Unplugged (15 page)

—Professor Eva Nord,
who may have had some dating issues of her own

M
Y TOILET BACKED
up after work. I plied my plunger like a jackhammer and prayed for divine intervention. God is good, and apparently didn’t want me to waste my money on a new septic system any more than I did.

I was only five minutes late and pretty sure my hands didn’t smell like raw sewage when I walked into the Safari.

“Hi.” Ross stood as soon as he saw me.

The restaurant was decorated in an African motif, with reed mats on the floor and wooden masks leering from the walls.

Leaning forward, Ross touched my arm and kissed my cheek. Nice. “Thanks for coming.”

My nerve endings were still buzzing from the unexpected skin-to-skin contact, which interfered with my talking apparatus, so I said, “Thanks for inviting me,” which wasn’t original, but at least it didn’t contain any syllables that made me spit.

The hostess’s name was Amy. She was the approximate width of a chopstick. She beamed at us as if we’d been sent by God. Or maybe Allah. She might have been Muslim. Her eyes were the size of twin Cinnabon. The analogy made me realize I hadn’t eaten since . . . well, since lunch. But lunch had been small and more than two hours ago. No wonder I was starving. I had quit smoking again—after finishing off a pack while I sat in my Saturn down the street from Hilary Pershing’s house.

I’d learned nothing, except that I truly loved to smoke, and that I didn’t have the attention span to become a private eye.

Assuring us that our waitress would be with us shortly, Amy handed off the menus and sprinted away. I checked to see if my date watched her backside. He didn’t. Instead, he smiled across the table at me. Hmmm. Off to a promising . . . and surprising . . . start. Maybe she wasn’t Jenny Caron, but she wasn’t compost, either.

“You didn’t have any trouble finding the place?” Ross asked.

We sat on a little raised dais near the window. An exotic hide that I couldn’t identify hung on the wall beside our table. “No,” I said. “No trouble.” I didn’t bother telling him that I could find a sugar donut in a snowstorm. “I called ahead for directions.”

“Good. I hate getting lost. And this place is hard to find. Once . . .” He stopped himself, lips parted, then laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m chattering like a chipmunk.”

He was also as cute as a chipmunk.

“I do that when I’m nervous.”

I tried not to look stunned. But why the hell would he be nervous? As for me, I was afraid I was going to sweat right through my swanky blue jacket. It was cut short, as the fashion gurus insisted. Apparently, the fashion gurus don’t worry about the width of my ass, which I had covered in cobalt slacks that matched the little jacket to perfection.

“Can I get you some drinks?”

Wouldn’t you know it, the one time when I’m not salivating for a waitress, she shows up, Johnny on the spot, like a damned meter maid.

Ross motioned toward me.

I ordered a strawberry daiquiri. Usually I stick to iced tea, but I wanted to encourage Ross to imbibe. Not that I was trying to get him drunk or anything. It’s just that he would probably be more inclined to tell me everything he knew if he’d had a few. And besides, daiquiris are pretty tasty. Like liquid dessert.

He ordered a lager.

The waitress hurried away to fulfill our every desire. I was fairly comfortable with the width of her hips and didn’t bother to notice if Ross watched her departure.

“Nervous?” I said instead, picking up the frayed thread of our conversation.

“Yeah, well . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. As nervous habits go, it wasn’t a bad one. I’d once dated a guy who would break out in hives. In retrospect, I think he might have been allergic to me. “I don’t date much. I mean . . .” He lowered his arm and shrugged. He was wearing a tan button-down shirt with a black tee underneath. He had nice shoulders. “I just broke up with someone.”

Warning bells chimed like fire alarms in my head. I had to drown them with a drink of water. Could be I’d need something more potent. Like a case of vodka. “Oh?” And the tone—oh-so-nonchalant.

“Well . . .” He grinned. “I guess ‘just’ is a relative term. I haven’t seen Tami in over a year.”

I tried to muffle my sigh, but I felt my shoulders droop with relief. “How long did you date her?”

“Six months maybe. But . . .” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Old news. What about you?”

“I’m not dating Tami, either.”

He laughed. It might not have been entirely out of pity. “Have you heard anything from J.D.?”

“No.” I shook my head. Our drinks arrived. I took a sip. Good stuff. “How about you?”

“Sorry. But I really don’t think you have to worry.”

“Oh?”

“J.D. . . .” He shrugged. “He likes the girls. And there are a few of them in Vegas.”

I would have liked to explain that the Geekster couldn’t possibly be interested in someone else after Elaine, but there’s something about that missing X chromosome that makes men . . . Well, men are stupid. I know it sounds sexist. But I’m a trained professional and I’ve done thirty-odd years of research. Which meant what? That the Geekster had gotten involved with the Vegas mob scene?

When I ran the idea through my mind, it didn’t sound as ridiculous as it should have.

“So you think Solberg stayed in Vegas for . . . entertainment purposes?” I asked.

Ross took a sip of his beer and shrugged. “Could be.”

I studied him. It wasn’t much of a chore. “Did he meet someone there?”

He squirmed a little. “We all met someone there. I mean, it’s a bunch of us nerds at a Vegas convention.”

I wanted to ask who he had met but I stuck to the topic like bubblegum. “Do you know who Solberg met?”

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Does that mean no?”

He gave me a palms-up gesture. “J.D. seems like a decent guy. But I don’t know him very well.”

“We’re not all that lucky.”

“What?”

“Listen,” I said, leaning into the conversation, “I know it seems weird. I mean . . .” I shook my head. “I can hardly believe it myself, but my friend is in love with him.”

“With J.D.?”

It was hard to admit. But sometimes you just have to suck it up and tell the truth. “Yes.”

“Oh.” He nodded, as if thinking. “Well, that’s good news for me, then.”

“What?”

He laughed, looking relieved. “I thought you were the one who was interested in him.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, but I held his gaze. “You don’t have to be cruel,” I said.

He paused a moment then laughed out loud. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Elaine.”

“And she’s . . . three-dimensional, right?”

“On the other hand . . .” I raised my drink to him. “Cruelty suits you.”

The waitress with the acceptable hips returned and flipped open a notepad. The name “Grace” was written on the cover in neon orange and circled with childish, lopsided hearts. Grace wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and she looked tired but stoic under the fire of the evening crowd. Ross ordered swordfish with saffron rice. I got a shrimp salad. I always feel virtuous when I order a salad, even if I douse it in enough dressing to lubricate a thrashing machine.

Ross’s greens arrived. He ate very precisely, cutting his lettuce into bite-sized pieces. But “bite-sized” is really kind of a relative term, isn’t it? He had nice hands. I know I’ve mentioned them before, but he really did. They were lightly tanned, long-fingered. Hands that would . . .

I put the kibosh on those thoughts and reminded myself why I had met him in the first place.

“So . . .” I dragged my gaze from his hands. He had plucked a cherry tomato from amongst the greenery and was eating it like a tiny apple. A seed stuck to his bottom lip.

“So . . .” I said again. My breath was perfectly steady, despite the damned seed. “When was the last time you saw him?”

He glanced up. “J.D.?”

“Yes.”

He canted his head and gave me half a grin. The expression was boyish and charming. Which made me pretty sure he was either gay or married. Or maybe both. They can be both. Don’t ask how I know.

“You sure you’re not the one interested in him?” he asked.

I considered saying, “Cross my heart and hope to die,” which made me wonder if I was already getting tanked. To say I’m a cheap drunk would be an understatement of dangerous proportions. Two more ounces and I’d be under the table—or on top of Ross.

“I mean . . . no offense.” He gave an abbreviated shrug. “J.D.’s got some good qualities.”

I elevated one brow in his direction. “Such as . . . ?”

“You seen his car?”

As a matter of fact, I had. The Porsche and I had once bonded on a zippy little stretch of road between Studio City and Glendale.

“Yeah, well . . .” I put the thought of his car firmly behind me. “Laney’s been my best friend ever since she warned me I had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my patent leather shoe.”

“Laney?”

“His . . .” I suppressed a shudder. “Girlfriend.”

“So you’re asking around on her behalf?”

“She thinks he dumped her. I told her even Solberg couldn’t be that dense, but now . . .” I shrugged.

Ross scowled, saying nothing.

“No comment?”

“Like I said, I just don’t know him that well.”

“How well don’t you know him?”

He exhaled heavily and let his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, I don’t . . . I mean . . .” He glanced away, then caught my gaze in a steady hold. “I really like you.”

I stared at him, shocked. It seemed sort of early for the breakup speech. I mean, so far there was nothing to break up. But I could hear his next words.
You’re a great gal, but we don’t quite click . . . mesh, hit it off.
Pick your euphemism for “you’re ugly.”

I waited, looking dignified. I’d been working on that look for the past seventy-four guys.

He sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you, but—”

“You’re gay.” The words sprinted out on their own.

“What?” He laughed, sounding shocked.

I almost closed my eyes to block out my own liquor-intensified stupidity. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything. Go on.”

“You think I’m gay?”

“I just meant I thought you were . . .” As far as I know there isn’t a straight guy in the universe who appreciates being mistaken for a homosexual, no matter how well they coordinate their shoes with their sweater vests. “Jolly. Happy. You know . . .” God help me. “To be alive.”

“I’m not gay.”

“No. Of course not.” There was truly something wrong with me. “What were you going to say?”

I waited. At the very least he must have a thing about his mother. Who doesn’t have a thing about his mother?

“I saw J.D. with a blonde.”

I blinked as my brain cells flopped around like so many beached fishes. “A blond what?”

“A woman.”

I let the news soak into my saturated brain. Anger was slowly boiling in my gut. “Solberg?” I asked, just to make sure. “With a woman?”

“I’m sorry.”

I drew a careful breath. “Who was she?”

“I don’t—”

“Was she a dancer?”

He leaned back a little, as if to put some distance between himself and the woman who might, at any moment, morph into a fire-breathing feminist.

I eased up. Maybe it was the alcohol that made me a little intense. Maybe it was the fact that I’d grown up with brothers who had never once knocked before entering the bathroom. Yeah, I think I’ll blame it on them. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not your fault. I just don’t want Elaine to get hurt.” I gave him a cultivated smile. “Where did J.D. meet the blonde?”

He seemed to relax a little. “We took in a magic show.”

I sipped my drink, looked casual, and refrained from pouncing.

“We?” I said.

“Bunch of us. J.D., Jeff, Hilary—”

“Hilary Pershing?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“Not really. Were she and Solberg . . .” I fiddled with my napkin, reminding myself not to tear it to shreds and pretend it was the Geekster’s hair. “Were they an item?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know him that well, but I did see them together at the convention one night.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

“No. I just assumed they were talking shop. They’ve helped each other out with some projects from time to time, you know.”

“What projects?” The word “Combot” flashed in bloodred through my mind.

“Have you ever heard of Insty List?”

I shook my head. No. But I’d heard of Combot. What the hell was Combot?

“Well, it’s going to be big when it hits the public. And it’s their baby.”

“Do you think that’s what they were talking about?”

He scrunched his face as if thinking. “Could be. But the conversation looked kind of heated.”

“Heated?” Curiosity shifted toward suspicion.

“Well, maybe not heated. Maybe . . . animated.”

I didn’t have time for political correctness. “Did you hear what they were fighting about?”

“Not a syllable.”

“But they were fighting.”

He shrugged.

I cursed inside. “Were there any other projects they were working on together?”

“Probably.”

“Anything special?”

He gave me a funny look. “Why do you ask?”

Past experience suggested that I should never trust anyone with a Y chromosome, but I was in need of a confidant. Could I trust him with the truth? Could I ask straight-out about the disk I’d found in Solberg’s underwear drawer? But sanity prevailed. Men were hardly trustworthy by virtue of attractiveness. In fact, the opposite might very well be true.

“No reason. How about Black?” I asked, remembering back to my conversation in his office. “Did he and Solberg have any projects together?”

Ross shook his head. “As far as I know, Black’s strictly administrative.”

But Black said that he and Solberg had worked well together. Maybe he’d meant it in a vague sense, but it had sounded more personal than that.