Loose Screws (11 page)

“Well…” Now I'm embarrassed. “I don't suppose he was really
hitting
on me…”

“Honey, if you can't tell, you really are out of the loop.”

“Terrie, I've never been
in
the loop.”

“This is true. Okay, so what'd he do or say to make you think he was?”

“He, um…”

“Yeeesssss?”

“He asked me if I'd like to get a cup of coffee or something sometime.”

Silence.

“So,” I say, feeling the need to get things moving since I'm about to self-destruct, “what do you think that means?”

“That he needed a caffeine jolt?”

“Oh, come on…you don't honestly believe that?”

“No, I suppose not. And you say he has a girlfriend?”

“The kind that keeps him u-um, that keeps him awake until 4:00 a.m.”

“In that case, I'd definitely nix the coffee. Except…”

“What?”

“Well, if the only reason—besides the girlfriend, I mean—you're not going out with him is because you're waiting around for Greg to come back—”

“I wouldn't be going
out
with him.
Out
is a movie or dinner or clubbing or something. I may not be clear on whether or not a cup of coffee qualifies as a sexual overture, but I sure as hell know it isn't
out.
I do have that much figured out.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yes, I do,” I aver with a faux confidence I've fine-honed over the years. “And this has nothing to do with Greg.”

“You sure of that?”

“Sure I'm sure.”

“Girl, you lie like a rug.”

I remind myself that I walked right into this one. “For crying out loud, Terrie—it's only been ten days since the wedding! Besides, what kind of man tries to pick up a woman after questioning her as part of a murder investigation?”

“A horny one?”

“Remember the girlfriend?”

“And maybe he's just telling you that to throw you off the scent. You ever see this so-called girlfriend?”

“Well, no, but…”

“You know,” she says as if I do when she knows damn well I don't know bupkiss, “some men do that. Pretend to have a girlfriend so they can sneak past your barriers without you even knowing it.”

I frown. “I don't think Nick would do that.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know, I just don't. Because he's family. And who the hell's side are you on, anyway?”

“My own. So what was this about Brice getting murdered?”

I'm used to abrupt subject changes with Terrie, but even I find this one a bit jarring.

“Are we finished talking about Nick?”

“Yes. So…?”

So I tell her what I knew about that, too. Which wasn't much. Although I linger a bit on the not-having-a-job part.

“I could get you on here,” she says.

“Where, here? In your financial consulting dealie?” I laugh. “Doing what?”

“You type, don't you?”

“You are kidding, right?”

“Yes, baby, I'm kidding. So. You have any idea what you're going to do?”

“Wait to hear from the accountant, go down to unemployment, go look for a job.”

“Well, at least you've got a plan.”

“You betcha.”

“You start looking for a new place yet?”

Considering I just found out this afternoon, this question might seem weird to anyone who doesn't live in New York. Apartment hunting in Manhattan is an activity that consumes the hunter's every waking moment until the new lease is signed.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I tell her about Mrs. Krupchek. Terrie lets out a low whistle, then says, “Well, you sure as hell can't come live with me. I've just got the one bedroom…”

“I don't want to live with you. I don't want to live with anybody. I like living by myself.”

I can hear the sigh of relief on the other end of the line. Then Terrie says, “Look…there's a guy at work who swears by this broker who found him this fabulous place in Inwood Park for like next to nothing.”

“Inwood Park?” The northernmost tip of Manhattan. Any further north and you're in the Bronx. And “next to nothing” is a relative concept in Manhattan.

“There are still some great deals up there,” Terrie says.
But then, she lives in Washington Heights, which is just below Inwood Park. I get nosebleeds when I go up there to visit her. The thought of living even farther away from Bloomie's makes my ears ring.

“Inwood Park, huh?”

“And the Heights. I think he goes up as far as Riverdale, too.”

“Bully for him.”

After a moment of what I take for annoyed silence, Terrie says, “How much money you got in the bank?”

I tell her.

“Uh-huh. And just how far do you think that's gonna stretch when it comes time to shell out for deposit and first and last month's rent and broker's fees and new bathroom rugs and shit? And you with no job, to boot. So it seems to me you can't afford—literally—to be too fussy.” She pauses. “Unless you want to move back in with your mother.”

My heart jolts. “Oh, that's low, Terrie. Even for you.”

“Woke you up, though, didn't it?”

True. I would live in hell before moving back in with my mother. Which would be the same thing, now that I think about it.

“
Anyway,
Julio swears by this broker. I'll get his name for you.”

After we hang up, I realize there is no air in the apartment, even with both the windows open and the fan going. Geoff has abandoned the couch for the middle of the tiled kitchen floor, where he lies, panting and looking at me as if to say, “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.”

“Yeah, well, you could be lying next to your poop, you know.”

With a little groan, he lays his head between his paws.

 

Day 3 of the Great Apartment Quest. The broker has sent me out to look at four places. Two had been rented before I got there, one looked like a set for the film
Independence Day
after the alien invasion, and the fourth one,
which I actually kind of liked, was five hundred more a month than he'd said.

And, having finally reached Max Sheffield, Brice's accountant, after two days of trying, I have been halfheartedly job hunting as well, since, yes, Max confirmed Brice's will specifically ordered the business to be dissolved after his death. He couldn't tell me much more than that, other than he and the lawyer were working as quickly as they could to sort it all out, that they'd get whatever money was coming to us just as soon as they could.

Ever since, I've been trying to convince myself that I hadn't heard a smidgen of worry in Max's voice, but I haven't been terribly successful. I did, however, inform Max that I had Geoff, so the lawyer could get in touch with me to arrange handing over the dog to whoever Brice wanted to have him.

No news on that front, either.

Nor has there apparently been any further progress with the murder investigation itself. Last I heard, which was the five o'clock news, the police were still asking for anyone with information to come forward, but thus far, all the leads they'd had had fizzled out. I can't help imagining how annoyed and frustrated Nick must be. I mean, I know most murder investigations are time-consuming and frustrating, but I never had a personal stake in one before. Well,
stake
is too strong a word, I suppose.
Interest,
then. I keep thinking I want to help, somehow, which is totally insane, mainly because I'm the least analytical person I know. It used to really get my goat, when Greg and I would watch a movie and he'd figure out the mystery within the first half hour, while I'd still have trouble understanding what had happened after it was all over.

Speaking of Greg and mysteries, still nothing. Phyllis called to chat yesterday, just to find out how I was holding up after she heard about Brice's murder. I hemmed and hawed, did the “everything's fine” routine, even though the woman isn't stupid. How could I possibly be fine, after losing a fiancé and a job in less than two weeks? I didn't tell her about the apartment, though. There didn't seem to be much point. In any case, if she knew anything about
Greg's whereabouts, she didn't volunteer, and I didn't ask. After she hung up, she probably wondered why she'd bothered calling.

Of course, my mother called, too, the first time on Monday night, after the news broke. The first minute of the conversation was spent listening to her berate me for not calling her right away. I did more hemming and hawing, alluding to my being busy. And no, there is no way I'm telling her I'm looking for a new place. I'll call her from the new apartment after I've moved in. Otherwise, she'll not only insist on tramping all over Manhattan helping me look, but will, the entire time, make noises about wasting money, yadayadayada, when I could be living with her.

What else? Oh, I think Terrie and Shelby have somewhat reconciled, or at least so Shelby said when she finally called me back on Tuesday evening. She didn't sound too happy about it, however. Like she was too tired to care. Think the kids are beginning to wear her down.

So, that pretty much catches us up. Other than I'm sick of hearing chipper weather people tossing out phrases like “record-breaking heat wave” and “no rain for the forseeable future.” Which, loosely translated, means eight million cranky, gritty bodies trying desperately not to make contact as they mill about through a snot-colored haze during the day and across sidewalks still griddle-hot at midnight. I nearly lost a good shoe yesterday when the asphalt at Lex and 83rd swallowed my heel. And lemme tell ya, you haven't lived until you've had taxi drivers swear at you in a dozen languages.

So basically, my life is still a mess, but I'm plugging along, alternating between abject misery and irritatingly cheerful optimism.

Which I'm guessing is kind of how my furry companion is feeling. At the moment, he's not looking any too cheerful. Which might have something to do with the fact that he hates everything I've tried to feed him, with the not surprising exception of steak and chicken. I thought dogs had appallingly indiscriminating palates, joyfully scarfing down anything even remotely resembling food. Not Geoff.
To date, I have tried out no less than a dozen different brands of dog food—dry, canned, and pouched—and all I've gotten for my efforts is a sniff, a pathetic whimper and The Doleful Expression.

There might be a solution, but it's one I'd hoped to avoid. However, I've run out of options, other than either buying T-bones for this mutt or watching him waste away. So I drag out my Day-timer, look up the precinct business card Nick gave me, and dial.

The desk sergeant answers. Guy sounds about as thrilled as a walrus with hemorrhoids.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “This is Ginger Petrocelli, and, um, see, I'm taking care of Brice Fanning's dog—he's the guy who was, um—”

“Hold on.”

A couple seconds later I hear “Wojowodski” grunted into my ear.

Damn. Precisely what I was hoping to avoid.

“Nick, hi! It's Ginger.”

Silence. “Yeah?”

Never has one four-letter word conveyed so much.

“I'm sorry, I didn't ask to be put through to you, I'm sure this is something someone else might be able to handle…”

“What?”

Oh, God. I can visualize his whole body going on alert. He thinks I've got a lead or something. Talk about feeling stupid.

“See, it's like this…I can't get Geoff to eat—”

“Geoff?”

“Brice's dog?”

“Oh. Right.” His voice deflates. “So, what's this got to do with me?”

“Well, nothing, really. Which is why I was just going to ask the desk guy if maybe someone could go over to the apartment, see if there's any dog food. You know, since nobody else except you guys can get in. Because I've tried just about every brand of food I can find, and he's not eating any of it.”

“I'll have it taken care of.”

Click.

I should be relieved he's not feeling chatty, right?

Forty-five minutes later, my doorbell rings. Geoff lifts his chin off his paws, his ears all aquiver. But it's clearly an effort. Because he's starving to death and all. “Shall we see who that is? Huh? Shall we?”

Judging from Geoff's expression, I'm guessing he thinks I really need to get a life.

I call down through the intercom, but apparently some trusting soul has already let the person in. I suddenly realize I'm wearing a faded, misshapen T-shirt with dried mango juice all down the front, no bra or makeup, and my hair is pulled back into a ponytail that makes me look like an abused Barbie doll.

In other words, I hope whoever this is is either a female officer or blind.

I open the door.

“Hey, Ginger. Howya doin'?”

Wrong on both counts.

T
he only good thing about this, I ponder over my jitterbugging stomach, is that maybe my present appearance will scare him off. Except then he gives me one of those deadly grins and I inwardly swear.

“You're looking good, Ginger.”

“And you've obviously been hitting the sauce,” I reply, which dims his smile somewhat.

It's those eyes, damn him, that throw me. That classic heavy-lidded gaze, simultaneously blatant and inscrutable, the blue so clear it seems almost translucent. And the five o'clock shadow. Which, come to think of it, he always seems to have. Of course, for all I know maybe electric razors come with some sort of stubble attachment, giving a guy the option of the chic bad-boy look all day long. And why, pray tell, do so many women—present company included—find that such a turn-on? Like who needs beard burn on their tits?

And don't ask me why my thoughts are going down that path, because I'm not even the slightest bit turned on. Because this is Nick and I'm too hot.
Hot
hot, not horny hot. And then I think, huh—if the man's this sexy when
he
isn't
trying to come on to a woman, can you imagine what he's like when he
is?

It boggles the mind.

Anyway, I eventually tear my gaze away from the eyes and the stubble and…the…mouth…to notice he's lugging an enormous, already open bag of some hotsy-totsy dog food in one arm and a large brown paper bag in the other, from which emanates the aromas of ginger and brown sauce. Geoff has decided this is worth dragging his lazy little butt over to investigate.

I have a bad feeling about this.

I tilt my head. “You brought the dog Chinese food?”

“And I had one helluva time deciding whether he'd like pepper steak or Szechuan beef better,” Nick says, deadpan. “So I got both.”

With that, he saunters past me into the apartment, where he sets the Chinese food on the counter, the dog food on the floor in front of it. Leaving Geoff to paw and whine at the dog food bag, Nick continues into the kitchen, starts opening cupboards.

“Why do women keep so much crap in their kitchens?” he asks, I'm assuming rhetorically. He's on the fourth cupboard by now and I can tell his patience is wearing thin. “Where the hell are the dishes?”

Of course, I'm still standing in the doorway, my jaw sagging open. Yes, yes, I know he did me a favor, bringing over the food, but that doesn't stop the kick-to-the-gut reaction to having my precious, private space invaded. Sure, I have people over all the time, but…

What Nick just did? Barging in like this? Well, that's precisely the reason I opted for somebody like Greg in the first place. I don't much like being around people who throw me off balance. And if it was one thing I could say about Greg, he wasn't prone to throwing curve balls. Well, with the notable exception of that little number he pulled a couple of weeks ago. But still. Greg never encroached on my space, either physically or mentally—or I, his—except by mutual consent. I was comfortable with that.

I am not comfortable with…this.

Now what? I suppose I could simply thank Nick for personally bringing over Geoff's food, and then politely, but firmly, send him and his Chinese food packing. Or I could grit my teeth and go with the flow, which would be my growling stomach's first choice. Since Nick's already set my table with two stoneware plates and napkins and is now rummaging through my drawers—kitchen, not personal—for serving utensils, I figure Option Number Two is probably the most logical choice. Even if it is making me break out in a cold sweat.

“Why?” I ask.

Nick looks up, shrugs, opens the first carton. He fishes out a piece of something—beef, I guess—and tosses it to the dog, who gulps it down without chewing. “Because I was gettin' off work anyway and figured it was just as easy for me to go look for the dog's food as to assign somebody else to do it. And because it was gettin' close to dinnertime and I figured you might be hungry, too. And since you wouldn't go get a cup of coffee with me, when this opportunity popped up, I said to myself, Hey, why not take advantage of it?”

Against my will, I think about an opportunity that popped up ten years ago which we both took advantage of.

Speaking of invading spaces.

But that was ten years ago. And I will readily admit I encouraged whatever happened between us. I'm not encouraging
anything
now. Besides, I know I'm not the same person I was then. I somehow doubt Nick is, either.

“Does…” I ransack my brain for the name. “Does Amy know?”

“Yeah, Amy knows. I called her and told her what I was doing. We're supposed to get together later tonight, when she gets off her shift at the hospital.” His brow knots. “Let me guess. You don't like surprises.”

“Not much, no.”

“Huh.” He jabs a pair of chopsticks at the table, then grins. “Tough. So sit. Eat. You know you want to.”

Yeah, I do. But I don't, too.

I inch closer to the table. “You sure it's okay for you to be fraternizing with a possible suspect?”

Shaking his head, Nick sits, begins dishing out rice onto his plate. “You're not a suspect. Your alibi checks out. You got any soda or tea or something?”

I drift to the fridge, frowning. “But I said I was alone. Here, in the apartment, getting ready for work. Nobody saw me. Cherry Coke okay?”

He grimaces, but says, “Fine.” I hand him the soda; he pops off the top, then jabs another spoon into the next carton, rooting around in it for a second before dumping whatever it is over the rice. Then he looks up at me, again with that deadpan expression. “Y'know, if you're gonna walk around naked in here, you might want to consider closing your blinds. One of these days, you're gonna give the poor old guy who lives in the apartment across the street from yours a coronary.”

When I recover from this tidbit of news, I manage, “Gee, you guys are thorough.”

“Your tax dollars at work, ma'am. You like cashew chicken?”

 

Wow. It's a little surreal, this being-friends-with-a-man concept, but I think I'm beginning to get the hang of it. No, I really do. Hey, Nick's been here for two hours, and my nipples haven't perked up once. Well, not after the first fifteen minutes, anyway. I mean, now that I've actually had a chance to talk to the man, it's so obvious that there is no way in hell anything serious could ever develop between us—Greg or no Greg—I don't even know what I thought I was afraid of. Now, when I look at his shadowed jaw, all I can think of is, sheesh—go shave, already.

But the evening sure hasn't suffered from lack of conversation. I found myself going on about my crazy, disjointed childhood, and in turn, he told me about how gun
shy he was for a long time after his wife left. Of course, I did do the male-female time-continuum conversion, fully realizing that a man's definition of “a long time” rarely coincides with a woman's use of the term. But he really did sound sincere when he said he'd see Paula and his brother Frank with their kids and how much he wants to have something like that, too, before he's too old to enjoy it. The thing is, though, he loves his work (just as I'd suspected, even though why somebody would love to make himself a target is beyond me) and isn't about to give it up, but where's he gonna find someone with the balls—his words—to marry a cop, have a family with him? And I have to admit I thought, beats me, buddy. I sure as hell wouldn't want to.

In any case, he said he thinks maybe Amy is the one, because she works in the ER, so she's got guts enough to withstand the stress. Maybe.

If you want my take on it, my guess is he's not in love as much as he's simply gotten tired of looking. How do I know this? Well, his eyes don't light up when he talks about her, for one thing. Bet he doesn't know that. What he also doesn't know is that his career is the least of any prospective Mrs. Wojowodski's worries. The Italian side of that family—the side I know and avoid as much as possible—is nuts enough. From what I saw of the Wojowodski clan at Paula's wedding, they're no paragons of sanity, either.

However, it's been interesting, to say the least, getting a male perspective on relationships. I've heard it rumored that men take rejection even harder than women, but until tonight I'd figured that to be just another ploy to get a first date into bed. Fifteen years of dating in this city tends to make a girl a bit cynical. But underneath Nick's tough-cop exterior, when he talked about his wife leaving him, I could hear the hurt.

Not that we're talking a man in touch with his sensitive side, don't get me wrong. I had to strain at times to hear
the subtext humming underneath his words. But I did hear it. Or more accurately, felt it.

Anyway, since we spent the last fifteen minutes discussing Gloria, the ex, now I'm talking about Greg, and my own ambivalence. When Nick stiffens, starting in again about how badly Greg had treated me, I can only say, “But what if there's some reasonable explanation for the way he acted? What if his bolting is really a cry for help or something?”

That gets a snort, which only confirms my earlier conviction that this is a pretty typical male sitting across from me.

“Okay, so maybe that's pushing it. But I mean, he didn't actually come right out and say to cut my losses.”

“That's called hedging his bets, Ginger.”

“Maybe. I'm not saying I'm walking around with my heart on my sleeve. For one thing, too much has happened since then for me to ruminate about that one aspect of my life. But that doesn't mean I can't keep things simmering on the back burner for a little while. Just until I'm absolutely sure.”

One side of his mouth hitches up. “Like keeping the stew warm in case somebody shows up for dinner?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then says, “I just don't see you as the doormat type, you know?”

My shoulders square. “There's a difference between leaving the door open for forgiveness and being a doormat, Nick.” I lean forward, suddenly understanding myself what it is I feel, what it was Phyllis was trying to make me understand. “Greg and I
fit
each other. We wanted the same things out of life, had similar goals, similar outlooks, similar ideals. Yes, I'm confused and angry and hurt about what he did, but that was so out of character for him—”

“In other words, Munson was everything your childhood wasn't.”

I start, then nod. “Yes. I suppose he was. Is.” I angle my head. “You think that's a bad thing?”

Nick chomps the end off an egg roll, shakes his head, frowning. “I think maybe it's easier for you to stick with what you know than try something new.”

One brow lifts. “Says the man who just admitted he was leery of getting involved again after his wife left him.”

“I got over it,” he says with a grin, then frowns. “Besides, that didn't mean I thought about getting
her
back. What would have been the point?”

I lean back, poking at a piece of limp onion on my plate. “Do you have any idea how few sane, normal men there are out there?”

He chuckles. “You're askin' this of a cop?”

“Then you should understand why it's not that easy for me to just let go.”

After a moment he says, “I understand that you're
scared
to let go, yeah.”

Okay, time to change the subject. “So. Any clues yet as to who might have killed Brice?”

He studies me for a second. Adjusting to the gear switch, I imagine. Then he shakes his head. “You know I can't talk about that, Ginger.”

My brows lift. He sighs.

“All I can say is, we're working on it.”

“And the longer it takes, the less likely the case is to be solved.”

From across the table, his gaze rams into mine.

“I read that somewhere,” I say.

He shovels in one last bite of eggroll, leans back in his chair, his brow crumpled. “It's a funny thing. I started out working in the East Bronx. Back then, murder wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, but we usually had a pretty good idea who to look for. Doesn't mean the cases were easy to wrap up, not with the judicial system the way it is, but at least I could do my part, y'know? We're not talking perps with acutely developed minds. Here, I can count on one hand the number of homicides the precinct handles each year. But I'm dealing with a different breed of killer
now, somebody who knows how to cover his or her tracks.”

“Are you saying you might not find Brice's murderer?”

His smile was half-assed. “If I thought that, I'd turn in my badge tomorrow. No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying these cases are more of a challenge. Since I've never been one to do anything the easy way…” He finishes his sentence with a hitch of his shoulders.

The food goes cold; the conversation eventually winds down. It's not quite eight-thirty when he gets up to leave. As I walk him to my door, I am acutely aware that he's making no move to touch me, not even an innocent graze of my arm. I try to palm off leftover Chinese food—the man brought enough for six people—but he refuses to take it. I open the door; he squats to scratch Geoff's ears, then says, “You didn't say everything you were thinkin', did you? When I was talking about Amy?”

I give a nervous, startled laugh. “What makes you say that?”

Nick stands, his jacket draped over one forearm, his hands crammed into his pockets. I'm wondering what he's done with his gun and holster. His eyes bore into mine, not threatening so much as…demanding, in some way I can't quite define. Razor-edged awareness once again shimmers between us, but on a level even more elemental than sex, if that's possible.

“I'm a cop, Ginger. I'm real good at reading body language. And you're pathetically bad at keeping a straight face. So when I was goin' on about Amy, how come you didn't just say what was on your mind?”