“Or is it that you do get it and you’re afraid of what it might mean?”
She nodded, more to herself than to him, and said, “I thought I knew him.”
“That’s not the issue. Do you trust him? That’s what’s important.” He took a sip, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “It’s like I said last night. You never really know someone. I mean really, do I know you? How well do you know me?”
Tam Svejda, the bouncing Czech, came to her mind. Again. “Right. I guess you can’t know everything about someone. How can you?”
“You’re a cop. You could interrogate me.”
She laughed. “Is that what you want, Rook? For me to grill you? Break out the rubber hose?”
He jumped to his feet. “Stay right there. You gave me an idea.” He went to his reading nook to the side of the living room. From behind the bookcases, she heard keystrokes and then a printer fire up. He returned with some pages. “Ever read Vanity Fair?”
“Yeah. Mostly for the ads.”
“On the back page each month they interview a celebrity using a standard questionnaire they call The Proust Interview. It comes from a parlor game that was all the rage back in Marcel Proust’s era as a way for party guests to get to know each other. I guess this was pre-Dance Dance Revolution. Proust didn’t invent it, he was just the most famous one to play it. This is a version floating on the Internet.” He held up his pages with a sly grin. “Wanna play?”
“I’m not so sure. What kind of questions are they?”
“Revealing, Nikki Heat. Revealing of who you truly are.” She reached for the pages but he pulled them back. “No previews.”
“What if I don’t want to answer some of them?” she asked.
“Hmm.” He tapped the rolled pages against his chin. “Tell you what. You can skip answering any question if . . . you take off an article of clothing.”
“You’re kidding. You mean like strip poker?”
“Even better. It’s strip Proust!”
She mulled it over and said, “Shoes off, Rook. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to start even.”
“All right, here we go.” He flattened the pages on his thigh and read, ” ‘Who is your favorite author or authors?’ ” Nikki blew an exhale and frowned, thinking. Rook said, “Playing for your blouse. No pressure.”
“I’ll go with two. Jane Austen and Harper Lee.” And then she said, “You have to answer, too.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ll say a certain Charles Dickens and toss in Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.” He went back to the pages. ” ‘Name your favorite hero in literature.’ ”
Heat reflected and shrugged. “Odysseus.”
“Mine, too,” said Rook. “Pinkie pull.” He held out his little finger and she hooked hers onto it and they tugged and laughed. “Nobody gettin’ nekkid yet. Try this. ‘Who is your favorite poet?’ ”
“Keats,” she answered. For ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ ”
Rook replied, “Seuss. For ‘One Fish, Two Fish.’ ” He went back to the page for his next question. ” ‘How do you wish to die?’ ” They both looked at each other. Then Nikki took off her blouse. He had similar sentiments and took off his sweater.
“I told you I may not want to answer some of these.”
“And therein lies the game, Detective Heat. Moving on to ” ‘What musician has impacted your life the most?’ ”
“Most impactful musician . . . ,” she said, pondering. “Chumbawamba.”
“You’re kidding. Not Bono? Or Sting, or Alanis Morissette, or—really? Chumbawamba? Tubthumping Chumbawamba?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. When my high school drama coach told me a freshman couldn’t play Christine in Phantom, a song about getting knocked down and getting up again resonated very strongly with me.” Still does, she thought. “What about you?”