about the second death? Perhaps he knew of my difficulty in leaving well enough alone. After all, he certainly had been privy to my idiocy involving other crimes. Despite advice to the contrary, it had seemed physically impossible for me to ignore the death of his fiancée. Neither did I quite manage to let the police handle the investigation of the Viagra-induced linebacker who had so rudely expired in my office.
I sat upright abruptly, waking Harlequin, who lifted his enormous head for one instant before flopping it back onto my legs like a fifty-pound bag of flour. But I barely noticed.
Maybe the senator had given me the check as added incentive, thinking I would then feel obliged to see my mission through to the end. Maybe he thought I was too moralistic to accept payment for a job not completed.
I snorted at the thought.
Harlequin twitched an ear as if I were a bothersome fly.
Scrubbing my eyes, I wished I had never gotten involved with a cop. Or, if I had to do something so idiotic, why couldn't I become enamored of someone like Officer Tavis? On the other hand, what kind of cop encouraged people to call him by his first name? Not the Los Angeles kind of cop, that was for sure. I was always surprised the LAPD guys didn't have monikers like Officer Rage or Lieutenant I'll Tear Your Head Off.
I refused to think about it anymore. No more thoughts of dismembered bodies. No more thoughts of blue-tinged faces being nibbled on by crayfish.
But I knew I was fooling myself. What kind of person could put those kinds of gruesome images behind her and fall into blissful slumber?
My kind.
I was asleep before I was horizontal. Dreaming before Harlequin even started to snore.
“m thinking about getting married,” said Mr. Lepinski.
“What?” I jerked as if electrocuted. In my fatigue-induced imaginings there had been cops. Two of them. One dark and one fair. Both horny as hell and both wearing handcuffs.
I straightened in my chair and chastised myself sternly. I had made a solemn vow to forget about men completely and focus with singular concentration on my career.
Howard Lepinski was lying on my therapy couch. For the first several months of our acquaintance, he had barely relaxed enough to remain inside his own skin, but he had unwound considerably since then. I eyed him now, wondering if he had changed more than I realized. He had come to me as bony as a supermodel. Did his arms seem a little less stringy? Was his expression a little less stressed?
“Married,” he said, glancing toward me, his eyes luminescent behind his hefty wire-rim glasses.
I forced myself to focus, even though the cops in my dreams had been wearing nothing but their duty belts … well, and the handcuffs. “To Penny?”
He nodded shyly, and then, to my amazement, his face quirked into what I thought might be a grin. Though in actuality I had no reference point. Lepinski wasn't known for his sparkling personality.
“How long have you and Penny known each other now?” I kept my tone steady, using my best shrink voice. It was designed to make him remember that his wife of twenty-some years—who I assumed had, at one point, also made him smile—had recently done the fornication fandango with the deli guy. Which, in turn, had precipitated Lepinski's visits to me. Though I had needed half a box of NoDoz to get to that point.
He sat up and looked at me.
“Three months and twelve days,” he said steadily, but I didn't relent.
“How long did you know Sheila before you wed?”
He blinked, just a little reminiscent of Mr. Magoo. “Two years and twenty-seven days,” he said. Mr. Lepinski is an accountant. Numbers are his sanctuary.
I nodded sagely. “Perhaps it might be wise to wait, then, and make certain—”
“I don't set an alarm anymore,” he said.
I mulled that for half a second and came up empty. “I beg your pardon?”
His eyes were shining again. “Since Penny,” he said. “I can't wait to get out of bed in the
I sat upright abruptly, waking Harlequin, who lifted his enormous head for one instant before flopping it back onto my legs like a fifty-pound bag of flour. But I barely noticed.
Maybe the senator had given me the check as added incentive, thinking I would then feel obliged to see my mission through to the end. Maybe he thought I was too moralistic to accept payment for a job not completed.
I snorted at the thought.
Harlequin twitched an ear as if I were a bothersome fly.
Scrubbing my eyes, I wished I had never gotten involved with a cop. Or, if I had to do something so idiotic, why couldn't I become enamored of someone like Officer Tavis? On the other hand, what kind of cop encouraged people to call him by his first name? Not the Los Angeles kind of cop, that was for sure. I was always surprised the LAPD guys didn't have monikers like Officer Rage or Lieutenant I'll Tear Your Head Off.
I refused to think about it anymore. No more thoughts of dismembered bodies. No more thoughts of blue-tinged faces being nibbled on by crayfish.
But I knew I was fooling myself. What kind of person could put those kinds of gruesome images behind her and fall into blissful slumber?
My kind.
I was asleep before I was horizontal. Dreaming before Harlequin even started to snore.
“m thinking about getting married,” said Mr. Lepinski.
“What?” I jerked as if electrocuted. In my fatigue-induced imaginings there had been cops. Two of them. One dark and one fair. Both horny as hell and both wearing handcuffs.
I straightened in my chair and chastised myself sternly. I had made a solemn vow to forget about men completely and focus with singular concentration on my career.
Howard Lepinski was lying on my therapy couch. For the first several months of our acquaintance, he had barely relaxed enough to remain inside his own skin, but he had unwound considerably since then. I eyed him now, wondering if he had changed more than I realized. He had come to me as bony as a supermodel. Did his arms seem a little less stringy? Was his expression a little less stressed?
“Married,” he said, glancing toward me, his eyes luminescent behind his hefty wire-rim glasses.
I forced myself to focus, even though the cops in my dreams had been wearing nothing but their duty belts … well, and the handcuffs. “To Penny?”
He nodded shyly, and then, to my amazement, his face quirked into what I thought might be a grin. Though in actuality I had no reference point. Lepinski wasn't known for his sparkling personality.
“How long have you and Penny known each other now?” I kept my tone steady, using my best shrink voice. It was designed to make him remember that his wife of twenty-some years—who I assumed had, at one point, also made him smile—had recently done the fornication fandango with the deli guy. Which, in turn, had precipitated Lepinski's visits to me. Though I had needed half a box of NoDoz to get to that point.
He sat up and looked at me.
“Three months and twelve days,” he said steadily, but I didn't relent.
“How long did you know Sheila before you wed?”
He blinked, just a little reminiscent of Mr. Magoo. “Two years and twenty-seven days,” he said. Mr. Lepinski is an accountant. Numbers are his sanctuary.
I nodded sagely. “Perhaps it might be wise to wait, then, and make certain—”
“I don't set an alarm anymore,” he said.
I mulled that for half a second and came up empty. “I beg your pardon?”
His eyes were shining again. “Since Penny,” he said. “I can't wait to get out of bed in the
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