Skies of Ash (18 page)

Which husband was Christopher Chatman?

I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The dark circles and bags beneath my eyes were filled with worry and overstimulation.

Every cop—hell, every Angeleno—owned that same set of bags.

* * *

If you’re just gonna sit there and stare into space,” Syeeda said, tapping her boot on the ground, “me and Lena will hang out with the desperate housewives at the next table.”

I snapped back to the here and now, and to my best friends. “Sorry. Just thinking about…” The cantina twinkled with crimson and turquoise lights, punctuated by the bright-white glints of cell phones and bleached-teeth grins. “This case…” I took a sip of sangria, my eyes on the giant bowl of
ceviche
in the middle of the table. The fumes from the cilantro and lime had already given me heartburn.

Syeeda gulped the rest of her wine—she knew what I was thinking. “Wanna get something off your chest?”

I smirked. “Why? So you can make it first-page news?”

“Homeboy in the hockey jersey—”

“Didn’t do it. Off the record.”

“Is he the only homeboy in LA with an orange hockey jersey, though? I’m thinkin’—”

I held up my hands. “Can we not talk shop right now? I’m not drinking enough as is.”

With that, Syeeda grabbed the pitcher and refilled both our glasses. “One last thing and I’ll shut up. As you go about your day filled with fingerprints and gene sequencing and arson reports, I just ask that you don’t lose sight of the fact that two kids are dead and…”

I blinked at her. “I can never forget that.”

“Let’s move on, please,” Lena said. “I have something for you two.” She adjusted her torn-just-so sweatshirt, then rummaged through her giant Birkin bag, finally pulling out two envelopes. “One of these is ridiculous, and the other is totally awesome.”

I pointed to the red envelope with the snowman stamp and Connecticut return address. “That’s the awesome one.”

“Guess again.” She tossed the red envelope to me, then kicked off her fuchsia stilettos.

I tore open the flap.

“Can you believe this?” Lena spat.

“Can we open the envelope first?” Syeeda asked.

I pulled out the Christmas card. “Oh wow.” All the pressure and anxiety and tingly limbs from the meeting with Christopher Chatman burst into a shower of pink glitter. And I laughed.

“Season’s greetings
indeed
,” Syeeda said, wide-eyed.

On the front of the card was Lena’s ex-husband, Chauncey, wearing a red cable-knit sweater. He sat on a giant boulder beside his new husband, Brando, who wore a gray cable-knit sweater. Two Weimaraners, wearing black sweaters, lounged at the couple’s feet.

I snickered. “It’s very sweet that your ex-husband and his husband thought about you during this time of giving.”

“Am I supposed to be
happy
for him?” Lena screeched over the roar of the crowd. “Just cuz it’s Christmas? Am I supposed to hoist a rainbow flag even though this
asshole
dumped me for this
other
asshole?”

“Brando’s eyes are very far apart,” Syeeda noted.

“He looks like a hammerhead shark,” I said, peering at the picture. “A hammerhead shark dressed in L.L.Bean.”

“This ain’t funny,” Lena muttered.

“Oh, Lena.” Syeeda picked up the unopened envelope. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Parties and eggnog and holly and—” She slid out a slick pink card.

“Diamond Heavenlick” had been written in white italics across the card’s top. In the picture beneath, Lena (I guess it was Lena) wore a black crop top, a way-up-to-there plaid schoolgirl’s skirt, black spanky panties, and fuck-me pumps with transparent heels. She had wrapped most of herself around a silver pole.

“Okay,” I said. “This is wrong.”

“So wrong that it’s right,” Lena said. “Sy, turn it over.”

Wiggle with Me.

And I laughed until I couldn’t breathe.

Syeeda stared at the invite. “Who is Heaven…? Huh?”

“It’s my first pole-dance recital,” Lena said, hopping in her chair. “Diamond Heavenlick: that’s my stripper name.”

Syeeda and I gawked at each other.

“I just ended my first three-month session,” Lena said, “and I feel as though I’ve finally accomplished something.” She touched my hand. “Sorry, Elouise. At Krav Maga, I only accomplished sleeping with Avarim, and to my great disappointment that was not worthy of a recital.” She picked up her sangria glass and sipped through the straw. “I’m discovering a new part of me. I’ve found my secret sexy.”

“We thought you were doing this for kicks,” Syeeda said. “We didn’t think…
recitals
?”

Lena giggled. “Lou, bring Taggert with you.”

My face warmed. “Why?”

She gave a sly smile. “I’m tired of Russia and Israel. I need to see America again: the Rockies and purple mountain majesty and amber waves of grain. And since
you’re
not being a patriot and hittin’ it,
someone
should, especially in today’s post-9/11 world.” Her eyes met mine. “Unless you
are
hittin’ it and you’re not telling us.”

“Well, now,” Syeeda said, turning in her chair to face me.

“I’m not,” I said, reaching for my drink.

“
Yet
,” Syeeda said.

“I’m not,” I repeated and crunched ice cubes.

Lena spooned ceviche onto her plate. “You’re an idiot, then.”

“Fine.”

“I commend you trying with Gregory,” she said. “You want to be a part of something special.
Pour toujours et à jamais
.”

“We’ve talked about this,
Diamond
,” Syeeda said, pouring sangria into our glasses.

“He’s a chronic adulterer.” Lena pointed the spoon at me. “And he will never, ever change, and you,
ma chérie
, must accept that unfortunate truth.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Your Russian boyfriend is—”

“Married,” Lena completed. “And I’m fine with that. And
Olga
is fine with that.”

“Until one of you
stops
being fine with that,” Syeeda said.

Lena scoffed and plucked Chauncey’s card from the bowl of tortilla chips. “After what this bastard in the sweater did to me, do you think that I’m ready for something
meaningful
?”

“You’ll screw somebody else’s husband,” I said, “so that you won’t have to deal with all those yucky emotions and gooey commitment?”

Lena grabbed her cell phone from the table and swiped her finger across its screen. “
À bon chat, bon rat.
”

“
Tit for tat?”
I asked. “Whose tit? And easier for whom? Not for the wife. Or do we not matter?”

Syeeda clapped her hands. “Okay, ladies. Let’s all stay in our lanes.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Build a bridge and get over it, Elouise. I’m just doing me.”

“There’s a word or two for that,” I groused, glass to my lips.

“Luckily, I don’t give a shit,” Lena spat.

A lie—I could hear the panicky quaver in her voice.

I sipped. “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets shot.”

“Tha
fuck
, Lou?” Lena said. “This is different from you and Greg. Olga knows.”

“Did
she
tell you that?” I asked. “Or did you take
his
word for it? The word of the chronic adulterer?”

Lena folded her arms and dropped her chin to her chest.

Syeeda broke a tortilla chip into tiny pieces.

All around us, dishes clinked, women giggled, and men outshouted one another.

Syeeda tapped the recital invitation. “We’ll come wiggle with you, Lena. Will there be strip-tinis and hors d’oeuvres? Shall I bring dollar bills, or is this an exhibition-type event?”

Lena tried to meet my eyes, but her gaze skittered back to the bowl of ceviche.

Under the table, Syeeda’s knee nudged mine.

I didn’t speak.

Syeeda kicked my calf.

“We’ll come wiggle with you, Lena,” I parroted.

Lena finally looked at me and forced a smile that didn’t reach her dark, angry eyes.

I returned her smile with one of my own, one devoid of affection or forgiveness, one that lamented a friendship under siege.

MY MOTHER’S GREEN HONDA ACCORD WAS PARKED IN THE DRIVEWAY OF HER
Inglewood townhouse. Martin’s Toyota Camry was not. She had probably kicked him out before my early-morning arrival. Sent him to pick up a bulb of elephant garlic at the farmer’s market in a tiny Romanian village just to keep me from knowing that he had stayed the night.

But I was paid to spot little things: the single gray whisker in the bathroom sink that had not washed away with the others. The vial of Flomax in the medicine cabinet, prescribed for men with enlarged prostates. The bottle of Sam Adams on the fridge door (mom drank Chardonnay, never beer).

Two months ago, during one of our weekly breakfasts, I had told my mother that I was cool with Martin living there, cool with him sleeping in her bed.

Mom had blushed, then muttered into her cup, “Why do you say crazy things like that?”

Nervous, I had salted my eggs until they’d become inedible. “I just hope you’re using protection. Yesterday, I read an article that said older people are getting bad cases of gonorrhea.”

Mom’s big brown eyes had turned the size of turkey platters. “You say the craziest things,” she had grumbled. A week later, though, I spotted a grocery store receipt on the kitchen counter. I glimpsed Trojans Lubricated Condoms among A1 Steak Sauce and organic bananas. Left me satisfied. And horrified.

This morning, Georgia Starr greeted me at the front door with a broad smile. She pulled me into a hug scented with ylang-ylang, coconut, and vanilla. She wore one of her favorite caftans—pastel flowers outlined in thick browns and greens. “You have a key,” she said as I followed her into the house. “Why did you ring the bell?”

I sat my bag on the foyer’s tile. “Because if I walk in on you and Martin, I’ll have to get a lobotomy, and with half a brain, I wouldn’t be as great a cop as I am now.”

She padded to the kitchen. “I like your pantsuit. I guess you’re not chasing any thugs through the alleys in those high-heeled boots.”

“No, that was yesterday.” I pulled off those boots and left them in line with the other shoes there. Then, I futzed with the sharp crease in my gray slacks to avoid looking at the brass and sapphire cremation urn sitting on the fireplace mantel. I peered at the vase of pink stargazer lilies on the dining room table. “So sparkly, so gorgeous,” I said, tapping a white-edged petal.

“Martin gave them to me,” Mom said. “We just celebrated our one-year anniversary.”

I joined her in the kitchen, warm from sweet rolls in the oven, fragrant from coffee dripping into the pot.

Mom’s face glowed as she eased from the cabinets to the refrigerator, pulling cups, sugar, and cream from here and there. A small smile played on her lips—she probably didn’t know that it was there. And her hair, a short bob now and completely gray, caught light from the kitchen overheads.

“What are you staring at?” she asked as she divided the rolls onto two plates.

I smiled. “So sparkly, so gorgeous.”

She settled into the breakfast nook. “I feel blessed this morning.”

It would have been a true Massengill moment between a mother and daughter, but I knew we would eventually discuss issues far more sensitive than feminine freshness. But we would, as is our custom, take the scenic route. And so beads of flop sweat pebbled on my neck as I sipped my coffee and waited.

One… two…

“How is Gregory?” she asked, her eyes burning into my forehead.

“Slammed at work—big game release in May.”

He hadn’t made it home in time for late-night dessert. At almost one o’clock, he had simply undressed and fallen into bed, snoring before I could count to ten.

“And how are you dealing with that?” Mom asked.

I shrugged. “With a job like mine, I can’t complain about his.”

“With the budget cuts, aren’t they making you go home? No more overtime?”

I nodded.

She nibbled on a piece of roll. “Does that mean…?”

That half-asked question made my heart, already skipping from caffeine, jump from skipping to full gallop. When she didn’t continue, I said, “Does that mean what?”

She tore away another piece of roll. “I was just talking to Martin the other day and… I was thinking, you know… With the new year coming and…” She smiled to herself. “Wouldn’t it be nice, next year this time, to have a little one runnin’ around here?”

The coffee started to burn a hole into my chest. “Aren’t you and Martin a little too old to have a baby?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” she said. “Fine. I’ll change the subject.” She sat up, back straight, and cradled the coffee mug between her palms. “Tori’s ashes.”

Dread gripped my insides and turned everything to ice. Maybe the conversation about a baby would’ve been better.

The last talk between Mom and me about Tori’s ashes had occurred in my living room. After finding Tori’s remains in the basement of Crase Liquor Emporium, after forensic anthropologists and the coroner confirmed that the bones were those of Victoria Starr, and after we had approved cremation, I had suggested to Mom that we divide the ashes between us.

Mom had gone wild-eyed. “Why would you want to separate her like that? And why does she need to be sprinkled or shoved into somebody’s box? I just got her back. How could you be so cruel?”

Back and forth like that. Tears, accusations, and screaming.

Greg, returned from Japan for just a week, had been upstairs packing (I had kicked him out after he’d confessed to his two-timing). But after Mom stormed out of the house, he came downstairs to find me sobbing on the couch. Over the three days of Mom and me not speaking, he held me and assured me that I wasn’t being cruel. And then he asked for another chance. Weak as I was, and feeling so very alone, I had said yes.

After Mom and I had drifted back into speaking again, I swore to myself never to mention Tori’s ashes to her again.

But now here we were.

Mom gazed at me with sad eyes. “How much will a small memorial service cost?”