Sex, Murder and a Double Latte (12 page)

“I’ll have the mango margarita,” I said.

“My son will have a glass of milk and I’ll have a glass of your sangria.”

“Got it.” The waiter scribbled our order down and left us to study the rest of the menu.

“I thought you couldn’t drink while watching Jack.”

“Wine doesn’t count.” Jack began to fuss, and Leah handed him a napkin. “Here, honey, why don’t you tear this up?” Jack started happily ripping the paper to shreds.

“So what happened to your car?”

“Oh somebody fu—” I cast a quick glance at Jack. “Somebody messed with it.”

“What do you mean they ‘messed with it’?”

“They slashed up the seats, rug and spare tire. Probably the work of some strung-out kids.” I had no intention of telling her about the events of that morning. Leah had a tendency to overreact, and I still hadn’t gotten rid of my headache.

Leah frowned and tapped her nails against the table. The waiter came with our drinks and took our order before she voiced her thoughts. “I heard about the woman who was killed in your neighborhood.”

“Yeah, pretty ugly, huh?”

“I hope you’re being careful, Sophie.” She twisted her wedding band around on her finger. “I worry about you living all by yourself.”

“I don’t live by myself. I live with Mr. Katz.”

“You know most women don’t start talking to their cats until they’re eighty.”

“Yes, well, I’ve always been precocious.”

Leah sighed and gave Jack another napkin to destroy. “I don’t suppose you’re dating anyone.”

“Actually, I am.”

Leah nearly choked on a floating piece of fruit. “You are? Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you, just now.”

“But I had to ask. That doesn’t count.”

I took a much-needed sip of my margarita. “Okay, let’s pretend you didn’t ask. Leah, guess what? I’m dating someone.”

“Ha, ha. All right, smarty, who is he? And don’t leave out any details.”

I gave her a brief rundown on Anatoly, including his physical description, career background and a list of his previous residences. By the time I’d finished, the waiter was back with our food.

Leah sliced up some quesadilla for Jack before he started systematically dropping each piece on the floor. “Well, he’s Jewish. That’ll make Mom happy.”

“I have no intention of ever introducing him to Mom. And I don’t want you talking to her about this, either—got it, Leah?”

“You’re going to have to tell her about him if it gets serious.”

“We’ve been on one date. It’s not serious.”

“But it
could
get serious. Honestly, Sophie, you can’t be so cautious. You’re not a kid anymore. Statistically speaking you’re more likely to get hit by a truck than get married again.”

“People get hit by trucks all the time.”

“This isn’t a joke. Now let’s see, did you say you’ve only been on one date with him?”

“Well, it’s more like one and a half. I went to an opening at a gallery with Marcus, and Anatoly was there. The two of us hung out and shared a cab home. Does that count as a date?”

“No.”

“Oh.” I tasted my drink again. “What counts as a date, then?”

“He has to ask you to go out at a specific time and date and you have to say yes. He has to come pick you up, then you engage in some activity together and you leave together.”

“Huh. Okay, Anatoly and I did engage in an activity together and we left together so—”

“It doesn’t count.” Leah chewed on her enchilada. “You haven’t slept with him, have you? You know you have to hold out until at least the third date, otherwise he’ll think you’re easy.”

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Well, thank God you have some sense.”

“I didn’t have a chance. By the time things started getting really steamy between the two of us I had to get going to a surprise party. But next time I see him I’m definitely going to be wearing the good underwear.”

“Sophie. You can’t be serious. You know, this is Dena’s influence. You spend all your time hanging out with her at her sex shop and now you’ve turned into a slut.”

“Slut! Slut, slut, slut, slut, slut!” Jack was happily banging a spoon against his tray as he proudly yelled out his new word at the top of his voice.

Leah grabbed Jack’s shoulders and desperately tried to defuse the situation as the neighboring tables shot us alarmed stares. “No, no, honey. You misheard mommy. I didn’t call Auntie Sophie a slut, I called her a…a…a mutt! That’s it, honey, Auntie Sophie is a mutt.”

I slid down in my seat and considered asking the waiter to put another shot of tequila in my margarita. Obviously, I had made the wrong choice today; I should have waited for the ax murderer. When Jack finally quieted down, I threw out the one comment that I knew would distract Leah from her current line of questioning.

“God, Leah, you must be exhausted.”

Leah brightened. “I am exhausted. Honestly, I don’t know how I manage. Yesterday I put off doing errands because I was afraid that if I got in the car I might fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Wow, that’s tough.”

“Tell me about it.” She tossed her processed hair over her shoulder with a well-practiced dramatic touch. “The other day it took me fifty minutes to get him down for a nap. Fifty minutes, Sophie. I was so drained from the ordeal that I couldn’t even use the hour that he was asleep productively. I actually sat on the couch and watched MTV News of all things. And while watching it I realized how completely out of it I am. I used to be hip, remember?”

Leah was never hip. “Of course I remember.”

“Now I don’t know half the singers they were talking about. I mean, who on earth is JJ Money or DC Smooth?”

I perked up. “Oh, were they talking about the charges against DC Smooth? You know it was an article about that case that first brought Anatoly and me together. It was the front page story in the
New York Times
the day that he tried to steal the paper from me. God, I find that whole messy situation so interesting. It has book potential written all over it. I don’t think he did it, do you?”

“He tried to steal your newspaper?”

“Long story. Anyway, I’ve been following this and the pieces just don’t fit. DC claims that JJ Money called him up and challenged him. Told him to meet him in the VIP room of some nightclub to settle some old scores, right?”

“Well I…”

“DC goes and he’s ready for action. He’s got a switchblade and a gun, tells a whole bunch of people that he’s going to set JJ Money straight.” I sat up a little straighter as I narrated. “He goes to the club and waits. JJ Money’s a no-show, so DC gets antsy and decides to go outside to see if he can find him. Again he tells some of his friends what he’s up to.”

“I really—”

“Next thing you know, DC’s in some nearby alley standing over JJ Money’s body. JJ Money’s been shot with a gun left at the crime scene, only its not DC Smooth’s gun but JJ Money’s own gun. I don’t care how high DC might have been, nobody’s stupid enough to tell the world that he’s going to go fu— Mess with someone and then shoot that same someone and
then
hang around long enough to tell the cops that he didn’t do it.” I hit my spoon against the table for emphasis. “And why shoot him with JJ’s own gun? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t care.”

I pressed my lips into a tight little smile. I had forgotten who I was talking to. One should never interrupt Leah when she is talking about herself. It just isn’t done.

Jack was now carefully pouring milk over the food that surrounded his high chair.

“Jack, stop. Did you hear me? Mommy said no. Oh for God’s sake, where is the waiter with our check? Do you see what I go through?”

I spent the rest of the time at Chevy’s helping Leah do damage control after Hurricane Jack, furiously waving down our waiter and listening to Leah tell me how put-upon she was and how I should marry and have kids so we could be put-upon together. The ax murderer was in for a letdown. If the lunch didn’t end soon I was going to kill myself.

CHAPTER 8

“As if her own neuroses didn’t complicate her life enough, now she had to deal with everyone else’s.”

—
Sex, Drugs and Murder

E
ventually Leah did drive me home. I jumped out of the car and watched her drive off. One of us had to have been adopted.

I went up to my apartment and let my hand rest on the brass doorknob. I stood there for a full two minutes. I wanted to smack myself for being such a wimp. This was my home. Some idiot rearranged my bookshelf and now I was afraid to go inside? Where was the Sophie that had nonchalantly walked through the slums of the city by herself at night while doing research for her novels? Where was the woman who had won a tug-of-war with a street punk who had tried to steal her purse?

I drew in a deep breath and opened the door. I laced my keys through my fingers in the way Dena had taught me. If I had to punch someone they would be seriously cut. I stepped into the entryway and was greeted by what seemed to be a calm and collected Mr. Katz.

“No visits from deranged fans this afternoon?” Mr. Katz purred expectantly. “Okay, I’ll pay attention to you in a second, just let me do a quick walk-through.”

I checked every room and narrow closet, keys in hand, and scrutinized every shelf dresser and countertop to see if anything was displaced. When I was sure that everything was in order, I lowered myself onto the sofa and allowed Mr. Katz to knead away at my black chinos. I stroked his fur and tried to formulate a plan of attack, but none was forthcoming. I needed help with this. I let my hand rest on the phone although I didn’t have the slightest idea who it was that I was going to call. Fortunately I didn’t have to figure it out because someone called me first. My fingers tightened around the receiver. I no longer feared that it would be a prank call. I just desperately hoped that whoever was on the line could offer me some viable solutions. I brought it to my ear.

“Please tell me this is my guardian angel.”

“Why do you need a guardian angel?”

“Anatoly.” I let my body relax against the leather cushions.

“Right on the first guess, I’m flattered. Why do you need a guardian angel?”

“It’s nothing, and even if I was serious, I wouldn’t ask you to fill that role. You wouldn’t make a good angel. Dark angel maybe. What’s up?”

“I was just calling to find out when I was going to see you again. Are you busy tonight?”

“Only if we make plans.” Anatoly was an infinitely better escape mechanism than my sister and her Tasmanian Devil.

“Good answer. How about a late movie with a few drinks afterward?”

“Funny, you don’t strike me as the movie type.” I balanced the receiver between my ear and shoulder as I tried to remove Mr. Katz’s claws from my thigh. “Do you have a particular film in mind?”

“They’re playing
Suspicion
at The Roxie.”

“Hitchcock?” I dropped Mr. Katz on the floor and jumped to my feet. “You like Hitchcock?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Are you kidding? I think I want to bear your children!”

There was a silence on the line.

“Anatoly, that was a joke.”

“I realize that. I’ve just never elicited such a strong response by simply picking the right movie.”

“I’m easy.”

“Really?”

“Mmm-hmm, just ask my nephew.”

Another silence.

“Um, that was an inside joke that didn’t carry over too well, you see…you know what? Never mind. When are you picking me up?”

I could make out Anatoly’s muffled laughter. “The movie starts at nine-forty, so why don’t I come and pick you up at a quarter after?”

“I’ll be here with bells on.”

“She’s easy and she wears bells. What more could a man want from a woman?”

“Goodbye, Anatoly.”

I hung up and turned to Mr. Katz. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how badly do you think I came across in that conversation?”

Mr. Katz blinked his eyes.

“Good idea. If I were you I wouldn’t answer either.”

I spent the rest of the day and early evening hours trying to fix my kitchen window. In the end, I wound up leaving a lengthy message on my landlord’s voice mail asking that he send someone out to take care of it immediately, knowing full well that in landlord-speak “immediately” often translated into three or four days.

Anatoly showed up at nine-fifteen on the button. I pulled out a hair and placed it in the crack of space above the dead bolt. It was hard to see, but if anyone came in, the hair would fall, hopefully without their noticing, and I would know there had been an intruder. Of course, they could just take the easy way and go in the partially open window by the fire escape, but I preferred to think that my stalker liked to be challenged.

I met Anatoly at the door and leaned in to give him a lingering kiss. “So I guess all that military service taught you something about punctuality.”

“Or perhaps I was just eager to be in your company,” he countered as he handed me a helmet.

I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Or perhaps you’re well practiced in the art of bullshit.”

Anatoly laughed. “It’s actually a course you have to take before becoming licensed as a contractor, B.S. with Style.”

“Great,” I yelled as Anatoly started the ignition. “I’ll try to remember not to trust you.”

“And you’ll forgive me if I don’t remind you of that.” The conversation ended at this point as we roared toward the theater.

When we got there we made the requisite purchase at the concession stand before going to find our seats. Anatoly tried to steer me to two empty spots at the end of a row but I pushed him farther towards the center.

“Normally I prefer aisle seats just in case I have to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room midfilm,” I said. “But this is Hitchcock, so I’ll hold it.”

Anatoly placed the soda in the cup holder farthest from me before taking off his jacket. “Have you seen this before?”

“I think I’ve seen everything Hitchcock’s made. This is the one where Joan Fontaine marries Cary Grant only to find out after the fact that she can’t trust him. I know something about that from my last marriage. A case of life imitating art.”