear the decks, shut down Stella’s . . . and then call you.”

  “Then?” I repeated. “After—”

  “Yeah. After. I was going to explain everything to you calmly, as a done deal, when it was all over. And that’s also when I’d break the news that you’d have to find a new job.”

  “That was your plan?”

  “It was.”

  “That was a bad plan.”

  “Yes, I have since figured that out,” he said sourly. “But by the time I found you working at Stella’s that night—where you weren’t supposed to be—I’d been so busy torturing myself and everyone around me, I had no idea that a whole week had passed since we’d slept together. So is there any possibility you could let go of that particular grievance now?”

  After my stony silence had filled the cavernous interior of Yee & Sons Trading Company for a few long, awkward moments, Lopez muttered, “I just said the wrong thing again, didn’t I?”

  “There are times,” I said, “when I really cannot believe what a guy you can be.”

  “Yeah, well, if it gives you any satisfaction,” he said morosely, “you’ve got a lot of company right now.”

  I looked at him for a long moment. Then I rose to my feet, walked over to him, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.

  He was so startled he froze for a moment—then relaxed and started kissing me back. And it was exactly the way I remembered his kisses—dark and sweet, seductive and dizzying . . . I sank into him, into the dark heat of his mouth, the strength of his arms, the flutter of his breath on my cheek, and the tickle of his hair brushing my skin as we shifted to get closer to each other.

  I had been starving for him since the moment I woke up in am empty bed on Christmas Day. And now I feasted.

  After a few minutes of making up this way—because sometimes we really were just so much better at this than at talking to each other—we paused to breathe. I gulped in air, resting my forehead against his as I leaned on his shoulders, my legs shaky and my heart pounding joyfully. His arms were tight around me and his legs straddled me as he leaned back a little in his extravagantly expensive chair to meet my gaze. He looked dazed, inquisitive, aroused—and a little wary, as if not sure we were done arguing.

  “Men.” I looked down into his wide-eyed gaze and shook my head. “Honestly.”

  “This isn’t a trick question,” he whispered, pulling me closer again. “Are you speaking to me now?”

  “Maybe,” I murmured against his mouth. “If you buy me dinner.”

  He smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “Not Chinese food, though,” I whispered, our arms still around each other as we nuzzled and teased a little. “It’s all I’ve eaten lately.”

  “Hmm. Well, um . . . I know a good Cuban place that’s not far from here. In the East Village.”

  “That sounds good.” Then I remembered where we were and laughed. “But first we have to escape from Yee’s Madhouse.”

  “Oh, right.” He let me untangle myself from him, then he looked around as he rose to his feet. “Maybe if we—”

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice called. “Detective? Are you still here?”

  “Lily!” I cried, recognizing her voice. “Yes, he’s here! So am I. We’re having trouble finding the way out.”

  “Ah! I think I know where you are. Don’t move, please.” When she appeared about half a minute later, she said, “I didn’t know you were still here, Esther. But when I was getting ready to close the store, I realized I had not seen the detective leave yet. Here, let me show you out.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling disinclined ever to come back here again. Not without a compass and a big ball of twine, anyhow.

  Once back down on the main floor, we said goodnight to Lily, who seemed to be alone in the store, and went out the front exit. As soon as the icy air enveloped me, I remembered that I was in Alicia’s skimpy costume and huddled deeper inside my coat, shivering a little.

  Lopez put his arm around me and pulled me close, trying to keep me warm. “I drove a police car here—one with a heater that actually works, go figure. Come on.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “But are you supposed to use a po
lice car on a date?”

  “No, so I’m counting on you not to rat on me.” He guided me to his car, then halted a couple of feet away from it when his phone rang.

  As he reached into his pocket for his cell, I said, “That’s not your mother, is it?” The ringtone was different.

  “No, it’s Andy—Detective Quinn. He’s not even supposed to be on duty right now, so I don’t know why he’d be calling.”

  “And you have to take his call,” I said with resignation.

  “Sorry.” He held the phone up to his ear. “Lopez.”

  As a gust of wind blew down the street and crept under my coat, I stepped away from him and went around to the passenger side of the car, waiting to be let in.

  “What?” Lopez said, looking stunned. “You’re sure? When?”

  My heart sank. I knew that look, that tone. We wouldn’t be having Cuban food—or anything else—together tonight.

  “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right there,” he said, exactly as I had known he would.

  After he ended the call, he looked at me across the roof of the police car. “I’m really sorry . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I have to go.” He came around to my side of the car, gave me a quick kiss, then said, “I’ll call you.”

  I gave him a look.

  “I’ll call you,” he said firmly.

  I nodded. When he started walking away, though, I frowned. “Aren’t you forgetting something, detective?”

  He turned around to look at me. “Huh?”

  “Your car,” I pointed out.

  “Oh. No, I’m just going a couple of blocks.”

  I realized something must have happened on his Chinatown case. I nodded and waved him off, smiling as I watched him walk away with a spring in his step, the bright lights shining on his black hair. Then I looked down into the car, thinking with regret that it would have been nice to go home in a heated vehicle. And get into bed with a heated man . . .

  And that was when I saw it.

  Sitting on the passenger seat—so that I might easily have crushed it if I had gotten into the car without looking—was a large, prettily wrapped, chocolate-drizzled fortune cookie.

  16

  Die, dead, death, condemned to die

  As soon as Max saw the decorative fortune cookie in my hands, he understood why I had come to the bookstore at night, without warning, shivering in my slutty red dress and go-go boots.

  (Well, okay, maybe my costume puzzled him; but he instantly comprehended the rest of the situation.)

  My hands were shaking with nerves. Which made even me more nervous, lest I drop the cookie and wind up inadvertently killing Lopez or myself—take your pick.

  I was glad Nelli was at the funeral home with Lucky, rather than here. Her usual friendly greeting would have put Lopez’s life at risk. Or mine.

  “M—M—Max,” I said, my teeth chattering as he opened the door of the shop for me, so that I could enter while securely holding this thing with both my hands. “Coo—coo-coo—”

  “A misfortune cookie. Yes, I see it. Come inside!” After he closed the door behind me, he said, “Where did you . . . Er, perhaps you should hand it over to me, Esther.”

  I was still shaking like a leaf in the wind. My fingers were curled convulsively around the cellophane wrapper that contained the cookie, squeezing the slippery material so hard I was losing feeling in my hands. I was so terrified of dropping the thing, which I had brought here by taxi (also a terrifying experience) that I couldn’t seem to relax my grip.

  “Lo—Lo—Lo . . .”

  “Lo mein? Lower Manhattan? Lone cookie?”

  “Lop . . . ez . . .”

  Max’s blue eyes widened. “This cookie was intended for Detective Lopez?”

  I nodded. I took a few panting breaths, trying to steady my nerves and make my teeth stop chattering. “Found in his car.”

  “Esther,” Max said firmly, “you’re overwrought. You need to give me the cookie.”

  “Someone’s trying to kill him, Max!” I wailed.

  “Esther,” he said sharply, “give me the cookie.”

  I surprised myself with a hiccup . . . then took a long, slow, deep breath and forced myself to release the cookie to Max.

  He took it from me gently, carried it slowly through the shop, and set it down on the large old walnut table where he often studied his musty tomes or did his bookkeeping.

  “Well done,” he said. “Well done, indeed, Esther. I can only imagine how emotionally fraught your journey here was.”

  “Destroy it,” I said vehemently. “Destroy it right now, Max. Someone is trying to kill Lopez!”

  “Yes, we must dispose immediately of the cookie. Then we can confer.”

  When he picked up a cocktail shaker, I snapped, “For God’s sake, Max, this is no time to mix a drink! Lopez’s life is at stake!”

  “No, no, this is the means of disposal,” he said soothingly.

  I blinked. “A cocktail shaker?”

  “It’s made of silver and it contains liquid. Those are the two requirements of the vessel I need for this ritual.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  I sat down quite suddenly. It was unfortunate that there was no chair beneath me.

  “Esther!”

  “I’m all right,” I said, lying there winded, sprawled on the floor. “A little bruised, but . . . I think I’m going to stay here for a moment. While you . . . you know . . . destroy that cookie.”

  Upon seeing the cookie in Lopez’s car, all I could think was, Someone’s trying to kill him! Someone’s trying to kill him!

  And right when I had finally decided not to kill him, too.

  Nothing mattered but saving his life. Without hesitation, I had picked up a heavy iron doorstop I found sitting outside a darkened shop door, smashed one of the windows of Lopez’s car, and seized the cookie.

  His car alarm was shrieking as I walked away. Moving carefully, with the cookie held carefully in both hands, I went in search of a taxi. I only realized now, in the safety of Max’s place, how lucky it was that no one had grabbed or tackled me. Chinatown was so crowded, there must have been witnesses to my smash and grab.

  I sat on the floor now, huddled in my coat, recovering from the cold night but still shaking with emotion as I realized how close Lopez had just come to death. My God, what if I had gotten in the car? What if I had sat on that cookie?

  Or what if we hadn’t made up and decided to go to dinner together? What if he had driven off alone, with his death curse sitting on the seat beside him, waiting to be activated? I would never have known, until after it was too late . . .

  Even though my stomach was empty, nausea welled up inside me and I felt like I might be sick.

  I started taking slow, even, deep breaths, trying to pull myself together.

  Max was chanting in a language I didn’t recognize as he raised the silver vessel over his head. The misfortune cookie sat on the table, inert, ordinary looking . . . and so deadly that I was almost afraid to look at it, now that I had turned it over to Max.

  Destroy it, destroy it, destroy it . . .

  Lopez’s survival was determined entirely by what happened to this garish little confection. I couldn’t stand the tension.

  Max set down the cocktail shaker and stood there for a moment in silence with his head bowed. Then he lifted off the top, carefully picked up the fortune cookie (which was still in its cellophane wrapper), and dropped it into the silver receptacle. He put the lid back on and then stood there staring at the shaker.

  “Now what?”

  “We wait for the elixir inside the vessel to take effect and—Ah!”

  Thick, white, putrid smoke started seeping out from beneath the shaker’s lid.

  White, the color of death.

  “Max?” I clambered to my feet, prepared to flee.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “This is quite normal.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The shaker star
ted trembling, subtly at first, and then with rapidly growing violence, until it was soon shaking as fiercely if rocked by a major earthquake. The sour-smelling white smoke was by now billowing out in roiling clouds, escaping from beneath the vessel’s rattling lid and accompanied by a menacing hissing sound that made my hackles rise. After doing this for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only about thirty seconds, the shaker gave a little hop, landed back on the table with a muffled thud, and went completely still and silent. The smoke that filled the room began dissipating, though it still stank.

  As I stared at the quiescent cocktail shaker, I realized I was panting with anxiety. Max’s posture was alert and his expression taut, but he looked focused and intent rather than worried or puzzled.

  After a long moment, he reached for the shaker, removed the lid, and pulled a slimy, dripping object out of it. I stared at it for a moment with a frown . . . until I realized what it was.

  “The cellophane wrapper?”

  He nodded. “The only part of that confection that was neutral rather than evil.”

  “Whoa.” I needed to sit down again, but this time I made sure I found a chair first. “Some part of me hoped . . . you know.”

  “That this cookie was a merely a harmless treat which you had, in your anxiety, erroneously perceived as a threat?” He showed me the interior of the shaker. Nothing remained but the elixir. The mystical potion had completely eradicated the cookie and the death curse it contained. “That was an understandable hope, Esther. But as you can see . . . the cookie conjuror has tried to kill again.”

  “Evil is voracious,” I said, “and feeds on its own appetite.”

  “I wish it were not always so,” Max said gravely. “And yet, it always is.”

  I pulled out my cell phone, fully focused now on stopping the killer before he took another crack at Lopez—who was probably still in Chinatown right now, a vulnerable target.

  Lucky answered his phone by saying, “Hey, kid, I was about to call you. I just found out—”

  I interrupted him and cut to the chase. “Uncle Six is the murderer, and he’s trying to kill Detective Lopez.”