“What can I say?” Abby simpered, batting her thick black lashes and curling her lips in a mischievous smile. “The man’s a sucker for Mai Tais.”
AS SOON AS I FINISHED MY DRINK (OKAY, I’m a sucker for them all), I made Abby promise to take care of Terry-i.e., sober him up if possible, give him something to eat, and keep him out of sight until Dan had come and gone. Then she made me promise that, as soon as Dan had, indeed, departed, I would hurry back over to her place and reveal every scrap of information I’d picked up about the murder so far (which, admittedly, was next to nothing, but in the interest of securing Abby’s complete cooperation, I didn’t tell her that). Then I gathered up all my stuff, darted across the landing to my own apartment, and let myself in.
The first thing I did was check on the diamonds. (They were fine-sleeping like drunken babies on the oatmeal mattress in their round Quaker bed.) The next thing I did was start dashing around like a beheaded chicken, dropping my purse and parcel on a kitchen chair, shedding my coat, beret, and boots, madly running upstairs to put on fresh makeup and a pair of stiletto pumps, then stumbling back downstairs again to straighten my stocking seams, fluff out my hair, fire up a cigarette, plug in the lights of my tiny Christmas tree, and turn on the radio. Quickly bypassing all the merry holiday music, I tuned in one of the top pop stations.
Patti Page was singing “Steam Heat,” and the lyrics expressed my mental temperature to a T. I draped myself languidly (okay, leadenly) over the daybed in my living room, pretending with every ounce of strength I had left that I was a damsel in zero distress-a lovestruck lady in waiting with nothing but romance (and certainly no thoughts of murder) on my mind.
By the time Dan arrived, I almost believed it myself.
Chapter 10
HE WAS RIGHT ON TIME. (OKAY, SIX MINUTES after nine, but who’s counting?) I buzzed him in, opened my front door, and watched him bound up the stairs in three strides-like a man with a burning purpose. I only hoped that purpose was me.
“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Street,” I said, leaning seductively against the back of the open door, doing my best Kim Novak. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”
Well, it must have been a pleasure for him to see me, too, because the next thing I knew he was standing up close to me, brushing his cold nose across my cheek, and covering my mouth with a kiss so deep and warm it sent a jolt of electricity down to my toes. My cool, blonde Kim Novak act took a swan dive down the stairwell. Instead of a curvy tower of restrained desire, I was a wobbly wet mass of mush. I’m not kidding. My head was swirling, my spine was melting, and my knees were threatening to ooze right out from under me.
Luckily, Dan pulled away and went inside my apartment before I dissolved into a puddle on the landing. “It’s good to see you too, Paige,” he said, taking off his hat and coat and putting them down on the kitchen chair closest to the door. If he had any idea that he’d just reduced me to a breathless, quivering pulp, he was gentleman enough to keep it to himself.
Always the vigilant detective, Dan walked straight over to the back door of my apartment (the windowed wooden door that led from my kitchen to a metal balcony, and to a flight of metal steps stretching down to the small ground-level courtyard), then he flipped on the outdoor light and peered outside. Satisfied that no murderers or rapists were lurking in the snowdrifts below, he raked his fingers through his dark brown hair and straightened his dark blue tie. Then, cocking his lips in a crooked smile, he turned his tall, gorgeous, broad-shouldered self toward me and said, without the slightest trace of irony, “I’ve really missed you, kid.”
Considering the fact that we’d seen each other just two nights ago, when Dan took me out to dinner and the movies, I was delighted by his candid-and seemingly earnest-comment. So what if he called me kid? He was within his rights. Dan was thirty-seven years old, and I was quite a bit younger (nine years to be exact, but again, who’s counting?).
“I missed you, too,” I said, stepping (okay, staggering) into my apartment and closing the door behind me. It felt good to be able to tell Dan the truth about something, because I knew I was going to have to start lying to him soon. If he discovered what I’d been up to during the last two days and nights, he’d go berserk and read me the riot act-and he wouldn’t stop ranting till I dropped the story. So I racked my brain for a way to keep him from asking too many questions.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, quickly wrapping myself in the comfortable cloak of the polite and happy hostess. “Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, Dr. Pepper…?” Jeez! Why didn’t I buy a bottle of wine on the way home? Because I couldn’t afford it, that’s why!
“Black coffee would be good,” he said. “I’ve got a job to do tonight, and I have to stay sharp.”
“What? You’re working tonight?” The deceitful part of me was relieved, but the mushy part was crushed with disappointment. “I thought we’d have some time together.”
“So did I, Paige, but it’s not going to work out that way. A wealthy Broadway producer-a known homosexual-was stabbed to death in a dressing room at the Majestic theater this afternoon, and we don’t have any witnesses or even a single good lead. So, since I was coming down to the Village anyway, I told the lieutenant I’d hit the bird circuit, ask a few questions, see what I can find out.”
“The bird circuit?”
“The round of homosexual bars, where all the queers-even rich Broadway producers-hang out.”
I smiled. “You’d better be extra careful then. With your looks, you’ll get more propositions than expositions.”
Dan laughed and shook his head. “I don’t have to worry about that. If any of the birdies get too friendly, I’ll just flash my badge. They’ll straighten up and fly right.”
“How can you be so sure?” I said, stepping over to the stove to make the coffee. “I think you’d better take me with you as a bodyguard.”
“Thanks for the offer,” he said, chuckling, pulling an empty chair out from the kitchen table and sitting down, “but I’ll go it alone this time. You’d stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of pinkies-and sore thumbs can be the kiss of death in most homicide investigations.” He took a pack of Luckies and a book of matches out of his shirt pocket and lit up.
I turned to face him squarely, sulking, with my arms bent at the elbows and my hands propped on my hips. “Sore thumb? Kiss of death? Have you got any other nice names you’d like to call me?” I was just teasing, of course-trying to prolong the silly quality of our conversation. If he made any serious inquiries about my day, I didn’t know what I’d say.
“How do you feel about Fifi?” Dan replied, lounging back in his chair, stretching his muscular legs out in front of him, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and looking at me in such a way that I felt weak in the knees again. “For some strange reason, I’ve just been struck with a powerful urge to call you Fifi.” His pitch black eyes were crackling with wit and humor.
I was so attracted to Dan at that moment I wanted to pounce on his lap and lick his face. His wonderful, sturdy, noble, scraggly face. I almost did it, too! (It seemed like a perfect way to limit the conversation and be honest at the same time.) But, when it came right down to it, I didn’t have the nerve. I was afraid Dan would think me too forward. I mean, a real lady-or even an ersatz one like me-just doesn’t do that sort of thing.