Just Add Water (1) (11 page)

19

“How about them Warriors?” I said
when I met Detective Martinez at the door.

He gave me a grimace that passed
for a smile. Judging from his gray crew cut, soft middle, and permanently
pained expression, Martinez looked to be on the ragged edge of a long career.
He thumbed a Tums from a frayed roll and popped it into his mouth. Between
chews he mumbled, “Yeah. Amazing what a good night’s sleep will do for a guy’s
game. You been outta town?”

“To paraphrase that other great
comedic genius, Fred Flintstone, ‘Droll. Ve-ry droll, Detective.’ ”

We moved to the living room and got
down to business. Martinez asked a few questions, took notes and made a comment
or two that only slightly indicated he thought I was a total simpleton.

Okay, so it hadn’t occurred to me
to leave the lock alone until the police had a chance to dust for prints. Who
am I? Kinsey Millhone? So now, between Dr. Hot’s hacksaw, our communal handling
of the lock, and a few licks from RJ, chances were slim for lifting any useful
fingerprint evidence. And evidence of what?

“So,” I said as Martinez carefully
bagged the mangled lock, “is it against the law to change a lock?”

Martinez contemplated my question
for a moment before answering. Either that or he was waiting for his antacid to
kick in. “Not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?”

“Well, it appears someone did
trespass. If we can find that someone, you can press charges. Can’t say,
though, I ever charged anyone with breaking and locking before.” His little
joke amused him greatly, but his laugh deteriorated into a hacking cough. I
waited while he had his fun and caught his breath.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat
and getting back to crime scene concerns, “is there anyone you can think of who
might want to do you harm?”

“Gee, can’t you cops come up with a
new line? That one’s been used for decades of movies and TV shows.”

“And the answer is?”

I laughed. Gotta get up early to
stay ahead of this legal fireball. “I can’t think of anyone off hand.”

He shrugged. “Just a thought. This
is the second time I’ve been here and I don’t believe in coincidence. Looks to
me like someone took the time to make sure they could get in and out of your
house, so maybe they want to get to you. Can you think of anyone who might fit
that bill?”

“Certainly not,” I said, crossing
my arms across my chest.

Jan, who up until now sat quietly,
groaned and rolled her eyes towards Heaven. The cop caught it and stared me
down until I admitted,
 
“There might
have been a couple of, uh, contretemps.”

“Contretemps? Can’t say as I’ve
heard that one in awhile. Ever. Tell me about them.” Martinez flipped to a new
page in his ubiquitous little notebook and waited, pen poised.

“Let’s see. I gave Big Dick
Reechard’s Armani jacket to a wino.”

“Does Big Dick have a last name?”
Martinez said without a hint of a smile. He wrote down Richard’s real name and
a phone number supplied by Jan, and then urged me to continue.

I listed people I might
possibly
have pissed off. Besides BDR,
there was Dale, the yahoo I had torpedoed on the Seattle project and who was
turning out to be a real pain in the ass, and Mr. Kim of the postal
Jeepjacking. Then there was Wade, who, although I didn’t really consider him an
enemy,
was
incarcerated with hundreds
of his new best friends at an institute for the criminally insane.

“Medical facility,” Martinez said.

“Huh?”

“Not called institutes for the
criminally insane anymore. They’re State Medical Facilities. PC.”

“I like loony bin, myself,” I
countered. I hate PC.

Martinez almost smiled. He wrote
something on his pad, then looked up. “Anyone else?”

“Nope.”

Jan gave me a look. “What?” I asked
her.

“Hudson,” she mouthed.

Martinez, it seems, lipreads.
“Hudson who?”

“Williams. But I really don’t think
he...I mean...Interpol told me a year ago that I probably had nothing to worry
about. They said he might be dead, even.”

Mr. Cool Cop almost dropped his
pen. “Interpol?” When I nodded, he said,
 
“I think you’d better tell me all about Williams. Dead or alive.”

So I did. Seven or so years before,
while on a business trip to Tokyo, I slipped away from my business associates
for a little solo foray on the town. Since I was moving to Tokyo for a two-year
stint, I told them I was going to look for an apartment and not to expect me
for dinner. I headed straight for Rappongi, the district where I’d heard many
foreigners lived and partied. Especially partied.

After actually checking out a
couple of preposterously priced apartments, I began my evening of checking out
drinking establishments. Although a disapproving Jan had given me my very own
copy of
Looking for Mr. Goodbar—
both
the book and the movie—I steadfastly refused to consider my international,
nocturnal wanderings hazardous.

Truth is, I instinctively knew in
which type of bar I would find the people with whom I’d be chummy for however
long I’d be in any one place. In Brussels I homed in on an English Pub, in
Mexico City it was a hotel bar. You show me any large city anywhere in the
world and I’ll show you a ginmill where foreigners meet, drink, tell lies, and
grouse about how nothing in the stinkin’ country works right. I was looking for
just such a place and the men who frequented them.

Hudson Williams was draped over the
bar at Red’s Revenge, Home of the Fightin’ Roo.

At seven a.m. the next morning, I
was making my way back to my room when I ran into my Baxter Brothers cohorts. I
was still a little drunk and probably reeked of the
kimchi
Hudson and I had consumed at an all night Korean BBQ, but my
colleagues thought I’d been out for an early morning walk. I let them keep those
thoughts. I didn’t think it wise to apprise my fellow employees, and thereby my
employer, that they had a barfly of international renown on their hands.

Two months later, when I did
relocate to Tokyo, Hudson and I began a hot and heavy affair that lasted for
six months. Until the day he disappeared, along with funds belonging to his
company, several of his clients, and me.

I had fully cooperated with
Interpol, giving them copies of my phone bills since Hudson had moved in with
me right after I arrived, saying his place was too far out of town. I gave them
the names of any of his associates I’d met, addresses he’d given me for
relatives in the States, and everything else I could come up with. As far as I
knew, no one ever found him. Dead
or
alive.
 

“Dead would be good,” I told
Detective Martinez, “but even if he is alive, I don’t think Hudson, wherever
the dirty rat bastard may be, would be looking to harm me,” I said. “As a
matter of fact, if I ever see him again, he’s the one who’s gonna get harmed. Some
folks, like old granny used to say, ‘just need killin’’.”

Martinez raised his eyebrows at my
threat. “Do you happen to have a photo of the alleged dirty rat bastard?” He
was enjoying this. I think.

“Nope.”

“Tore them up, huh?”

Feeling really, really, stupid I
reluctantly admitted, “He never let me take one of him. Said it was bad karma
to be photographed.”

I glared at Jan before she could
say anything like “So, what was your
second
clue?”

Martinez made a little humming
sound, closed his notepad and struggled to his feet.

Jan cleared her throat.
“Breathers,” she said.

The cop sighed and sat.

Jan was becoming a pain in the ass.
I scowled a warning at her, then told Martinez, “Someone keeps calling. Hanging
up, or breathing. My caller ID can’t ID the number. Could you? I wouldn’t
object to a phone tap or something like that.”

“Maybe,” he said slowly. He looked
at me in what I can only call a quizzical manner. Either that or his Tums
totally failed. “Ms. Coffey, for a well educated, successful professional, you
appear to walk on the shadowy side of life’s little lane. Brinkmanship, as I
call it, is a fine art. Be careful you don’t take one step too many and topple
over the edge.”

My ears burned and white heat rushed all the way to my
toes. It took every ounce of self-control, something I’m light on anyway, to
keep from letting him have a piece, the murderous piece, of my mind. I bit my
tongue. Hard.

Martinez rose, handed me his card,
walked to the front door, then turned back and said, “I’ll get back to you on
the phone thing. Have a good evening, girls.”

“Oh
Besides submitting proposals
, please, call me Hetta,” I
said, “I mean since we’re becoming so close and all.”

If Martinez caught my hateful tone,
he ignored it. When the door shut behind him,
 
I shot off the couch. Both Jan and RJ watched warily as I paced and
fumed. “
Girls
?
Girls
? And where,” I spat, “does that sumbitch get off lecturing
me? He’s probably never been out of the friggin’ state. He’s probably a high
school grad-u-ate. He’s probably....” I ran out of venom.

“Right?” Jan finished my sentence.
“You know Hetta, we do have a history of hanging out with guys who aren’t,
well, exactly good for us.”

Now there’s an understatement.

She was right. Martinez was right.
I plopped down on the couch and RJ, who had retreated from my anger, returned
to put his head in my lap.

“Dog,” I said, scratching his
velvety ears, “how would you feel about living on a boat? We’re blowing this
Popsicle stand. It’s jinxed.” RJ’s tail thumped. After all, he had vowed, back
at the pound, to follow me to the ends of the earth.

Jan went to the kitchen and
returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Hetta, I know things are a
little squirrelly around here right now, but are you sure about selling this
house? I mean, you don’t know diddley-squat about boats.”

“I didn’t know anything about
renovating houses when I bought this place, either. But after years of turning
this place from a sow’s ear to a silk purse, I’m bailing before it reverts.
I’ve been hearing distinctive oinks. I’m sick and tired of maintaining this
money pit. It’s either sell or we start cruising the parking lots of San
Leandro bars looking for pickup trucks sporting tool boxes and logos like ‘Mr.
Big Tool.’ I’ve had it.”

Jan sniggered. “Sounds okay by me. You
can have Mr. Handy Hand, I want Big Tool for myself. But seriously Hetta, maybe
you need some advice on this boat thing.”

“I called my dad.”

“What did he say?”

“Keep the tanks topped off.”

“See what I mean? We don’t even
know what’s
in
those tanks or how
much it costs to keep them topped off. Lars says—"

“Lars is a menace to society.”

“Not so. He happens to be a kind
and generous person. I like him a lot. And despite being a little wild, he’s
the kind of guy we should both be looking for. So is his brother.”

“He’s not my type.”

“Hetta, your type isn’t good for
you. You’re so stuck on wasting your time on the likes of that
Sea Rooster
person, you....Oh, never
mind. You never listen to anyone, anyhow.”

“
Cock
. The boat is
Sea Cock
.
Garrison is a friend, only a friend, and I plan to keep it that way. In fact,
he’s agreed to help me boat hunt during the week while you’re at work.”

“I don’t like him. He’s
not...good.”

“A rat? I know, but it’s not like
I’m having an affair with him or anything.”

“Everyone thinks you are.”

“Who is everyone? And since when do
I give a big bull’s rump what people think? Garrison is useful to me right
now.”

“So, if you are
using
a rat, does that make you a
ratess?” Jan snarled.

I was wounded. “Let me summarize
all the labels your ex-boyfriend, a psychotic lesbian, your present boyfriend,
his dorky brother, an aging flatfoot, and now
you
have anointed me with recently. Unbalanced. Fluffball. Weird.
Flighty. Brinky. And now I’m a ratess. Gee, is there anything else? Why don’t
y’all tell me what you truly think.”

“Brinky? Anyhow, what I, or they,
think isn’t worth a hoot. It’s what you think of yourself that counts.”

I waved my hands in the air.
“Psycho-babble. I hate that crap and all of those
I’m Okay but You’re Shit
books. I know what I am. I’m opinionated,
judgmental, and bossy. I like that in myself.”

“No one else does,” she said.
Seeing the look on my face, she put her arm around me. “Oh, Hetta, I’m so
sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. And hey, since when am I able to do
that, anyway? We always talk like this.”

Embarrassed by my uncharacteristic
dip in the self-pity pool, I replaced my pout with a grin and poured more wine.
“I’ll be all right. I have the distinct feeling my life is not under my own
control lately and you know how I love control. I’ll get everything back on
track. I always do, don’t I? Anyhow, what time is it? Don’t you have a date
with Lars?”

Jan shook her head. “I broke it. I
called him while you were at the hardware store. He said if I changed my mind
he’d be at the yacht club, but I can stick around. I don’t want to leave you
all upset.”

“I’m fine. Honest. The lock thing
rattled me a little, but I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You
know, extraterrestrials or something like that. If I get lonely tonight, I’ll
come down to the club. You take RJ’s car and go on. I’m gonna read up some more
on boats. Then at least I’ll have a better grip as to what questions to ask
tomorrow. Even if I don’t know what they mean.”

“Okay, then. If you’re sure. I guess
I’d better get dressed. Uh, Hetta, I probably won’t be back tonight, so meet me
tomorrow at the yacht club for brunch and then we’ll resume the hunt for your
luxury liner, okay?”