He refused to be mollified by my light remarks. I felt myself on the verge of apologizing and bit back the words in annoyance—there was no reason for him to know every detail of my life. If I wanted to keep a few small segments private, I shouldn’t have to say I was sorry. I gave him a cool farewell and slid through the back gate so that the dog couldn’t follow. Her frustrated whimpering accompanied me down the alley.
I walked the short mile to the restaurant. Stepping around a wide hole in the concrete I slipped on a discarded hot dog. Just one more of the joys of city life. I dusted my trouser knees. The fabric was bruised slightly but not torn. Not enough damage to justify a move to Streamwood.
Robin was waiting for me outside the restaurant door, looking elegant in gray flannel slacks and a navy blazer. He had come early to sign up for a table and the manager was just calling his name when we walked in. Perfect. If you’re born lucky, you don’t have to be good. Robin ordered a beer while I had a rum and tonic and some of the cod roe mousse the Calliope was famous for.
“How did you become a detective?” he asked after we’d given our dinner orders.
“I used to be with the public defender.” I spread some of the mousse on a piece of toast. “Trial division. It’s hideous work—you often get briefed on your client only five minutes before the trial begins. You always have more cases than time to work them effectively. And sometimes you’re pleading heart and soul for goons you hope will never see the light of day again.”
“So why didn’t you just go into private practice?” He scooped up some of the mousse. “This is good,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “I never tried it before.”
It was good—just salty enough to go down well with beer or rum. I ate some more and finished my drink before answering.
“I’d spent five years in the PD’s office—I didn’t want to have to start again at the beginning in a private practice. Anyway, I’d solved a case for a friend and realize it was work I could do well and get genuine satisfaction from. Plus, I can be my own boss.” I should have given that as my first reason—it continues to be the most important with me. Maybe from being an only child, used to getting my own way? Or just my mother’s fierce independence seeping into my DNA along with her olive skin.
After the waiter brought salads and a bottle of wine, I asked Robin how he ended up as an arson specialist. He grimaced.
“I don’t know anyone whose first choice is insurance, except maybe the kids whose fathers own agencies. I majored in art history. There wasn’t money to send me to graduate school. So I started work at Ajax. They had me designing policy forms—trying to make use of my artistic background”—he grinned briefly—“but I got out of that as fast as I could.”
During dinner he asked me about some of the earlier work I’d done for Ajax. It was my turn to make a face— the company didn’t know if it loved or hated me for fingering their claims vice president as the mastermind of a workers’ comp fraud scam. Robin was fascinated—he said there’d always been a lot of gossip circulating, but that no one had ever told the lower-downs what their vice president had really been up to.
Over Greek-style bouillabaisse he spent a little time persuading me to go back into the Ajax trenches once again. I knew I needed a major job, not just the nickel-and-dime stuff that had come over the transom the last few days. I knew I didn’t feel up to hustling for new clients right now, I knew I was going to say yes, but I asked him to call me at my office in the morning with some details.
“It’s been a roughish day,” I explained. “Tonight I just want to forget the detecting business and unwind.”
He didn’t seem to mind. The talk drifted to baseball and childhood while we finished eating. Dancing in the back room afterwards, we didn’t talk much at all. Around midnight we decided the time had come to move the few blocks north to my place. Robin said he’d leave his car at the restaurant and pick it up in the morning—we’d both had too much to drink to drive, and anyway, it was a beautiful late-summer night.
We turned the six blocks into a half-hour trek, moving slowly with our arms locked, stopping every few houses for a long kiss. When we finally got to my place I whispered urgent warnings of silence on Robin—I didn’t want Mr. Contreras or Vinnie the banker descending on us. While Robin stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, I fumbled in my bag for my keys.
A car door slammed in front of the house. We moved to one side as footsteps came up the walk. A car searchlight pinned us against the apartment entrance.
“That you, Vicki? Sorry to interrupt, but we need to have a chat.” The voice, laden with heavy irony, was almost as familiar to me as my own father’s. It belonged to Lieutenant Robert Mallory, head of the Violent Crimes Unit at the Chicago Police’s Central District. I could feel my cheeks flame in the dark—no matter how cool you are, it unsettles you when your father’s oldest friend surprises you in a passionate embrace.
“I’m flattered, of course, Bobby. Two and a half million souls in the city, including your seven grandchildren, and when you have insomnia you come to me.”