The First Rule of Ten (14 page)

“Ramona?”

“Vince’s friend, Ramona.”

His body stiffened. I stayed relaxed. Said nothing.

“I think Mr. Barsotti handled that sale himself,” he muttered. “I’m not really sure.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, as if I’d just felt it buzz. Raising one finger, I stepped away and engaged in a brief, intense conversation with nobody. I finished the phantom call and smiled an apology at my new buddy. “I’m needed back at the office—can I get your card?”

“Uh, okay.” A scrim of disappointment dropped over Chad’s face. I almost felt sorry for the guy. I pocketed his card and gave his hand a quick shake.

“Do you have a card?” he asked.

I slapped my pockets. “Fresh out,” I said. “But here’s a number you can call.” I rattled off a series of random digits in the 310 area code. It was definitely a number—just not one that had anything to do with me.

“I’ll let Mr. Barsotti know you stopped in,” Chad said.

“Please do,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be surprised, if not thrilled.”

By now, I was starving, but out of time, and almost out of gas. I filled up at a local Arco station and grabbed a packet of peanut-butter crackers at the counter.

Made a mental note to remember wine for dinner.

Then I dashed back to Barsotti’s love nest, “dash” being a relative term anywhere in Los Angeles any time after three o’clock in the afternoon. It was close to dusk when I pulled into the complex. I was glad to see both cars still in place.

I’d no sooner opened my crackers when Barsotti emerged and quick-walked over to his car. Here we go again. I stayed five cars back as he hacked his way through traffic, this time taking Coldwater south. It was a slow grind, climbing up and over Mulholland, dipping down into Beverly Hills. Night was closing in by the time we reached Beverly Drive. I checked my watch. I was cutting my dinner plans close. Barsotti hooked a left, onto a quiet street in the part of Beverly Hills known as “the flats.”

I rolled past as he pulled into the circular driveway of a two-story English Tudor, centered on a large manicured lot. The garage door opened to admit his car. Well, what do you know? Another Mercedes SUV was parked in the his-and-hers garage. Silver, like the girlfriend’s, but an older model. I glanced in the kitchen window. Barsotti was hugging a woman. Blond, like the girlfriend, but an older model. Mrs. Barsotti, I presume.

Two preteen Barsottis were already sitting at the kitchen table, set for four. So Vince was a family man who believed in good old-fashioned family values … with one small exception. I doubted the missus knew about that exception, especially the bit about the newer, shinier sheet metal. Beverly Hills wives can be touchy on that subject.

A security car pulled up next to me. Now my Toyota stuck out like a tutu at a wrestling match. What a difference a few miles makes. The patrol car’s window slid down and a uniformed guard leaned his jaunty cap out the window.

“Help you, sir?”

I explained I thought someone I knew, a friend, lived on this street, but I was mistaken.

Lying while telling the truth. Easy as pie.

C
HAPTER
14

In L.A., there’s “fashionably” late, and then there’s “just plain rude” late. I arrived at Julie’s front door somewhere in between the two. I hate being late at all—monastic living trained me to be a stickler about keeping to a schedule, otherwise you never found any spare time for yourself. I also hated to show up for dinner empty-handed, but with no opportunity to pick up a bottle of wine, I just had to make do with what I had.

My choices were limited, but between an opened packet of peanut-butter crackers and a paper bag of raw almonds, the almonds won easily. At least they had a nice story to go with them.

I pushed the doorbell, suddenly aware of a swarm of winged creatures fluttering inside my rib cage like newly hatched termites.

The door opened. Julie stood smiling at me, framed by the soft light from inside. She was wearing jeans, a white cotton shirt, and a bright purple apron. Rolled-up sleeves showed off her toned muscles, and her apron was snug over her breasts. Fit, yet voluptuous, what a combination. We cheek-kissed. Her skin was slightly damp and her hair smelled of jasmine. I pulled away quickly. I didn’t want to think about what I smelled like.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Crazy day. I’m a little worse for wear.”

“To say nothing of your Mustang,” Julie said, looking over my shoulder at the battered Toyota parked in her guest slot.

Oh, well.

I handed her the paper bag of almonds. “For you,” I said. “A bag of nuts, straight from the grove. Don’t let anyone tell you I’m not a romantic at heart.”

She laughed, and ushered me inside.

“Welcome to the land of beige,” she said. I looked around. Sure enough, the walls were beige. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige. Even the photograph of a mountain range hanging over the living room sofa was beige. “I bought the apron as an act of self-defense.” She spread her purple apron and curtseyed.

I’d forgotten how quirky she was.

The smells coming from the small kitchen area were enough to make me weep. Sautéed garlic and onions. Balsamic vinegar. Something else, creamy and comforting. I honed in on a bottle of Pinot Noir breathing away on the counter. Soon I was perched on a stool by the kitchen island, sipping delicious wine and watching delicious Julie perform culinary magic.

She opened the oven and leaned in to poke at something. I spotted a cast iron pan loaded with bubbling, thinly sliced potatoes.

“You didn’t,” I said. “Potatoes Anna? Really? What are you, psychic?”

Not psychic
, a voice inside me said.
Manipulative
. A drop of uneasiness tainted the pleasure, like ink in water. My chest constricted, though I kept my tone casual.

“Did you talk to Martha?”

Julie turned. The heat from the oven flushed her cheeks a becoming pink.

“Guilty as charged,” she said. She pulled a basket of morels from the refrigerator and waved them at me.

“She also told me you loved these.”

My jaw must have tightened.

“Hey,” Julie said. “Give me a break. I never cooked for a monk before.”

She had a point.

Soon we were tucking into heaping plates of crispy, buttery potatoes; big, juicy grilled mushrooms, and a tart, delicate salad of arugula, avocado, and crumbled blue cheese. Her silent concentration on the food blessedly matched my own, until our plates were clean.

I helped myself to more of everything.

“I thought morels weren’t in season,” I said, refilling our glasses. “Where did you find these?”

“The competition can be fierce, but we chefs have our own inside informants,” she said. “They’re called exotic food suppliers. I got the morels from one of our regulars, in Calabasas. Guess where they’re flown in from?”

I had no idea.

“The Southern Himalayas,” she said. “Not too far from where you grew up, right?”

Again, I felt that little kink of unease. She seemed to know a lot more about me than I did her. I took another bite of potatoes, and as the buttery mixture melted on my tongue, I let the feeling melt away along with it.

“So, how’s the chef gig going?” I asked.

“Sous-chef,” she said, “and it’s a nightmare, thanks. I’m dealing with a maniac. When they interviewed me, I neglected to ask why the executive chef didn’t bring his own sous-chef with him. Turns out she’s in rehab for alcoholism.”

She poured herself another glass of wine. “I may be headed that way myself.”

She described her chef’s latest tantrum, one of many. Broken dishes and a weeping waiter were involved. I told her I understood, and detailed several infamous outbursts by my own former boss, the king of homicidal rages.

“He’s one of the reasons I left,” I said. “What about you? Do you have to put up with it? Why not quit?”

“Oh, you know. The three P’s: Prestige. Perfectionism. Pride. I want to have my own restaurant one day, and this job could be a great launching pad for me. If I get the offer—permanently, I mean—I’ll probably take it. Send for my things. Actually move out of this homage to blandness.”

She lifted her glass and toasted the walls. “To anything but beige,” she said, and met my eyes. “Should I open another bottle?”

Her offer was like an unfurling red carpet. I knew exactly where a second bottle of wine would lead. My heart took a small step back.

“No more for me, thanks. I have to drive.”

She looked down. Nodded. Message received. I couldn’t tell how she felt about it, though.

I moved to the sofa and sat, patting the cushion next to me. After a moment, Julie joined me. Her upright back told me she wasn’t as cool about my little rebuff as I’d thought. We perched side by side, awkward with each other for the first time all evening.

Suddenly Julie jumped up. She crossed to the kitchen area and pulled out a mortar and pestle. She poured some of my almonds into the pestle and began grinding, giving those lovely biceps an energetic workout.

“Shouldn’t let these go to waste,” she said. “I’m thinking marzipan might be nice for dessert.”

My mind hopped back onto the red carpet and raced ahead to the main event, followed by all the future meals and desserts I might enjoy with this talented woman and her gorgeous musculature.

I felt my own muscles stirring, one in particular. I quickly trawled my brain for conversational topics, before I embarrassed myself.

John D seemed safe.

As I told her a little about my new friend, I again pictured John D’s family photograph, set in the flowering grove.

“I never knew almond trees were so beautiful in bloom,” I said. “They remind me of those Japanese paintings
.”

“Good call,” Julie answered. “An almond is actually in the plum family, along with apricots and cherries.”

“And the blossoms. Pink and cream. Like your skin.”

Julie gave me a strange look.

“Is there a problem?” I said.

“Uh, don’t bring me any more almonds from random groves, Ten, okay?” Then she added insult to injury by scraping the ground almonds into the garbage.

“I thought they tasted just fine.” My voice was tight.

“You already ate some?”

“But if they don’t meet your professional standards, just say so.” I was acting like a deprived child, and I knew it.

“Ten, some raw almonds can make you sick. I’m sorry. I’m probably overly-careful, but when you said—”

“No, I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I’m an idiot. Can we just … reboot somehow?”

Julie took a minute. But then her eyes regained some of their twinkle.

“Our first food tiff.” Her smile was a gentle invitation to let the tension go. “I’ll make you a delicious dessert. Promise.” She yawned. “But not tonight.”

I matched her yawn with two eye-watering ones of my own. She plopped down next to me on the sofa, leaning closer this time. Everything was suddenly all better.

“Long day,” she murmured.

“Long week,” I said. I gave her a brief rundown. She turned to face me, wrapping her arms around raised knees. She was a good listener, and seemed genuinely interested in my transition from cop to detective. Soon we were swapping tales of academy training, hers culinary, mine with the police. The process of moving up the ladder was more similar than you might assume, though Julie’s involved learning to work with pastry and poultry, mine with graffiti and gangs. On one point we agreed completely—negotiating with all the idiots out there provided the biggest challenge.

“Believe me,” Julie insisted, “if you met some of the jerks I’ve cooked under, you’d probably think dealing with ex-cons was a day at the beach.”

“At least chefs don’t shoot you,” I said.

She looked me straight in the eye.

“I’ve got one word for you,” she said. “Cleavers.”

I laughed out loud.

“Okay.” I smiled. “I’ll stick with detecting.”

“It’s a deal,” she said. “You do the detecting and I’ll do the cooking.”

She slowly extended her hand. We shook. I looked down at our joined palms then up at her eyes. Her gaze was steady. I let go of her hand and leaned in, a little awkwardly. Our lips touched, and I felt hers curve into a smile under mine. A tingle of electricity vibrated through my body. She placed her hand over my heart, and the heat radiated into my core.

“Whoa,” I said.

“Indeed,” she said.

Next thing I knew, we had dispensed with the narrow sofa and were pressed tight together on the expansive beige ocean of carpet, my hands on the small of her back, hers around my neck, our mouths locked as we exchanged an extended series of hot, deep kisses.

When we came up for air, Julie leaned her forehead against mine. Her breath was warm and delicate.

“Morel mushrooms,” she whispered. “Who knew?”

My heart gave a little flip. I was enchanted by this woman.

You always are, at first
.

I leaned in and brushed her lips with mine, a sweet, short, until-next-time kiss. I stood up and held out my hand. She took it, and I levered her to my side. I tried to ignore the sprinkling of freckles across her collar bone, a constellation of promise.

“It’s late,” I said. “How about we do some more of this soon, when I’m not quite so exhausted?” I waited. A great evening could easily implode right about now.

But Julie was cool. She nodded and stretched. “Good idea. Lovemaking is so much better when both people are awake.”

You’re leaving now? Are you crazy?

I soothed my inner
Canis lupus
by suggesting Julie and I get together on her next night off. She promised that would be soon. I offered to wash the dishes, but she wouldn’t hear of it. By then, my eyelids were starting to actually droop.

As I walked to my car, a corner of my mind nudged at me. I sensed I had forgotten to pursue something, something important, but my brain had thickened into one dense fog of fatigue, and nothing was going to penetrate until I gave it some sleep.

I got back to the house in record time and was greeted at the door by a grateful, if impatient, cat. Tank has access to dry food and a running-water cat-fountain when I’m gone all day, so he’s never likely to starve or go thirsty. However, his two favorite foods require someone with opposable thumbs. How else to open cans? In our small family, that honor falls to me. Sometimes I think it’s the main reason he loves me.