The Zen Man (20 page)

Sam, stroking Tracy’s hand, was eye-locking Brianna. I wanted to believe my lawyer was taking in facts, thinking about my defense, but more likely he was fantasizing about a three-way which I hoped didn’t happen anywhere in the kitchen as it was my favorite hang-out. Larry didn’t seem to catch on that another man was entertaining carnal knowledge of his date, or maybe Larry didn’t care because he and Brianna were strictly platonic. Whatever his story, he sat there, quietly sipping his drink. Seemed interested in the group and its conversations in a clinical sort of way. Reminded me of a shrink I once saw after my divorce.

“Want some more pot roast, Rick?” Laura, cutting a slice off the chunk of meat in the serving platter, smiled at me. A slightly drunk, sweet and lazy smile that made me think life might turn out okay if I kept staring at those lips.

“I’m full.”

She held up the piece of meat on the knife tip. “Any takers?”

Sam waved it off. Larry mumbled “no thanks.” Laura flipped the meat off the knife back onto the platter with one swift movement, then held up the blade in the light, staring at its serrated edge.

A cell phone chirped. Several of us pulled out our phones. Sam and Brianna laughed, realizing they both had the same kind of phone, but that quickly ended as Sam, turning all business, realized it was his phone ringing. As he droned on to some client in a slurring, officious manner, I excused myself and headed upstairs to Laura’s and my room.

Lying on the bed, I stared out the window into the black night and indulged in a moment of self-pitying solitude. I was missing Laura, longing for the way we were before our lives lurched onto this collision course. Missed our evenings before the fateful CrimDef retreat. How we’d sit in our chairs, watch TV, laugh about something silly that had happened that day, flirt a little, argue a little, and have hot sex at least three, four nights a week.

Really missed the hot sex.

Sex was still great, and I’d be an idiot to complain, but lately sometimes the act filled me with as much sadness as relief or lust. As though every touch and kiss had an expiration date. Which maybe they did. Maybe I wouldn’t find the killer and I’d end up taking the rap, spending the rest of my days dodging guys in prison named Rotten Weasel Boy and Rump-Thumpin Cop Killa.

“What’s wrong?”

Laura stood in the doorway, frowning, her face flushed from drink. A curl of dark hair hung across her forehead. There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the center of her forehead…

“Nothing.”

“Like I believe that.” She crawled onto the bed, curled up against me. I smelled booze and lavender. “I didn’t give you enough attention tonight.”

“It’s not just tonight…”

“It’s how it feels ever since…what happened at the retreat.”

“Yeah.” I loved it when she mind-melded with me.

“We need a date.”

“Something hot and nasty, no fantasy unturned.”

She lifted herself onto one elbow and looked down at me, her eyes all soft and shiny. “Can’t get too wild. We have guests tonight.”

“You mean…
overnight
guests?”

“Brianna asked if she and Larry could stay over. Said she’d like to check out the crime scene in the morning before she heads to work.”

I grunted. “Thought she had a kid.”

“Her little girl’s staying over at a friend’s tonight.”

“Is that strange dude Larry boinking her?”

“He does seem strange, doesn’t he? I found him wandering around the dining room, all by himself.”

“What, looking for more chairs to drag into the kitchen?”

“Said he was curious.”

“About what?”

“I started to ask, but Garrett wandered in, started talking about the rock design.”

“He’s still working on that?”

“If thinking is working, he’s working on it.” Laura traced a pattern on my cheek with her finger, the sensation of her soft, meandering touch making me a little stupid. “Strange dude and Brianna don’t seem all that into each other. In fact…” She ran a finger slowly around my lips. “I think she still has a thing for you.”

My lips prickled exquisitely. “Brianna who?”

She dropped her hand. “C’mon. You know she does.”

“Okay, I’ve picked up some vibes, but trust me, they’re heading down a one-way street, baby.” I felt a slice of guilt, moved on quickly. “So, are Sam and Marshmallow Woman also staying over?”

“Marshmallow Woman?” Laura laughed softly, the husky sound reverberating through me like heated sonic waves. “That jacket needs to go. After Brianna said she wanted to see the crime scene, Sam decided it’d be a good idea if he stayed over too so he could analyze it with her in the morning.”

“That’s not all he’d like to analyze. Did you know Wicked had a primate nickname for him?”

“Primate
nickname
? Like Monkey Man?”

“Gorilla Dick?”

“The visuals…” She scrunched her face.

“Yeah, I’m ready to change the topic, too.” I shifted, glanced out the window at the bleak night, heard the distant hush of traffic on 285. “Something happened tonight—”

“But Brianna said she wanted to see the crime scene with you, although Sam was welcome to tag along.”

I paused, nodded. “Sure. I’ll get up early, show her the site.”

“I’ll join you. What were you saying? Something happened?”

I picked up her hand, pressed it against my cheek. Sometimes, life felt terrifyingly fragile.

“I liked your finger doing that thing around my lips,” I whispered.

“Thought you preferred the ears.”

“I’ll take either.”

She playfully tugged my lobe, circled the shell of my ear. I whimpered my approval.

“I thought the crime scene had been thoroughly checked,” she said. “What does Brianna think she’ll find?”

“Just because a crime scene is closed…oh, that feels good…doesn’t mean there still isn’t evidence to be found. Remember that case out in Douglas County?”

“The ranch owner who shot his brother-in-law in self-defense?”

“Uh-huh. Until I found those bullet casings that proved it was self-defense…yeah, the neck, too…the Douglas County sheriff’s office were holding the rancher on first-degree. And I found those bullet casings a month after the sheriffs had closed that crime scene.”

“So something might still be out there.”

“Sure. After all, Garrett found the BlackBerry several days after Wicked was murdered.”

She cupped her hands around my face, stared deeply into my eyes. “I’ll be so glad when all this is behind us.”

“You said it, baby.”

“You’re hiding something from me.”

“Right now, baby, it’s all about the live show.”

With a half smile, she brushed her lips against mine. “No yelling,” she murmured.

I breathed in her warm, moist breath and pressed my lips lightly against hers, aching from want of her. I pulled her tight against me.

“I’ll cap it at groaning.”

Ride your horses along the edge of a sword; hide yourself in the middle of flames.
—Zen Saying

L
aura woke up, wondering who’d wrapped a giant rubber-band around her head. Her skull felt packed, her brain throbbed, and an annoying pain drilled through her left temple.

“Three,” she rasped, struggling to recall how many ‘tinis she’d downed last night. “No, four.”

There was a time, back in her party-’till-the-sun-comes-up days, when four would’ve been the appetizer for a wild-assed good time, but those days were long gone. These days, she averaged one, two for celebratory occasions. Four was sheer idiocy. Although if she’d mis-counted, and it was five, God, someone shoot her now.

She groped Rick’s side of the bed, felt a wad of cool sheets. Gone? She squinted at the clock on the nightstand. Six-ten.
She
was the early riser, not Rick. As long as she’d known him, only a demanding case—or a Mavis emergency—would have him up at this hour. What was the deal?

“Brianna,” she croaked. That woman was not invited over for any more sleep-overs, period.

Laura gingerly set her feet on the smooth hardwood floor, let her sloshing head catch up with her body, then slipped on her favorite fuzzy slippers. After a hearty yawn, she forced herself to stand, snagged Rick’s plaid flannel robe off a wall hook. Wrapping it around her, she inhaled deeply, feeling comforted by his familiar scent.

“Coffee,” she muttered, heading toward the door.

A sound—distant laughter?—stopped her.

She stared out the expansive windows that gave a bird’s eye view of the property. Below, near the pool where Wicked had been found, Rick and Brianna stood. Laura glanced around—wasn’t Sam supposed to be at this dawn shindig? She glanced toward the cabins. Considering the amount of scotch he’d pounded last night, he was probably too hung-over to join the early-morning crime-scene field trip. Or too busy making time with Marshmallow Woman.

Her gaze shifted back to Rick and Brianna.

Her heart froze.

They were embracing.

Rick’s hand was stroking Brianna’s back.

Laura convulsively clenched the lapel of the robe as a shot of something jagged, nasty, and green tore through her.

This isn’t what it seems to be. Remember…her husband died and…Rick, well, he’s comforting her.

They broke apart, their arms dropped. Chatting amiably, or so it seemed from the look on Rick’s face. They were too far away to hear words, just the muffled cadence of voices.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Rick. She did. But if a woman was needy, on the prowl…well, even saints had devoured forbidden fruit.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Laura fiddled with a brass frog sitting on the writing table near the window. The slick, cool metal against her fingertips was oddly grounding, or maybe it brought back the cold, hard reality of recent events.

“Screw passivity,” she muttered.

It was time to take action, get answers.

What she had in mind wasn’t legal, but she was growing accustomed to stepping into that shady area.

• • •

A few minutes later, downstairs in the kitchen, Laura poured herself a shot of vodka, chugged it, winced at the burn. Poured another as she scanned the kitchen. Dirty dishes littered the table, the counter, the sink. Seeing a saucer piled with cigarette ashes, she groaned. One thing to leave a mess, another to break house rules.

She eyed the bottle, wondering if another shot was in order. No, there was business to take care of.

Pivoting, she half-jogged to the stairs, taking two at a time, then turned right on the second floor and headed to the guest rooms. There were only two on this end, and she’d told her guests to pick which one they wanted, so finding the right one would be a cinch.

She knocked on the first door with a Brachiosaurus stenciled on it. “Larry?” she asked softly.

No answer.

She tried the knob. The door creaked as she opened it. The room, decorated in a lush green with silhouettes of long-necked Brachiosauruses along the molding, was spotless, obviously unslept in.

She closed the door and turned to the Archaeopteryx room, rapped on the door. Listening carefully for any sounds inside, she stared down the beady eyes of the stenciled creature on the door. An odd creature, with a beak and feathers like a bird, fingers and feet like a dinosaur. Supposedly the Archaeopteryx could fly, but it wasn’t pretty. Like a peacock, it ran in spurts, managing to clumsily go air-borne for short distances.

No answer.

She twisted the knob. Unlocked. Opening the door, she kept her gaze down out of courtesy. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said quietly, “but Larry, I need to…”

Silence.

She raised her head, grimacing at the tossed clothes, tangled sheets and dirty glasses. She’d pushed off hiring housekeeping staff until business was up, which meant she’d be spending hours today cleaning up after last night’s partiers.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar. From inside came the sounds of a guy singing and the hiss of water spray.

Good. He’s taking a shower.

She gingerly stepped inside, scanning the room. In the corner was a large leather pouch, too feminine to be a man’s. Quickly crossing to it, she pulled back its flap, looked inside at the muddle of business cards and other papers, lip gloss containers, keys, a child’s picture.
How does she find anything in here?
She pawed to the bottom, unzipped a side pocket. Not there either.

Turning, she checked the top of the antique desk, the pile of sheets and blankets, the night stand…

There
!

Sprinting to the nightstand, she stumbled over a bedpost, choking back a yell as she caught her balance. She checked her throbbing toe. No blood. Limping to the dresser, she snatched the cell phone—definitely Brianna’s, she recalled her using it last night—flipped it open and searched the screen for options, found an arrow labeled History. Gently tapping it, she scrolled through a list of phone numbers—were these incoming or outgoing?

“What are you doing?”

She froze, slipped the phone into the pocket of the robe as she slowly turned.

There stood Larry, butt naked, a white fluffy towel draped around his toned shoulders. Water dripped from his hair down a face stamped with confusion.

“I…told Rick I’d check for his…recorder.” She gestured lamely around the room. “He’d, uh, been using this room as an office, thought he’d left it in here. Very important, that recorder. Needs it for an important case.”

He stared at her as though unsure if she was real or crazy. “You could have knocked.”

“I did. No answer.” She shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. I’ll leave now.”

She turned to go.

“Stop.”

She half-turned to look at him, doing her best to look innocent.

“That wasn’t a recorder you picked up. That was Brianna’s phone.”

“Huh?” Shit.

“In your pocket. That’s Brianna’s cell phone.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

“Show me.”

“Huh?”

“Show me what’s in your pocket.”