He looked back at me. “Not good.”

“What’s going on? Is it just Simone?”

“That doesn’t help, but the main problem is Max thinks I’m cheating on him.”

“Did you finally cave and fool around with someone else?” Q had a wandering eye, but I never thought he’d give in to the impulse.

He waved a hand. “I can’t talk about this with two hundred people downstairs. Plus, you’ve got enough going on. Tell me what else I can do other than crash on your couch once or twice.”

“How hard would it be to get our hands on Forester’s autopsy?”

Q thought for a second. He gave me a long look. “I think you’re being paranoid, but I can get you the report from the estate department if you really want it. I’ll just say we’re closing up something for Forester and we need it for our records. I’ll copy it and have it Monday morning.”

“What about Forester’s records from his cardiologist?”

“Hmm. Well, I’d guess those would be part of the autopsy records. If not, I could subpoena them under the court number of the estate.”

A knock came from the door and Fat Elvis stuck his head in. “There’s my hunk of burning love.”

Q stood and put his hands on his hips. “I’m glad you’re coming around to the good side, Grady.”

Grady guffawed. “Not you, man. I wanted to see if Izzy was okay.”

“She’s a conspiracy theorist.” Q adjusted the foot of his pajamas. “Get her drunk and onto a different topic.” He left the bedroom.

Downstairs, through the open doorway, I could hear the thumping strains of the song “It’s Raining Men.”

“What’s the conspiracy?” Grady shifted the heft of his fake belly to the other side and sat on the bed next to me.

“I can’t take you seriously in that outfit.”

“Wait a second.” He pushed the gold shades up on his pompadour and peeled off the top of the jumpsuit and the fake belly. “Better?”

“Much.”

He put his beer on the floor. “Iz, remember I told you that you could rely on me? That I could handle more than sports and law-firm talk?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want to tell you something else I can handle.”

I held my breath. There was something weighty moving into the room-some kind of energy that felt serious.

“I could handle me and you,” Grady said.

“Me and you? But we’re friends.”

“Exactly. We’re great friends, and it’s not like I’ve thought about this for years or anything, but since last week, since everything has happened, it’s killed me, absolutely killed me, to see you sad. And I started to wish I could be more than just your friend.”

“So you want…” I couldn’t even finish my sentence. I’d never thought Grady was interested in me.

“I don’t really want anything. You’ve got too much on your plate right now. The only thing I want is for you to know I’m thinking about you, and I’m into you, and if you are ever ready for that, you let me know. And if you just want to be friends, that’s great, too, and I’ll do anything I can to help you get through this. Anything. Ask me anything.”

I remembered that tomorrow morning I had to pick up Kaitlyn, Maggie’s niece. “Well, um, could I borrow your car tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. I’m going to the gym in the morning. I’ll leave it outside your place and put the keys under the doormat.” He stood. “I’m getting out of here before I say anything else. Are we okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, sure.”

He zipped up his jumpsuit and put his wig back on. The huge gold sunglasses came next.

I started laughing.

“That’s not exactly the response I wanted from a girl I hope to date.”

I put on a serious face. “Sorry.”

He swiveled his hips. “Don’t feel sorry for the King, baby.”

Grady left, leaving me to sit alone in a room, wearing devil ears, listening to the thump of too much bass and pondering how life never failed to surprise.

40

Day Six

S leep had come easy the night before, thanks to the vast quantities of apple-cinnamon martinis that Simone kept handing me and I kept chugging, liking how reality receded with every sip.

I woke up on Sunday morning to the persistent sound of a thudding bass drum. I tried to tune it out, but the thumping only got louder, to the point where I could feel the reverberation through my body.

I sat up and yelped with pain. The drum was, I realized, in my head.

Lying back down, I concentrated on quieting it. Impossible.

I investigated and saw that there was a tiny hangover band in my brain that was playing really, really, really loud. On closer inspection of the band members, I saw that Simone was playing the bass drum with one hand, holding a martini in the other and grinning. Grady was also there, banging away on some kind of bongo. Q and Max played matching snare drums.

I groaned and rolled over, which only made the pain worse and the noise louder.

“Go away,” I muttered.

No such luck.

I got out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. Reaching into the cupboard for a box of green tea, I stubbed my toe-hard-on the corner.

“Fudge!” I yelled, hopping around, trying out one of my swearword replacements. Definitely wasn’t working. “Fuck!” For some reason, I stubbed my toe on that corner at least twice a week.

I started smiling a little through the pain when I thought of how Sam always laughed when I did this. He’d come into the kitchen to find me bouncing around, clutching my foot and cursing. And then I remembered, again, that I had no idea where Sam was, that I might never see his laughing face again.

I stopped hopping and sank abruptly to the floor. I sat there, staring around my kitchen, seeing Sam make his coffee in the morning, shirtless and with his blond hair rumpled. I could hear him whistling the fight song of USC, where he’d gone to college. Was he somewhere else making coffee right now? Was he laughing at someone else’s hangover or stubbed toe? Was that person Alyssa?

With that thought, I left the kitchen and quickly checked my home phone, cell and e-mail. Nothing from Alyssa. That brick, I said, trying out another swearword alternative. It wasn’t working either. “Bitch,” I muttered.

I looked at the clock on my phone. I had to meet Mayburn in twenty minutes, which meant that a few hours after that I had to pick up a toddler. In my head, Simone grinned bigger, banged louder and raised her martini in a toast.

Walking to the Starbucks on Wells and North, I was jumpy and nervous. I kept looking over my shoulder for signs that I was being followed, but with all the commotion of the city, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

The Starbucks was a huge one with two walls of glass overlooking the street. Mayburn was already seated in a maroon velvet chair with his back to a far wall, away from the windows. I waved, then beelined for the counter where I ordered a Venti green tea with three tea bags.

“Three?” said the barista with a dismissive lip curl. “We usually do two.”

“Three,” I barked. “Charge me whatever you want.”

As I waited, I looked at my phone and saw a text from Grady. Just left the car outside your apartment. Key’s under the mat.

You are the best, I wrote back.

A few minutes later, I was in the chair next to Mayburn, sipping the tea, my sunglasses firmly on my face.

“What’s with you?” he said.

“Tough night.”

“Ah. Want to talk about it?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Okay, then,” he said, “let’s get this done so I can leave your charming company, and you can go make friends with Lucy DeSanto.”

“You often make friends with your subjects?”

“Normally, no. I try not to let them even see me, or one of my operatives, unless I have to, but I’m almost out of time on this case. I have to make something happen by the middle of next week. I need a break so I can get into their house.”