Aphrodite by Russell Andrews Page B

of buildings down—who seemed amazingly fit and remained in a sitting position, legs folded, breathing deeply in and out. Finally, the computer guy stood up and all three people handed Deena some money. She thanked the two women and kissed the guy lightly on the cheek, then the three students emerged onto the street in front of Justin. He nodded at them, hesitated, aware that they were all watching him as he stepped through the doorway into the yoga room.
    “Hey,” he said, casually.
    Deena looked up, surprised. But she smiled when she saw him.
    “I’ll be with you in a second.”
    She dashed into a back room and Justin had time to survey the studio. Not all that much to survey, really. A few gym mats on the floor, several more rolled up and propped against a corner. One whole wall was a mirror. There were a couple of chalk boards with strange, non-English words on them:
trikonasana
and
sirsasana
and
parsvakonasana
. Across from the mirror was a small poster, handmade, that said,
My religion is kindness.—Dalai Lama.
The room was clean and clutter free, but somehow it radiated a degree of warmth and serenity that pleased him.
    Justin looked at himself in the mirror, bent down to see how close he could get to touching his toes. He got just about to his knees, heard himself grunt. He decided he should look up, check out his form. It wasn’t pretty, that much was for sure. Made less pretty by the nerdy East End Harbor Police uniform he was wearing. It looked more like a Boy Scout uniform than something that should be on a cop. And it was all made even uglier when, unfortunately, Deena chose that moment to return from the back room. Justin looked up at her, his arms dangling in front of him, his legs bent, his head cocked, his uniform sleeves snagged a few unsightly inches above his wrists. He straightened up as fast as he could, felt his back wrench, decided there was no way in hell he was going to acknowledge the pain and show this woman that he was barely capable of bending over.
    “Ever do yoga?” Deena asked.
    “Can’t you tell from my expert technique? I used to be a black belt.”
    “Wrong discipline,” she said. “No belts in yoga. Other than that, you were totally believable.”
    He winced now, wanted desperately to stretch his back, but that’s when he noticed that standing behind Deena, as if hiding, was a small girl. She looked like a miniature of the older woman.
    “This is Kendall,” Deena said. “This is Mr. Westwood. Or is it Officer Westwood?”
    “Justin,” he said. “It saves a lot of confusion. You can even make it simpler and call me Jay.”
    The little girl poked her head out, smiled shyly, a charmer of a smile, then ducked behind her mother again. Justin knew what he should say. He used to be good with kids. Why is such a beautiful little girl hiding, that’s what he should ask her. If I were that beautiful, I would definitely not be hiding But nothing came out of his mouth. He just stood there awkwardly, looking at mother and daughter.
    “So,” Deena said finally. “Is there news?” He looked startled, his brow furrowed in confusion, so she said, “You know. About Susanna and …everything.”
    “Oh,” he said. “Not exactly.”
    “I thought maybe you’d come to give me an update. Thought maybe you’d caught them.”
    “I’m just passing by.”
    “Is anything happening?”
    “Sure,” he said, but it didn’t sound convincing, even to him. “Lots of stuff.”
    “That’s very reassuring. I’m sure I’ll sleep soundly now.”
    “Aren’t you sleeping?”
    “No,” Deena said, “as a matter of fact, I’m not.”
    “Bad dreams?”
    She looked as if she wanted to say something, but glanced down at the little girl and thought better of it—why put bad dreams into
her
head—and just nodded. All she said was, “Are there any other kind?”
    “He doesn’t know you were there,” he said.
    “What?”
    “You might have reasons for your dreams, what you saw. But