Skies of Ash (32 page)

At the first stoplight, I nearly rammed into the back of a Miata.

Pinballs clanged from my purse.

Greg was calling.

And the phone kept clanging as I pulled into the parking lot between the HoneyBaked Store and the Secret Pole Dance Studio, a squat concrete building that looked more like a sewing-machine shop than a place where women learned to writhe around a silver stick. I parked and sat, aware that right over there, down the block, was the storage facility where Chatman’s boxes had been stolen.

Shit. Another failure.

The rumble started in my toes, twisted past my intestines, and burned my throat. The tears came, and I wept, unable to stop, unable to breathe, helpless against my body’s spasms.

In ten minutes, I was all cried out. My head fell back against the headrest as control draped over me. There was a heaviness in my limbs, but it was not a sinking kind of heaviness; instead, it was being tethered to something that would not let me float away into the lonely, vast universe.

The next time the pinballs clanged, I answered. “Yes?”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Greg shouted.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I said, calm and over it. “Did you ever go to the doctor?”

He paused. “What?”

“The doctor. Back on Tuesday, you told me you’d go. Did you go yet?”

“I haven’t had a chance… I don’t wanna talk to you on a phone. Where are you?”

And as he shouted questions at me, I sat there, tethered to whatever was holding me.

After he had run out of breath and had apologized for the obvious and tried to explain that he knew the brunette from college, he fell silent. “Lou,” he whispered, “say something.”

No tangled thoughts. No fear. I heard his breathing. I pictured his hand over his eyes. I felt his anxiety pulse through the phone. And all of me went clammy and cold.

“Lou. Baby, say something.”

And so, I did.

“I want a divorce.”

MAYBE GREG
HAD
BEEN TELLING THE TRUTH. MAYBE HE
DID
KNOW THE PRETTY
brunette from college. At this point in our marriage, though, at this point in my
life
, my mind’s fingers had grown raw from sifting lies from the truth. “That’s it. I’m done.” I shifted in the Porsche’s seat and watched people gather near the entrance to the pole-dancing studio.

Syeeda sat beside me, her doe eyes wide with worry. She took my hand and squeezed. “Are you sure? Maybe you should sleep on it. You can crash at my house again, if you want. Stay as long as you need. We’ll make s’mores.”

“I’m sure that we’re over,” I said. “So over that I’m calling Lena’s divorce attorney on Monday morning. Really: why keep going? It’s not like we have kids. We don’t have to stay married for anyone other than ourselves, and I don’t wanna do that anymore.” I shook my head. “And he’s the one staying away, but thanks for the offer of shelter and s’mores.”

She ruffled my hair.

I took her hand. “Forgot to tell you that the article today… really good. Very touching.”

She squeezed my hand. “Just doin’ my job, Detective.”

Colin’s red Dodge Charger roared into the parking lot.

Syeeda checked her makeup in the visor. “Lena is determined to sleep with that man by the end of the year.” She glanced at me. “Is Colin interested?”

My partner left his car, and as he walked, he tugged at his black V-neck sweater.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure what he wants.”

At the entrance, Colin’s gaze started at my face, then drifted down to my cleavage and exposed feet before buoying back up to my boobs.

I rolled my eyes. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

He blushed. “I forget sometimes that you’re a girl.”

I smirked. “I forget sometimes what that even means.”

“Where’s your hubby?”

I shrugged, then took a deep breath and tried to smile.

Colin tapped my arm. “What do you sistas say about doing bad by yourself?”

Syeeda laughed. “Did he just say ‘sistas’?”

I shook my head and chuckled. “Shut up, Colin.”

Half of the studio was walled with mirrors, and all of it had been decorated with rhinestones and velvet cutout silhouettes of women in different pole positions. The aromas of baby powder and vanilla wafted from candles and sticks of burning incense. Friends and family sat in a semicircle of white folding chairs around a silver pole reflecting light from a spinning disco ball. Silver light flecked our faces as we all drank sweet, pink libations laced with vodka.

Against my will, I nodded to the beat of Lil’ Kim and 50 Cent bragging about magic sticks and magic… boxes.

Colin gaped at me as I grooved and rapped with Syeeda. And his eyes bugged as I shouted the X-rated lyrics.

“Really?”
he said. “Is this the cop who always wears the white hat now rapping about
head
?”

I waved one hand in the air and used the other to chug from my cup. Tonight, I didn’t give a shit, a fuck, or even a rat’s ass—it had been a helluva week.

The first three student “pieces” involved feather boas, a leather whip, and a giant lollipop. Makin’ it rain, droppin’ it low, and shakin’ it fast. In between each set, a studio staff member wiped down the pole with enough alcohol to sanitize a hepatitis ward.

A break gave us all time to refresh our cups of Pink Panties. As we waited, Lil’ Kim returned, raunchier than ever.

“Do you know all the lyrics to her songs?” Colin asked, his eyes on my wriggling hips.

I nodded, snapped my fingers, and bumped him with my hip.

The lights dimmed—Diamond Heavenlick’s turn. She wore a blue-and-green-plaid naughty schoolgirl’s uniform with patent-leather platform Mary Janes. She writhed before us as R. Kelly explained that he saw nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.

In six minutes, Lena did the Cleopatra, the Dark Pixie, and reverse-grabs, all of which required athleticism and a bikini wax unlike any other. Not since college had I seen Lena do more than a wiggle here and a shimmy there. But tonight she was flying around a pole with her short legs nearly horizontal.

“Damn,” Colin said, wide-eyed. “She’s better than a lot of strippers I’ve seen. And she don’t have any bullet wounds or scars and shit.”

As a finale, Lena leapt up to the top of the pole and spun down until she landed into the splits.

We all stood and clapped as Lil Wayne bragged that his girl licked him like a lollipop.

Twenty minutes later, we stumbled out to the parking lot, which smelled of fried dough and confectioners’ sugar. Lena and Colin lingered near the entrance while Syeeda wandered over to the donut shop.

My phone rang. Not pinballs—not Greg.

“Detective Norton, good evening,” the man said. “It’s Ben Oliver.”

I stopped in my step—his voice sounded like the chocolate fondant I had abandoned earlier at the French bistro. “Ben. Hello. What a surprise.”

“A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

“Depends on why you’re calling. And on a Friday night, it better be intriguing.” The pink drinks had boosted my swagger.

He chuckled. “I just ended a meeting, and it went really well for my client and me. Also, it’s a beautiful, crisp night out and I’m in a great mood. So I wanna buy you a fancy drink in a fancy bar somewhere in this fancy town.”

The asphalt shook beneath my feet, moved past my calves, and drilled into my stomach. Was he trying to play me? Did he know that I was trying to play him? Was I one hundred percent certain that I was trying to play him, because if I was, why—?

“Hello?” he said. “You there?”

“I’m here,” I said. “I like fancy drinks in fancy bars. But if I agree, I’ll need to ask a few work-related questions.”

“Ask me whatever you want. How about the bar at the Ritz-Carlton, Marina del Rey?”

I agreed, then ended the call.

Colin was ambling toward me.

“What happened?” I called out to him. “No lust connection between you and Lena?”

He shrugged, then glanced back at Lena standing at the studio doors with Syeeda. “She’s cute and rich and everything but…”

“But her ego is bigger than yours.”

“Remarkable, right? Heading home?”

I grimaced and shook my head.

“So tell me what happened. Y’all fight?”

“Oh, it’s far worse than that.”

Colin crossed his arms. He thought to himself for a moment, then took a step closer to me. “I know I’m supposed to say that I’m sorry because of black love and whatnot…”

“Oh, quiet, you.”

He stroked my cheek with his forefinger.

“You did not just do that,” I said, squinting at him.

He smiled. The pink drinks had boosted his swagger, too.

“You’re my kinda friend, Colin,” I said, not flinching from his touch. “More importantly, you’re my partner. And I’m your senior.”

“I’m not askin’ you to marry me, Lou. We’re off duty, and it’s obvious that we’re attracted to each other.”

“Obvious?”
I asked. “To whom?”

He smiled. “C’mon. Everybody’s doin’ it. Vernell and Kent in the Gang Unit hook up all the time. And Montez and Felicia in Robbery…”

“And if everybody blah-blah-blahed, would you do that, too?”

“Hell yeah, I would. Twice. Three times if I worked out that day.” His finger slid to the dip between my clavicles and rested lightly on my pulse point.

My breathing quickened—I hadn’t had sex in six months, and that was really starting to piss me off.

And Colin was a big, brave man who wrestled murderers and blasted shotguns and gushed testosterone like the
Titanic
had gushed seawater. Right now, though, he didn’t have to do much to take me over the rainbow.

“You’re thinkin’ about it,” he said. “Anything I can do to persuade you?”

Heat rippled off of me and off of him. Every inch of skin on my body waxed toward him, all of me wanting so badly to be touched and kissed. Biology. But I took a step back. “We have a long day tomorrow,
partner
.”

His face flushed and his hand dropped to his side. “Yep.”

“And we’ll forget this happened, yes?”

“Yep.”

Colin and I stood there, in the Secret Pole Dance Studio parking lot, still contemplating it, knowing that it happened all the time between men and women on the police force, knowing that sex changed
everything
—for good but most times for bad, but, damn, in times like these…

He started toward his car. But then he stopped and turned back. “You think too damned much about things. Sometimes, humans just…
fuck
. That’s what we do. Lollipops just bein’ lollipops.” He sighed, then saluted me. “Have a good one.”

THE RITZ-CARLTON OVERLOOKED THE MARINA, A FLOATING PARKING LOT FOR
catamarans, sailboats, and small yachts. People gathered around the circular bar, leaned against the railing, or squeezed onto white divans separated by small, tabletop fire pits. The driving bass line of an old Lady Gaga song made the wooden floor planks vibrate.

Ben Oliver was still dressed in a suit but wore no tie. He had snagged a divan farthest from the crowd. It was loud, and we sat close, mouth to ear, to shout above the noise.
Hello, I’m fine, you look great, you look great, too.
I ordered sangria and he ordered single-malt Scotch. I warmed beneath his appreciative gaze but quickly launched into the cop act. “Let’s get business out of the way,” I said, tapping his knee. “And then we can find more interesting topics to discuss. Religion and politics, for example.”

His eyes twinkled. “Or which is better:
Alien
or
Aliens
?”

I pointed at him. “Easy question.
Alien
. John Hurt, Ian Holm, Tom Skerritt, Sigourney Weaver, and Yaphet ‘Cool Ass’ Kotto.” I shifted in my seat. “I flew to Vegas this afternoon. To talk with Melissa Kemper. She said lots of interesting things.”

Ben considered the amber-colored liquid in his glass. “I’m sure she did.”

“She told me to ask you about the paralegal.”

His index finger rubbed the glass’s rim.

I nudged him with my shoulder. “So who is the paralegal?”

He laughed, then shook his head. “The paralegal is unrelated to your investigation. And it happened a long time ago. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Never does.”

Over in a corner, a couple groped each other in the dark. The man, silver-haired and wedding-banded, unhinged his jaw like an anaconda and bent to kiss the blond woman, sixty years his junior. She pushed him away and giggled.

I tore my eyes away from that couple and focused on Ben. “She also told me to ask you about Martha’s Vineyard.”

His head snapped back as though I had popped him in the nose. “What the
hell
is her problem?” He took a deep breath. “Every year, Christopher’s family joins my family at our vacation home in Martha’s Vineyard. Back in 2003, Melissa wanted to come, but I refused to invite her. You’ve spent time with her, so you know that she’s loud, obnoxious, and a slob. But she and her son popped up anyway, and Juliet and Sarah were pissed. Of course, that time of year, the inns were all booked, and Melissa expected me to put her up in the house.”

“Did you?”

“Hell no. Does that answer your question?”

There had to be more, but I gave a one-shouldered shrug anyway. “People have mentioned Mr. Chatman being sick, and I’ve been trying to confirm his condition. But our server’s down at the station.” I lied. “So no cybersleuthing for me at the moment.”

He tossed the booze down his throat, then winced. “Technology is a fickle bitch.”

“Indeed. When did his treatment start?”

“August.”

“And
how
was he treated?”

“Surgery.”

“Why Memorial Sloan Kettering?”

Ben sat his glass on the table. “He didn’t want people to know he was sick, nor did he want the kids to worry. I offered to go with him, but he tends to go it alone.”

Easier to live a lie that way.

“The guys at the firm were already being jerks,” Ben continued, “and they smelled blood in the water. They started poaching his clients, and Christopher… Desperate times, desperate measures. And it backfired on him.”