Brush With Death (34 page)

When I limped back into the living room, he looked me over, pausing at my bloody knee. The paramedic's bandage had already fallen off. Frank nodded again and drained his glass.

“You can take the couch,” he said, and walked out of the room.

“Frank?” I called after him. No response. I put the pizza on the counter and sat on the couch, confused.

After a moment Frank returned with a first-aid kit. Stocking a first-aid kit was one of the many things on my To Do list; all I had in my apartment was an empty tube of Neosporin and an ancient box of Band-Aids. I almost said as much, but Frank wasn't in a chatty mood, and as he squatted in front of me, I caught a whiff of alcohol. Only he could do drunk this straight, I thought to myself, and smiled. The smile was wiped off my face the next moment, as Frank slapped wet gauze on my knee.

“Ow!”

Frank's dark eyes met mine, and he pressed a little harder.

I flinched, but held my tongue. “Is this a bad time?”

“Why do you ask?” he said without inflection, smearing antibiotic cream on my knee and applying a bandage.

“You're acting strange.”

“
I'm
acting strange?”

“Yes, you're acting strange.”

“
I
am?”

“See, now, Frank, we could go round and round with this or you could just tell me what's on your mind.”

Frank sat back on his heels. “Let's run through it, shall we?”

I was kind of sorry I'd asked.

“First, you run out on me in L.A. without saying a word. I spent three hours searching the galleries for you and had to make up an excuse for the FBI team and Sandino. Second, you show up with a pizza, unannounced, in the middle of the night. And C, you're injured, your clothing is torn, and your hair's a mess.” He gestured grandly and for a moment lost his balance. “I think I've proved my point.”

“Um . . .” I replied. My hair really did look awful, though it was in poor form for him to say so.

He stood up, dumped everything into the first-aid kit, and weaved out of the room.

“Frank—” I hobbled after him. Before I got halfway across the room, he returned with sheets, blankets, a towel, and a pillow, and dropped them on the couch.

“Aren't you going to ask me what happened?” I asked.

“You want me to ask you what happened?”

“Isn't that customary in these situations?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Who do you think I am, your father?”

“What? No, I—”

“That's what you think, isn't it?” he demanded belligerently. “
I'm
the one who scolds you for running around in the middle of the night with art thieves, aren't I?
I'm
the one who gets upset when you put yourself in danger, don't I?
I'm
the one who acts like a goddamned fool when you show up in the middle of the night dressed like a three-dollar whore, aren't I? Good ol' stuffed-shirt Frank!”

“Take it easy, big guy,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Let's not say anything we'll regret when we're sober, okay?”

“You think I'm drunk, is that it?”

“Well, you have to admit you're—”

“I may have had a drink,” he said. “Or two.”

“Maybe so,” I said in a soothing tone.

“But I'm a far sight from not knowing what I'm saying.”

In fact, he seemed to be having no trouble at all finding the right words, whereas I was acting as if I were still under the influence of Uncle Sidran's Mystery Tonic.

“What the hell are you doing here, Annie?” Frank took a step closer, bringing him much too close to me.

“Um, I had a hard day and . . . I wanted . . . I needed . . .” I stammered. I licked my lips, and tried hard to think. “I had a
really
hard day.”

“Screw this,” Frank said, grabbing me by the upper arms and kissing me, hard.

I was so shocked that I stiffened, but then the juices started flowing and I was swept up in the whole thing. By the time Frank deepened the kiss, settling one hand on my waist and moving the other up toward my breast, I forgot about the hair situation and started wondering whether Frank still carried a condom in his pocket. By the time he started nibbling at my neck, I had pretty much abandoned all logical thought. And when Frank shoved my shredded blouse to the side and took down my bra strap, then began kissing his way along my breast, I was ready to forfeit sanity altogether.

The phone rang.

Personally, I never answered the phone when I was too busy, and this moment seemed to qualify. More than most, in fact. But Frank went very still upon hearing the first ring, then lifted his head and looked at me with the second ring. By the third he had removed his hands from my nether parts and headed for the phone located on a small table near the couch. He faced away from me, toward the fire, as he picked up the receiver.

“DeBenton,” he said, as if expecting a late-night business call. “Yes, she is. Yes, I understand. I'll let her know.”

Frank gazed at me as if he'd never seen me before.

Uh-oh.

“That was your friend Michael Johnson. He says you should call him tomorrow.”

“Oh. Thanks. How did he know I was here?”

“How should I know?” Frank seemed equal parts disappointed and furious. It made me remember how much I disliked his stuffy, disapproving way of going about life.
Damn,
though, he was a good kisser.

“I'm going to sleep,” he said as he strode across the room.

“Yeah, me too,” I said to his back. “Awfully big day tomorrow, no time and energy for wild sex.”

He stopped, hung his head as if debating something, then turned and met my eyes. “Is that an invitation, or a challenge, or are you just speaking without thinking?”

“I, um . . .” It was much easier to be a smart-ass when Frank wasn't looking at me.

“That's what I thought. Good night, Annie. We'll talk in the morning.” He disappeared down the hall.

I plopped back down on the couch and reviewed my options. I could go down the hall and force myself on him. Judging from his earlier behavior, I was guessing I could turn the tide without working too hard. Frank's kiss had gotten me pretty wound up, and after months of trying to ignore the heat between us all my molecules were yelling
Yes! Yes! Yes!

On the other hand, sleeping with my landlord seemed like a Really Bad Plan, especially since he wasn't the kind of guy who would be willing to back off on the rent in order to keep me in his bed. Not that I approved of that sort of thing, but still. I could just see his uptight expression in my mind, and hear him saying something along the lines of,
“It would cheapen the both of us, Ms. Kincaid, were we to blur our contractual obligations,”
even as we were in the middle of doing the nasty.

Then there was the way he answered the phone in the middle of the night, “DeBenton,” as though he were still in the military. And the way he dressed, for heaven's sake, as if he were going to a business meeting at all hours of the day and night. The man wore creased jeans.

Oh yeah. Also, Josh and I were an item. Geez, I kept forgetting. That man better get home soon or fit me with a chastity belt.

Slipping into the bathroom down the hall, I took a hot shower and scrubbed myself raw. I had to put my dirty clothes back on afterward, but it was better than nothing. I covered the couch with the soft cotton sheets, spread out the blanket, and lay down. The pillow was soft and smelled like Frank, and I snuggled into it. It was much better this way, I told myself as I closed my eyes. But goodness, could that boy kiss.

The next thing I knew soft light was streaming through the large living room windows and the clock on the mantel read 6:17. A host of heretofore unheard-from muscles made known their existence, and when I rolled over my knee barked at me. Walking gingerly around the living room loosened it up, but it still grumbled.

Last night Frank said he wanted to Talk. But Talking led to Languaging, and no matter how long I lived near New Age Berkeley, I would never be any good at it. That threat alone was enough to scare me out of bed at the crack of dawn. I wrapped some pizza slices in a paper towel and tip-toed out of the apartment.

I pressed the elevator button, and after a moment the doors slid open to reveal a fiftyish woman in a fur coat, wearing too much perfume and holding a yappy dog. I limped onto the elevator and smiled, but she wouldn't stop staring.

“Rough night,” I said, taking a big bite of pizza and watching the numbers flash as we zoomed down ten floors. “But he pays well.”

Chapter 18

—Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), Italian painter and inventor

Use it or lose it.
—Georges LeFleur

I stopped at a café on Chestnut, washed up in the bathroom, ordered a coffee with a shot of espresso, and nursed it for an hour while I perused the local rags. The “Advice from the Sexpert” column was conducting a lively debate on whether or not men could be lesbians. I read both sides and considered the issue. In true Bay Area fashion, the consensus was that men had the
right
to be lesbians even though they couldn't
be
lesbians.

I ordered another coffee to go, stopped at a doughnut shop to pick out a couple of dozen, and ate an old-fashioned on the way to Aaron Garner's house renovation. It wasn't yet eight in the morning and the job site was in full swing. Construction workers were early risers, and say what one might about Norm, the man knew how to run a crew.

I found Norm arguing with Ethan Mayall at the soon-to-bekitchen counter. The architect wore a lamb's-wool sweater, pressed khakis, and brown penny loafers while Norm's ripped jeans were just this side of indecent and his T-shirt read NO, I DON'T HAVE A MOOD DISORDER. I JUST HATE THIS *&%$(#* RAIN! The air between the two men crackled with tension.

“Doughnuts!” I called out. If carbs, fat, and sugar couldn't defuse a situation, nothing could.

“What the hell happened to you?” Norm growled, cramming a glazed doughnut into his mouth and masticating vigorously.

“You're supposed to ignore my appearance, like Ethan here.”

“Wasn't some guy, was it? 'Cause I don't hold with that sort of thing.”

“Nothing like that, just clumsy.” I reminded myself to call the hospital and check on Curly Top. “Doughnut, Ethan?”

“I'm watching my weight,” he said and patted his concave stomach. “I gained half a pound last weekend at the Napa Valley Wine Festival.”

Norm and I glared at him until he took a doughnut.

“Are you working with Billy Mudd on a development near Bayview Cemetery?” I asked.

Ethan choked on a chocolate candy sprinkle. “That's confidential.”

“Listen, shit-for-brains.” Norm loomed over him. “The lady asked nicely, so either you tell her what she wants to know or you're gonna need a court order to get my size-fourteen work boot outta your ass.”

I stared at Norm. He shrugged.

Ethan crumbled. “I, uh, yes, I am. Working with Billy Mudd, I mean.”

“What's the big secret?” I asked.

“Aaron Garner said to keep it confidential. And Billy Mudd threatened to beat me up.”

“Nice,” Norm said without a trace of irony.

“But why would Aaron—”

“Why don't you ask me yourself?” Aaron Garner appeared behind us, his elaborate comb-over undulating in the breeze from the open window. Ethan, Norm, and I tried not to stare.

“I didn't realize you were back, Aaron,” I said. “How was your trip?”

“Splendid, just splendid. Josh is staying a few more days to be sure the project gets off to a good start. Now, if you'll excuse us, gentlemen, I'd like a word with Annie.” He ushered me down the back stairs to the garden. “Norm tells me you found some fantastic old headstones.”

“Ricardo and his crew dug them up.”

“What a find. I'm thinking of funding an institute on the history of Bay Area cemeteries. Does that sound too gruesome?”

“Not at all,” I said, wishing my hero Norm were with us. I led the way into the narrow alley lined with old marble gravestones.

“You've been a busy girl,” Aaron said softly from behind me. “Seems you've discovered my little secret. I hired Ethan to design a housing development inspired by the art of Tim O'Neill.”

I turned to face him. “Where?”

“Near Bayview Cemetery.”

“Near or on?”

“On unused cemetery land.”

“Are you referring to Potter's Field?”

“Annie, those graves have been abandoned for decades, a century even.”

“But, Aaron, the cemetery is part of Oakland's history.”

“Don't be a naïf, Annie. Need I remind you that the San Francisco Bay Area is the most expensive housing market in the nation? That land isn't being used and the cemetery needs the money. If I don't develop it, someone who cares less about historical preservation will.”

“Then why is it a secret?”

“Because as soon as the word gets out, the history buffs and tree huggers will launch their protests. Listen, Annie, I'm offering to fund a historical project. Perhaps it could even be a part of Chapel of the Chimes. I'd put you in charge, pay you a generous wage.”

“I don't know the first thing about cemeteries, Aaron. If you're serious about the project you should consider hiring Russell, he's the expert.”