The old man screamed as the cuff bit into his wrist with all the force of Rick's weight at the other end.
Rick saw dark sky and the sheer, clifflike facade of the building. His legs climbed empty space, feet searching for something solid that was not there.
The pain in his right arm was excruciating. His left hand slipped from the sill, but Jim caught his wrist. A good solid catch. Rick heard the sound, flesh on flesh, like a slap.
Two men were holding on to Al. Dusty took Rick's right arm above the elbow with both hands, and she and Jim heaved together. Rick hurtled over the sill and everybody fell to the floor in a panting, cursing, tangled heap.
Tears shone in Dusty's eyes, but she never cried.
“You son of a bitch,” Jim got to his feet, growling. “Don't you ever do that again.” His voice was tough, but his hands shook and he sat down heavily on the narrow hospital bed.
Dusty bit at her lip and winced at the pulpy purple flesh around Rick's right wrist as she unlocked the cuffs. “Okay,” she said lightly, trying to sound piqued. “I give up, what were you trying to do out there? Give everybody a major coronary?” The tremor in her voice gave her away.
Albert was rolled swiftly away, strapped to a gurney, moaning and grasping his injured shoulder. Rick still sat on the floor, looking dazed. A hospital orderly and Dusty tried to help him stand. He shook them off and got up slowly on his own. “Oh, no.” He looked down at his clothes. “I ruined my good shirt.”
Dusty held Rick's coat and gun while Aileen cut away the remainder of the shirt in the emergency room, preparing to take him to X ray. “Like old times, isn't it?” the nurse said cheerfully. “Remember the time you fell off your motorcycle?”
“I didn't fall off,” he protested, gingerly examining his wrist. “It skidded on a patch of oil when I was chasing a suspect in a stolen car.”
“Sure,” she said. “And the time you fell off the DuPont Building?”
“I knew there was some reason I didn't like heights,” he remembered. “I didn't fall off. The fire escape broke under me while I was chasing a suspect.”
“Sure. And remember this one?” Smiling, she tickled an old crescent-shaped scar an inch below his collarbone.
“I always wondered about that one,” Dusty said, without thinking. “How did it happen?”
“Knife,” Aileen said, raising an eyebrow. “That was the time he finally caught a suspect he was chasing.”
“That'll teach him,” Dusty said. The two women exchanged knowing glances, acknowledging what each had shared with this man.
“You're ganging up,” Rick complained. He rubbed his forearm and winced, oblivious to the moment. “Nobody's even read me my rights.”
“So how come you never broke this wedding shit to me?” Jim demanded as they climbed into the car. “Setting the date, huh? You shoot your mouth off to a stranger, but your partners are the last to know?”
“I would have said anything to keep that old man from showing me his trick high-diving act.” Rick looked sheepish. His arm, not broken, rested in a sling. “I just wanted to connect with him.”
“Sounds like wishful thinking to me,” Jim said.
“You never know,” Rick said cheerfully. “Maybe it's not such a bad idea.”
Dusty, in the back seat, said nothing.
Rick's injury frightened Laurel to tears, but she quickly snapped back and coped well, filling the house with cut flowers, morning glories, sea lavender and scarlet sage from the yard. Their fragrances mingled with mouthwatering aromas from the kitchen. She cosseted and babied him, announcing that her special egg custard would cure any hurt. It slid down his throat silky smooth, sweet and creamy.
He thought he was sated until a primitive drumbeat began to throb from the stereo speakers. She paraded proudly and seductively into the bedroom in four-inch-high stiletto heels he had never seen her wear before. Her lips and fingernails gleamed blood-red and she no longer seemed shy and modest, as she often was, about exposing her breasts. In fact, she had rubbed the nipples with something that glistened. All she wore with the spike heels was a yellow hibiscus behind her left ear and a pair of his boxer shortsâand something clinking beneath the shorts, a surprise. A St. Valentine's Day joke, a novelty gift to her when they were first datingâa chain-and-metal chastity belt. Medieval knights supposedly had locked their ladies into such contraptions before riding off to the crusades. Vicious little metal teeth ringing the opening were designed to inflict severe damage to any member daring to enter. He had felt guilty at the time because the gift embarrassed her. She didn't even seem to know what it was for. Now she did.
Role-playing again. God, he loved it. Swinging her hips, calling herself Marilyn, teasing him unmercifully into finding the hidden key. She was even hot to play sex games with his gun. He took it from her as she moistened the barrel.
“Oh, no, you don't,” he warned. “This is no plaything. Too many people get hurt in games with these. I go to too many scenes where âunloaded' guns went off.”
She curled her blood-red lips and pouted. He grinned. “It would be too embarrassing to explain how the family jewels got shot off,” he told her.
She giggled. “We could unload it.”
“Christ, it's loaded? I thought you already emptied it.” The discovery nearly cost him his erection, but not quite. She tossed her bright hair back over her naked shoulders and wet her lips. “I thought you liked living dangerously.”
“What a wacky broad, I love it,” he said, unloading the gun. He slid the weapon under the bed and dropped the bullets onto the carpet beside it. “Come here, you,” he said, reaching for her. “I'll show you how dangerous I can be.”
He awoke and saw that the room had been straightened as he slept. He heard the shirring of the juicer, smelled sausage and coffee and padded barefoot into the kitchen. She was already dressed, wearing an eyelet-trimmed apron and mixing batter. It struck him that she had even changed her nail color since last night. “I squeezed the orange juice,” she said, smiling. “Ready for waffles?”
“Do you know what an amazing woman you are?” He nuzzled her warm neck. It smelled like vanilla.
He sat at the table, drank juice and coffee and repeated the lies he'd used to lure Albert back from the ledge. She turned from the mixing bowl and studied his face, her expression grave. “Were you putting the old man on, Rick, or do you really have marriage on your mind?”
The coffee was excellent, the sun streamed in the windows and the room around him glowed. A good day to be alive. “Jim said it sounded like wishful thinking.”
She smiled and resumed mixing, holding his eyes in her gaze. “Is it?”
He had come close to being killed out on that ledge, though he would never admit it aloud. Cheating death stirs certain emotions about life.
“I do want kids,” he said matter-of-factly. “Christ, some of the guys my age already have teenagers⦔
Her gasp interrupted. She had scorched her fingers on the waffle iron. She looked dazed, then examined her blistering skin. “I'll get some butter,” she said, wincing.
“Wait, didn't you say the other day that aloe is best for burns? I thought you put some in the refrigerator. Didn't you, babe?”
No answer. Instead, she was staring at the kitchen clock, the ersatz coffeepot perking away, high on the wall above the sink. “That must be fast,” she whispered.
“Nope.” He consulted his watch. “Right on the button. Keeps perfect time.” He found the aloe, wrapped and neatly labeled, in the vegetable storage bin next to the avocados and summer squash. He sliced a chunk from the fleshy leaf and smeared her fingers with the sticky juice. The burn did not appear serious, but it must be painful, he thought. Her eyes were misty.
“Nothing I said, was it?” he teased. She looked wary, as though she had no idea what he was talking about. “I mention wedding bells and kids and you put your hand in the waffle iron. I guess it's a better sign than if you stuck your head in the oven.”
“Oh, Rick!” She threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight, voice quaking with emotion. “I think we should get married right away. I need you so much.” She was crying.
“Hold on,” he said, startled. “We don't want to do anything hasty. All I mean is that it's probably time to start thinking about where this relationship is headed.” He kissed the burned fingers. “Feel better, babe?” She nodded and said nothing. She looked pale. Small wonder, he thought. They certainly had not slept much. She seemed withdrawn, almost frightened. She should take some time to get used to the idea. Actually, he thought, so should he. He now felt a bit scared himself. How the heck did this happen? Somehow he had stepped in it without intending to, almost committing before knowing he was ready. He was usually more cautious. He felt uneasy without knowing why.
Her moods, both dark and light, came and went like quicksilver. A hour later she was bustling in the kitchen again, humming as she worked.
She insisted on shaving Rick the next day in deference to his injured arm, still stiff and sore. “You don't need your good right arm as long as you have me,” she said.
“You sure you know how to do this?”
“Of course,” she said confidently. She wiped her hands on her apron and tucked the towel around his neck like a bib. “I shaved my father a few times after he got shaky and couldn't do it himselfâand he survived.”
She sat Rick on a low kitchen stool near the sink, his face wrapped in a hot towel. Perched on a higher stool behind him, she was able to wrap her bare legs around his middle as she worked.
He had brought his shaving cream and safety razor in from the master bathroom, but she ignored them. A straightedge razor and a natural bristle shaving brush with a marble handle were laid out on one of her thirsty 100 percent cotton kitchen towels next to a steaming hot bowl of water.
“Where'd you get them?”
“I've used them before. I'm old-fashioned. I think they do the best job.”
He relaxed against her soft body and let her play the role of barber as she brushed warm lather onto his face. He enjoyed being babied. “I hope that thing is sharp enough.”
“I keep everything very sharp.” Delicately, she picked up the razor. “There's nothing worse than a dull blade.”
He closed his eyes as she began on the right side of his face, stroking against the stubble. She seemed to know what she was doing.
“You know, Rick,” she said, as she skimmed the blade clean on the edge of the bowl. “I think we need a fence, a privacy fence, between our yard and the Singers.”
“Why?” he grunted, trying not to move.
She went on carefully scraping his upper lip. “I know that Ben and Beth are your friends. But as the poet says, good fences make good neighbors.”
He grunted questioningly again.
“Before their cat disappeared, it was always sniffing around over here. Now they're talking about a
puppy
for Benjie. The boy won't even stay in his own yard.” She sounded exasperated. “He's tramped through my impatiens, and I found a toy shovel in my herb garden. We don't tolerate anybody mucking about in what we work so hard to grow. He has no business over here uninvited.” The razor rang against the rim of the bowl with the clear sound of a small bell.
“He's just a little kid, honey. How much damage can he do? Someday my kids will be playing in the yard, and it won't make much difference.” He felt her legs tighten around his midsection. “I thought you liked Benjie. He's just doing what kids do, babe. They mess up, spit up, break things.” He grinned until he felt the blade on his face again.
She tilted his chin up firmly and drew the razor along his throat. Her legs clasped him so tightly, knees wedged into his ribs, ankles locked around his solar plexus, that he was uncomfortable. He had never realized how muscular her legs were. This was not such a good idea after all. “Easy,” he muttered from between his teeth, wanting to stand up and escape, but afraid to make a sudden move with the blade still at his throat.
“We only want the fence to protect our home,” she hissed.
He could not see her face but definitely did not like the sound of her voice. This was no time for her to pick a fight about a fence. He reached up to stay the hand with the razor, and the blade caught him, just under the chin.
“Oh,” she said. “I told you not to move.”
She sighed and put the razor down. “Look at that.”
He reached up and got blood on his fingers. Relaxing her grip, she slid off her stool and brought him a wet towel.
“Dammit,” he said.
“You shouldn't have moved. I told you not to. Here, it's all right,” she said soothingly. “Poor Rick.”
It was not bad, but it did bleed. Pressing the towel to his chin, he went to the bathroom for a styptic pencil.
“Careful,” she called after him, concern in her voice. “Don't get blood on the carpet or the good towels.”
Rick's team was in line for the next whodunit, a murder without a suspect or a smoking gun. The call came an hour later, summoning them in early. His arm ached and his chin still oozed blood, but he disliked missing the start of an investigation. He swallowed four aspirins and drove to the station.
The weather was schizty and windswept. White caps danced on the water as he crossed the causeway. The ominous sky suddenly brightened until the glare off the surface of the bay was blinding. He flipped down the sun visor and struggled with his sore arm, to angle his Ray Bans out of the glove compartment. Moments after he put them on, the vast expanses of sky and water faded fast, from radiant blue to turbulent shades of gray. He yanked off the sunglasses and tossed them onto the seat beside him.
Miami's weather was so changeable, from moment to moment, “like some people,” he muttered.
They held a tumultuous discussion in the kitchen. All were agitated, and it quickly became chaotic. Harriet was eager for Laurel to become a bride. Then the house would truly belong to them. Free-spirited Marilyn refused to consider the prospect of being tied down. Both violently opposed a baby in the house. Laurel had thrown away her birth control pills that morning, but Marilyn had fished them out of the trash. She had swallowed two to make sure, determined to be a sensation in her string bikini during the season. Harriet vowed that no brat would live to track up her home and dig in her flower beds. Benjie was annoying enough. In fact, something was definitely going to have to be done about him.
A blessed event was certainly no part of Alex's agenda. He fumed that it was just like that bitch Laurel to think only of herself and her happiness. He had always hated her and her easy life, lived at the expense of all of them.
Little Jennifer alone loved the idea of a baby. The prospect of having someone to play with delighted her, but she was hopelessly outnumbered.
“Listen,” Alex told them, “marriage may not be such a bad idea”
“I am no housewife, and I'm not gonna be one!” Marilyn shrieked.
“Be sensible,” Harriet urged her. “If we marry Rick, we get to keep this house, with my kitchen, my garden and the new microwave.”
“How would you like to get rid of Rick, and still keep it all?”
Alex had their attention.
“The other night, up on that ledge. Rick mighta bought it, right? Cops get killed on the job. Happens all the time. It got me thinking. What if Rick gets married and then gets himself killed on the job? You know there's a civic group in Miami that pays off mortgages for cops' widows? Free and clear. There's also big cash death benefits and a lifetime pension. Nice, huh? Hey, cops get killed. It's a fact of life. It would be my pleasure. But,” he cautioned Harriet, who was paying rapt attention, “don't try to pull any funny stuff here. It has to happen on duty.”
“You won't be content until I have no sex life at all,” Marilyn whined.
“Listen, listen to me,” Alex soothed. “Rick gets blown away, you can have all the dates you want.”
“Even Barry?”
“Sure,” Alex said. “But I tell ya, you're wasting your time. The guy's gotta be gay.”
Marilyn tossed her head in disgust, then considered the prospect. “I do look good in black.”
Jennifer began to wail. “I like Rick, and I don't like guns. I wanna play wif Benjie.”
“Now you've made her cry again,” Harriet said. “I hope you're all happy. You know Rick does make a mess around here, and he never helps with the housework. Once he's gone, I could have the fence built and order the new drapes I want, the French illusion sheers. But what about Laurel? She'd come unglued, she could be a problem.”
“Right,” Alex said. “But you can see she's getting weaker. Soon we can get rid of her too.”
“Be careful,” Harriet warned
“I'm working on it,” he said. “Don't worry about it. In the meantime I've got a plan, a way we can score some big bucks until the death benefits roll in.”
“Now you're talking. I'll drink to that,” Marilyn said. She sashayed over to the cabinet, took out a bottle of Rick's bourbon and poured herself a double.
Laurel found herself alone in the kitchen moments later, a strange taste on her lips. The bourbon bottle was out on the counter, and she wondered how it got there. It was not like Rick to have a drink before going to work. Then she looked at the wall clock. She had last checked the time a few minutes ago, yet, according to the clock, more than two hours had elapsed.
Sobbing in the bathroom, she was frantically scrubbing her freshly painted blood-red nails with polish remover when Marilyn came out, pulled on her leather miniskirt and went to find out the truth about Barry.