I have my vices, but trust me when I tell you that religious bullshit mutilation isn't one of them. (Does this make me a better man, grasshoppers? I suspect not, but then I also find myself all out of fucks for the giving).
By two o'clock, I'm aching in all ways possible and can't stand the blood in my own veins. I call Tommy Chavez on my cell three times, pacing my office when he doesn't pick up and growing more irate every second. I'm about to put my fist through one of my plasma screens when the bastard finally calls me back.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry, chief. I gots to have lunch like the rest of you, right?"
I press my hand over my face. "Tell me you have something on her. Anything." I just want...God, I don't even know anymore. Information. A reason to feel close to her because she's not fucking here.
It seems he's still eating. Wet smacking sounds squeeze around his words. "Miss Reeves, or the other chick?"
"Reeves. Leo."
"Unless she's grown a pair of wings, I'm pretty sure she's in your building, chief."
"I know that," I snap. "I meant in general. Whatever you have."
"I got nothing. Otherwise you woulda heard." He slows, slurping up a drink. "She goes to work, stays late, comes home. Kinda boring if you ask me. Although I saw you took her out last night—nice place, that Blue River Kitchen. I'mma take my momma there when I get off this case."
Don't count your chickens, you blasé fuck. "What about Rachel?"
"Ain't seen her. It crossed my mind though, I could track her down separate. See what her game is. I got time, what with your lady's little relocation."
"No." Provoking Rachel in any shape or form is the last thing I want to do. If she's talking, it's too risky, and I've already done enough damage control to last me a lifetime. "Stay away. Just let me know if she shows up, is all."
"It was just a suggestion."
"I make the suggestions. Is that clear?"
"Crystal." He slurps again. "Hey—there's a picture of you going 'round the Twitter, you and blondie leaving the restaurant last night. You seen it?"
"No, I haven't seen it, and no, I don't care." A lie. I should keep a better eye on this stuff—I meant to leak a few stories into my own media. What the hell is up with my memory?
Obsession eats everything that desire leaves behind.
***
I don't really deal with the rest of the day; I just survive it.
At four thirty, without making a single excuse, I waltz out of the Lore Corp building and drive myself home amid the first congested thickening of rush hour traffic. It's cool outside, but the air is like a pillow in my face regardless. I'm strung up and edgy and on a warpath to absolutely nothing. Nervous. Aroused.
This cat and mouse game with Leo has gone on too long. Somehow, I need closure. Resolution. The kind that won't land me at the precinct for another couple of days of questioning while fucking Montgomery plays out a defamatory circus. For the first time, I wish to God that Leo was just another screwed up little pickle and not an architect of secrets and lies. For all that her complications thrill me, they're inconvenient. Dangerous. More dangerous than she knows.
When I get home, Ash and Ethan are out; probably at Little League practise. Or maybe he found a Karate group to try already. I leave a note on the kitchen table—an amusingly wholesome, outdated act—swipe a few things into a bag, and head back out again.
No time to eat, but no matter. I'll eat at Leo's. I'm sure she won't mind.
A girl who didn't want me would have changed her locks already, wouldn't she, sports fans? A girl so paranoid would hate the thought of her personal space being violated in such a fashion, and yet my key clicks easily into her lock, and her alarm accepts the code I type in with a resigned little beep. God, I love the smell of her apartment; Leo, gone up in soft smoke. Will it be on her towels and sheets? Probably. Every cell in my body warms at the thought.
I dump my bag in her bedroom, undress, throw my shirt and suit over the back of her plush vanity chair and then walk through to her little bathroom with its marble sink. While the shower heats up, I go through her medications again—just to be sure. I like the way the ridges of the pill jars feel against the tips of my fingers; child proof. Heh. As if the worst thing that can happen with medication is that it falls into the hands of a kid.