He shook his head. “Whoever did it took a risk, but not too big a one. You left here when? Ten last night? So, after ten and before four. This is a quiet block. Anyway, that side isn’t very visible from the street—there’re trees that screen you from the north, and the fake front shields you if someone’s walking right by. What were they looking for, Vic?”
“I wish I knew,” I said slowly. “I haven’t got a clue. I’ve been looking for some papers—Mitch Kruger had them at the boardinghouse he lived in. But Mrs. Poker says his son turned up the next day and took them. Anyone who’s talked to her knows I don’t have them.”
Of course, I’d also been looking for papers at Mrs. Frizell’s, and Todd and Chrissie didn’t know whether I’d found them or not. It would be easy for them to know I was gone—but would they have had the enterprise to break in?
“Any ideas about the ladder?” I asked.
“New, probably. Its safety feet left a good impression and they still had the little grooves on them—hadn’t been used enough to wear them out.” He finished his coffee and put the cup on the floor. “I’m asking a squad car to drive by here every now and then. Just to make sure your visitors don’t come back.”
“Thanks.” I hesitated, trying to pick my words. “I appreciate that—I really do. And you staying the night—I was dead to the world. But, well, I didn’t ask for a bodyguard, and I don’t think I need one. The day comes I can’t look after myself, I’m retiring to Michigan.”
Light glinted on his gold front tooth. “That’s probably why I like you, Ms. W. Because you’re so ornery. I just love to watch you get on other people’s nerves.”
“You didn’t seem to be liking it too much over at Lotty’s last week.”
“I said other people’s, Warshawski, not my own.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “That your hobby?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t had too much chance to practice it lately.”
I put my own coffee cup on the bedside table and stretched an arm out to him. My muscles suddenly didn’t feel as heavy as they had ten minutes ago.
“Thought you’d never ask, Ms. W.” He leaned across the bed and slid strong fingers under my sweatshirt. “I’ve been wanting to do this for three years.”
“I never figured you for a shy guy, Sergeant.” I traced the long line of a scar across his torso up his back. “You don’t have a wife or girlfriend or someone I should know about, do you? I thought you were seeing a lot of Tessa Reynolds.”
Tessa was a sculptor we both knew.
Conrad made a face. “It’s been a while. She needed a shoulder to lean on after Malcolm’s death and mine was handy. I don’t know—maybe a cop isn’t classy enough for a lady artist. How about you? What’s with you and that newspaper boy I see you with every now and then?”
“Murray Ryerson? He and I barely speak these days. Nope. There’re a couple of guys I see—but no one special.”
“Okay, Ms. W. Sounds okay to me.”
We moved closer and kissed. We didn’t talk about much of anything for a while. I reached out an arm and fumbled in my nightstand for my diaphragm. Afterward I dozed off in Rawlings’s arms. My dreams must still have been haunting me, because I suddenly blurted out, “You’re not the Buddha, you know.”
“Yeah, Ms. W. Someone already told me that.”
His hand stroking my hair was the last thing I remembered for a while. When I woke up again it was close to two. Rawlings had left, but he’d propped a note by the coffeepot explaining that he’d gone to work. “I gave your spare keys back to the old man, so don’t be afraid I’ll come breaking in again uninvited. I’ve got a squad car coming around every so often looking for that Subaru you mentioned. Don’t go facing down any gangs without calling me first. P.S.: How about dinner tomorrow?”
I found myself whistling Mozart under my breath as I got dressed. The Scarlett O’Hara syndrome. Rhett comes and spends the night and suddenly you’re singing and happy again. I pulled a face at myself in the mirror, but the thought didn’t dampen my spirits the way maybe it should have. Of course, on principle a private investigator should discourage close entanglements with the cops. On the other hand, where would I be if my mother hadn’t climbed in bed with a police sergeant? If it was good enough for her, it ought to do for me.
I continued with “Mi tradi quell’alma ingrata” as I cleaned the Smith & Wesson. The melody is so buoyant that the aria often comes to me at happy moments, despite its despairing words. Later, though, as I scrubbed the oil from my fingers, I wondered who the ungrateful wretch might be. Certainly not Conrad Rawlings or Mr. Contreras. But that left a wide-open field including Jason Felitti, Milt Chamfers, and my good old ex-husband, Dick. Unlike Mozart’s heroine I didn’t feel too much pity for the crew at Diamond Head, but some spark of sentimentality made me hope Dick wasn’t up to his eyeballs in their muck.
Chapter 30 - Hangover from a Hard Day’s Night