“Are you working?”
“If you can call going in circles working, yes. I—damn, it’s already dark outside. What time is it?” When Nick focused on a mission, his preoccupation usurped even basic needs. Like food. Rest. Or me.
“Eight-thirty. Did you eat today?” I said.
“Eat?” He continued clicking on his keyboard. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”
“Me either. I can fix that. I’ll be over in a few.”
I grabbed my keys and made a stop at Henry’s, the taco stand on the corner of Moorpark and Tujunga serving the best homemade tacos in the Valley. Henry’s wasn’t the reason I moved to Studio City, although living near the walk-up stand under the yellow, green, and red “TACOS” canopy was a bonus. I bought five hard-shell tacos and hopped in my car to North Hollywood.
When I opened the front door of Nick’s brown-shingled, one-story bungalow I saw him sitting shirtless on the paprika twill sofa in his living room. His legs stretched out with his feet resting on the coffee table and his laptop open on his knees. Books scattered over the Aztec rug on his hardwood floor. A mess of strewn papers covered the desk in front of the window.
As his fingers danced on the keyboard, Nick bobbed his head to Al Green’s “Love and Happiness” playing through the corner speakers.
“Memphis soul tonight? What’s the occasion?” I said, aware that Nick’s taste leaned more toward Chicago blues and jazz standards.
He moved his laptop to the sofa cushion. “Felt right. Old Reverend Al’s music got me through a lot of study nights in grad school. I can’t say what made me think of him today, just an inclination. I’m having a hell of a time remembering where I saw that symbol. What’s in the bag?”
“I made dinner.”
“You? Made food?”
“Kind of. I made the drive to Henry’s Tacos.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Nick reached out his hand. “Come here. I need to ravage you right now.”
So much for his usurped basic needs. I dropped the bag on the coffee table. He pulled me onto his lap with a kiss that shot goose bumps over my body. His hands stroked my bare arms and shoulders. Brushing his lips down to my collarbone, he slid the straps of my dress off my shoulders.
“I should forget perfume and wear hot sauce instead.” I kissed the back of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.
“You shouldn’t be wearing anything at all.” He began to unzip my dress. I walked my fingers down his chest to his belt. As his lips moved down from my throat, a ping sounded an incoming e-mail on his laptop. He turned his head slightly at the machine.
With his left hand still fumbling at my zipper, Nick moved his right hand to the computer beside him and touched the mouse to bring up the screen. He clicked the e-mail icon and opened his inbox.
I admired multitasking but not if I was one of the multiple tasks. I stopped unbuckling his belt to read the screen with him. The header on the lone e-mail read: Con&gr?dülatons! Spam.
“Where were we?” he said, fumbling at my zipper again.
“Distracted.” I sat up and ruffled his hair. “Let’s eat. You can tell me about the e-mail you’re expecting over dinner.”
Chapter Ten
“Well? E-mail?” I set two plates on the eating counter separating Nick’s jade green kitchen from his living room and then opened the bag of tacos. My mouth watered at the first spicy scent billowing from the bag. I put out three for Nick and two for me.
Nick pulled on his T-shirt on his way to the stainless-steel refrigerator. “I’m hoping for news from Eagleton. I wasted the afternoon flipping through books on Wiccan symbols and hex signs. Useless. I didn’t find anything replicating the specific position of the elements in the symbol left on Laycee’s body. Yet I still have this hazy impression I’ve seen the combination before.”
“What about the work you did at the library yesterday? Do you think you ran across the symbol in passing?”
He twisted the caps off two longneck bottles of beer and sat next to me on a stool. “I wish it were that simple. Of all the symbolism I’ve studied, the mark Laycee’s killer left is too simplistic to be remarkable, yet the combination stuck in my memory. I just don’t know why or from where.”
“What about one of your research trips?”
“Not overseas or South America. It’s not Southern voodoo or Native American spiritualism.” He scratched his head. “The East Coast? The Midwest?”