Keeper by Greg Rucka Page B

syrup line suspended between bottle and table turned, too, getting all over the side of the bottle and her hands. “Yuck,” she said. “Yuck, oh, oops, yuck.” I started to take the bottle from her but she clung to it. “No, I can do it. I can do it. Get a towel, go get a towel to clean it up.”
    So I got a paper towel from the roll over the sink, wetted it, and returned to her. The bottle was upright and capped in the middle of the table, still drooling a strand of syrup. Katie was licking her fingers, but she stopped to use the wet towel. She cleaned her hands vigorously. “Elaine died,” she told me. “She died all sick and David couldn’t help her.” She looked down and rubbed the towel over the table, concentrating on the spot where the syrup had fallen. “It’s very sad.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    She dropped the paper towel and took up her fork and knife. As she cut the first waffle to pieces she said, “It’s only a television show.”
    I used the mug to hide my smile, drinking coffee and nodding at her. “Yes, it is.”
    “It’s only a television show,” she repeated. “Elaine didn’t really die and Bixby Bill and she can get married now. That’s not sad, it isn’t.” 
    “No.”
    She went through the waffles quickly, barely stopping to breathe between bites. When the last scraps were gone, she coated her fork with the remaining syrup and took care of that, too. Finished, she put the utensils back on the plate, saying, “Is there more?”
    “Are you sure you want more? It’s awfully fattening.”
    “No, don’t get fat. I’m not fat, I’m pretty. Don’t get fat,” she said. “ ’Cus, I don’t want anymore syrup.”
    “How about waffles?”
    “No, I don’t want waffles. I’m finished. I’ve got to exercise, after breakfast, I’ve got to exercise. Can I do my tape?”
    “Sure, where is it?”
    The tape was a workout video, and I rewound it and started it on the VCR. Katie took her position in front of the television, hands on her hips, grim determination in her eyes. Waffle crumbs stuck to the comers of her mouth, and I pointed them out to her. She thanked me, licking them off, and began her workout while I removed the dishes from the table and started cleaning up. From where I stood behind the kitchen counter, I had line of sight straight to the window. Katie stayed, clear of the doors as she exercised. Hers wasn’t an efficient workout, but she took it seriously, following the movements as best she could, never once slacking off or taking an unauthorized break.
    When the videotape ended she went to the television and switched to MTV, staying on her feet for a few more minutes, dancing to the forced beat. Eventually she sat on the couch, wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.
    “Where is he?” she asked.
    “Who?”
    “Where is he? Where is Rubin, ’Cus? Where is he?”
    “He’s getting some sleep.”
    “No, he’s not,” Rubin said. He was wearing boxer shorts and looked marginally better than last night, a towel in his hand. “He’s taking a shower.” He went down the stairs to the entry bathroom.
    Katie laughed, and announced that Rubin was silly.
    We sat together, watching MTV. Katie seemed to have absolutely no musical preference, although the one Madonna video we saw captured her attention completely, and she sang along with it heartily. The video was an older one, I think, but I’m not a real fan of the medium, so I could be mistaken. Madonna paraded in front of incredibly handsome, incredibly well-defined men and women, coaxing them to sexual frenzy. Not only was Katie attentive, she was beatific in her awe.
    The phone rang and I went to answer it. It was Lozano.
    “Natalie said you were there,” he told me.
    “What? Hold on,” I said and set down the phone, going back to the television and turning it down.
    “Use the remote,” Katie said.
    “Where is it?”
    “I don’t know, no. Turn it down, he’s turning it down. There, who is it? Is it my