Quicksilver and I hoofed it back to our Sunset Road home, footsore but happy to be together and free. I patted his head as I punched in the code that would open the gates to our cottage.
“They didn’t much like you at the Gehenna, but I sure was glad you were there.”
He made excited whining sounds that meant: let me in and at my food bowl, Mama!
Inside I found the cottage rooms neat, cool, empty, and peaceful.
Only the blinking red light on the cottage’s non-vintage answering machine intruded on the homecoming mood.
First I filled Quick’s water and food bowls.
Then I gobbled some cherries and grapes from the refrigerator and poured myself a gleaming goblet of Merlot. I’ve never been a wine snob and Hannibal Lector can keep his “nice Chianti” for the liver-eating among us, which were unfortunately too populous lately, post Millennium Revelation.
Then, ever the reporter, I skimmed the Las Vegas papers that had piled up and found a second front-section story that made me raise my eyebrows and then some.
Last . . . I listened to my messages.
First.
“My God! Del! Where are you? I’m frantic. Your cell is on voice mail. All I get here is an answering machine . . . ”
Ric’s voice. I replayed the message. Would I like to be a spider-sylph with him in my web! Truthfully, the sound of his voice snapped me the last bit out of a very bad dream.
I redialed instantly and got his cell phone.
“Del! You’re back. What the hell happened? I’ve been frantic—”
Hey, I liked somebody being frantic about me, especially twice.
“I’m okay. It’s been . . . surreal. Can we meet? Talk about it? I’ve drummed up some good leads.”
“Leads? Do you have any idea? I need to see you.”
“Right. I have lots of new info.”
“Screw the info. I need to see you. See that you’re all right.”
“Where? When?”
“Now. Um, I don’t know. Where do you want to be seen?”
“With you.”
There was a long pause. “I know you’ve been through something. I don’t know what. What will make it better?”
“You.”
An even longer pause.
“How?”
“Just get over here.”
“Your dog on the premises?”
“Yes, but he’ll be off for a run by the time you get here. He’s ready for one.”
* * * *
Ric arrived only ten minutes after Quicksilver left.
I let him in, kissed him with fresh layer of Lip Venom on, and then settled him down with his own glass of Merlot. Between my tingling lip gloss and the wine, he was licking his chops like Quicksilver enjoying a steak.
“You’re going to make me an addict of a girly beauty product,” he said. “So where have you been?”
“And where have you been? But me first.”
“Suits me, believe it.”
I told him about my abduction and brief magical stage career at the Gehenna. I didn’t mention my new mirror-melting facilities.
“I’m not surprised,” Ric said after a couple steadying sips of wine. “You did the right thing. Undercover credo: don’t struggle when you’re outmanned, pretend to go along, and then get the hell out. Plus, you’ve identified one of the corpses in Sunset Park. Good job.”
I loved it when Ric treated me as an investigative equal. I’d been kidnapped by a couple of incompetent wise guys. It had been more freaky than threatening, and I had gotten myself free, with more knowledge than we’d had before. Of course, I didn’t mention the mirror or the “girl I’d left behind . . .”
“So I come home to a pile of newspapers,” I went on.
“I subscribe too.”
“Then you must have read this little article.”
I knew the small-type headline by heart: City detective attacked in sinkhole. I watched his face as he saw it: total LE (law enforcement) non-reaction. That’s when I knew.
“What’s the Sinkhole, Ric?”
“Badder than bad. More north than North Las Vegas. Actually, its location seems to . . . . move. You don’t want to go there, even if you can find it. It’s where the worst predatory unhumans hang out, the penny-ante, low-brow loser unhumans, I should say.”
“Kind of a Brigadoon for hell-raiser set. Why do you think Detective Haskell was there?”
“Probably had a snitch in the area. Haskell is pretty penny-ante and low-brow himself.”
“True.”
I got up, collected Ric’s wine glass, and refilled it. Mine too. When I brought his glass back, I brushed knuckles with him.
He flinched. Not much. Just enough.
I sat down opposite him. “The newspaper says that Haskell was attacked and beaten. Pretty badly.”
“Couldn’t have happened to a nastier guy.”
“He’s in the hospital, Ric. The story says he was mutilated. In a very sensitive area. Chewed.”
Ric put down the wine glass. He stood up. A good offense is the best defense. “What? You think I’m a freaking werewolf?”
“I can see your bruised and cut knuckles from here. I think you should tell me what you did.”
“Am I asking you the gory details of your sojourn at the Gehenna? I’m sure there are some.”
“A few. Nothing serious. What did you do to Haskell?”
“First I got seriously mad. No one mauls you but me.”
“I’m so flattered.”
“So I faked a snitch appointment and went down to the Sinkhole at night and beat the hell out of him. It was a fair fight. If he’d had any balls he could have beat the hell out of me.”
“Apparently he doesn’t have much for balls now.”
“That wasn’t me. I left him unconscious and got out of there. He didn’t even see what hit him, didn’t know who I was. Something else must have got to him after I left.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“Are you?”
“We might be. He’s still alive. He must have you on his list of possibles.”
“No, I tell you. I dressed for the neighborhood.
You
wouldn’t have recognized me. He didn’t see anything
coming but my fists. I suppose you’re pissed because I
went out and avenged your honor. You’re liberated and
you wanted to do it yourself.”
“I’m liberated,” I agreed, “and I want . . . you.”
He actually waited for the rest of my sentence. “I want you to . . . .”
Here’s the thing. Sure, I wanted to solve the crime, get the better of Nightwine’s pride and money, establish myself as a player in Las Vegas, get the hot story, save that poor dead girl’s soul maybe, but mostly I wanted Ric.
“I want a date. Formal.”
“Easy.” He sounded relieved. The little woman just wanted a formal night out, a date. “Where? When?”
“Some hotel. Some restaurant. You know Las Vegas, but maybe you don’t know me. You pick. The place, the time, the action.”
I almost heard his breath stop.
I’d been putting my faith in him and I didn’t really know a thing about him, except he was as good as I was about maintaining secrets. Seeing Madrigal and his mysterious assistants had made me unhappy with the status quo with Ric. This wasn’t going to work unless I got behind those very attractive barriers he erected. Why did he never shed his clothes? Why did he like to control my vertical and horizontal so much?
Yeah, I had phobias to overcome. But so did he.
This had to be an equal deal. I was willing to play a little strip poker if I got a little strip poker back in return. So. My challenge. Me. Stripped. And his play. Next.