His hope was futile when she suddenly swung around. “Detective Lowell, make them take the cuffs off!”
Having worked in the sex crime division before homicide, he knew most of the girls. They all had a sad story to tell. Thanks to his mother, he had grown immune to sad stories.
“What’d you do, Rina?” He crossed his arms.
“Soliciting drugs,” Officer Pratt offered and latched a hand around her arm. “Come on.”
“Lowell! You told me if I talked, you’d do me a favor,” she yelled over her shoulder as Pratt attempted to walk her away.
“Wait.” Brit leaned forward. The chair squeaked again, begging for WD-40.
Rina swung around and grabbed on the door as Pratt tried to drag her away. “Work with me on this.”
Hope ricocheted through Brit’s chest. He’d gone on a rampage after Keith’s murder, offering his right arm for information. He couldn’t remember if he’d approached Rina, but maybe he had.
“Work with you on what?” Hope tightened his chest.
“Your partner’s death. Tell them to get these damn cuffs off me, and I’ll sing like a horny parakeet.”
Brit jerked up so fast his chair pitched back. Quarles did the same. They exchanged a quick glance and then both turned to Pratt. “Uncuff her,” they said in unison.
Pratt frowned. “She might go after your boys; she went after mine.”
“I’ll protect my boys,” Brit insisted, but he saw Quarles take a step back.
~
That evening, after joining Tanya Craft, a co-worker for a glass of wine, Cali lingered at the bottom of the stairs at her white-stuccoed apartment building. A November breeze, scented with Chinese food from a nearby restaurant, seeped through her light-weight sweater.
She forced herself to take one step closer to the inevitable argument that awaited her upstairs. But oh, she hated arguing. Plain and simple, she sucked at it.
Making it to the second level, she counted the white painted doors as she passed, dreading facing Stan. Her neighbor popped her head out of apartment 211. A true miniature, the wrinkled woman reminded Cali of a raisin, a sweet raisin, with an accent.
“Wait here.” Mrs. Gomez ducked back into her apartment, and returned with a plastic bowl. “Paella. The best you’ll ever taste.” Her faded brown eyes grew sympathetic. “That kind man of yours, he help me with my groceries and tell me about your mother. You are a good girl. You never use bad language like apartment 209. I hear bad words from there. I sorry about your mother.”
Cali’s chest ached. Why couldn’t she hear condolences without wanting to sob?
“Thank you.” Another breeze, this one scented with teriyaki, gave her a chill and she pulled her sweater closer. The sweet woman touched Cali’s arm, then disappeared into her apartment.
With a bowl in one hand, Cali fumbled with her keys with the other. She pushed open her door, braced for the inevitable. Silence greeted her. No Stan. No arguing. Relief blossomed.
She put the plastic dish in the fridge to party with the other dozen bowls. What was it about a death that made people want to feed you? Had she missed the scientific study that proved overweight people didn’t feel as much grief? She stared at the stacked bowls that her mother’s friends had supplied, and considered eating her way through the refrigerator. Anything to stop the grief.
“Any other family?” Cali remembered the funeral director asking. “Aunts, uncles? Surely there’s some family.”
“No. Just me.”
Unable to stomach the idea of food, she wandered back to her living room. She dropped on her beige leather sofa and freed her hair from the banana clip. Just me. She opened and closed the banana clip. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release.
Spotting the blinking of her message machine, she hit the play button. The voice bounced out of the recorder. “Stan. It’s Nolan. We’ve got a fucking problem.”
“Mrs. Gomez won’t like you if you cuss.” Cali let the banana clip snap shut again. She’d only met Stan’s band member buddies once. Not her type of crowd.
Next, she listened to Mom’s lawyer telling her he’d scheduled their appointment for Wednesday. Then the hospice nurse, Betty Long, needing Cali to sign papers.
Cali looked around the too-quiet apartment. Stan’s callous words echoed in her head. She died, you didn’t. He might help old ladies with their groceries, but he could be a jerk.
An hour later, freshly showered, she sat on the edge of the tub and painted her toenails a cherry red. Pretty feet had been her mother’s cure-all for the blues. Wearing only a towel and cotton between her toes, she heel-walked to her bed and collapsed on the mattress. Then she waited—waited for the mood-altering effect of pretty feet to kick in. “This is supposed to work, right, Mom?” Mom didn’t answer.
~
“He thinks Tanya is a lesbian,” Mom said.