Contents Under Pressure (19 page)

So far it was unanimous. Nobody wanted me working on the D. Wayne Hudson story: not Kendall McDonald, Gretchen Piatt, the police department or my mother. Maybe somebody else, too. When I left the restaurant and walked into the parking lot, the two right-side tires on my T-Bird were flat.

I tried not to be paranoid. Maybe it was something I had run over; maybe it was the restaurant valet, offended that I had parked the car myself; maybe it was random vandalism. Maybe not.

My mother had driven off in a snit while I paid the bartender. She had snatched up the tiny purse and departed after I declined to go out with her best friend’s visiting nephew.

Since I had only one spare tire, I needed help. Service station lights beckoned from the other side of Biscayne Boulevard, about three blocks south. It seemed quicker to walk there than call, and perhaps I could work off the empanadas that now resided like rocks behind my navel.

This stretch of the boulevard was not pedestrian-friendly, with no sidewalk and no crosswalk. Cars whizzed by, catching me in the glare of their lights. Lucky I was wearing my white dress; less chance of being hit, I thought, as I darted across four lanes.

The station was spacious, bright, and clean but only open for self-service gasoline. The lone attendant, a cashier, was crouched behind bulletproof glass.

“Exact change only. No mechanic on duty after 6
P.M
.,” the sign said. I asked anyway, but there was no one to help me. I used the outside pay phone to check the office for messages.

Kendall McDonald had called right after I left. I didn’t recognize the number, so it had to be his home. I fished for another quarter. He answered on the first ring.

“You called?”

“Yeah,” he greeted me. “A complaint. My newspaper didn’t arrive today. I checked the roof, the hedges, nothing.”

“Sorry,” I said. “My bicycle broke down.”

A semi rumbled by about ten feet away, and I couldn’t hear his response. “Where the heck are you?”

“By the side of the road on north Biscayne Boulevard. It’s a long story.”

A carload of boisterous teenage boys hooted and howled as they rolled by.

“Give me the short version.”

“Came out of a restaurant and found two flat tires. Hiked to a gas station, but nobody’s on duty after six. So here I am.”

“What’s that location again?”

I told him.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said, hoping like hell he would.

“I know. Stay right there. See you in a few minutes.”

Stay here, I thought, how could I go elsewhere? I sat down on a wooden bench in front of the useless service station, watching for McDonald and smoothing the skirt of my much-maligned dress. Hell, this had been my favorite, packed well, no-iron, washed like a handkerchief.

In less than ten minutes, the Cherokee swung off the roadway in a cloud of dust and pulled right up in front of me. He wore white cotton twill pants and an open-necked shirt, and looked like the best thing I had ever seen.

He asked for my keys when we got back to the restaurant parking lot, walked to the rear of my car, and then just stood there, without opening the trunk. I got out of the jeep and joined him.

“When did you wash your car last?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m embarrassed. I know it needs it, but that’s the least of my worries at the moment.”

“Look,” he said, his expression odd.

I followed his eyes. At a certain angle, in the dim light, it was easy to make out. In the thin coat of dust on the trunk lid of my T-Bird, somebody had scrawled:
BRITT, WE WERE HERE
.

“Could that have been there before tonight?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure,” I said. “I haven’t been in the trunk for a couple of days. But considering the circumstances, I tend to doubt it.”

“Me too.”

I suddenly felt uneasy, as if we were being watched.

He worked silently and efficiently, putting the spare on one wheel and removing the other flat. He tossed both tires into the back of the Cherokee and drove us to a garage in North Miami. The owner removed a three-inch rivet from each tire and patched the holes, warning that I should replace both. We returned to the restaurant where McDonald put one on the car and the other in the trunk to replace the spare.

Too late to go back to work now.

“I’d like to buy you a drink,” I gestured toward the restaurant, “but somehow I suspect it’s not a swell idea to leave my car parked out here.”

“Good thinking.” He wiped his hands on a rag, scanning the traffic and the buildings around us.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ve got to wash my hands and clean up somewhere.”

“I have soap, hot water, and cold wine at my place.”

He hesitated, his gaze intense. I could feel my hormones slamdancing. “I’ll follow you,” he said.

I could swear I felt it physically when I wrenched my eyes from his. I kept the Cherokee in my rearview mirror sights all the way home, alternately asking myself, “Are you crazy?” and answering, “Go for it, Britt.”

My landlady, Mrs. Goldstein, was out front. I introduced them, trying hard to look innocent.

“Sorry,” he said, to explain his appearance, which still seemed swell to me. “I just changed some tires and need to wash up.”

She nodded, her expression coy. When I glanced back from the front door of my apartment, she was smiling and giving me the thumbs-up sign.

“Nice lady,” he said, as I used my key.

“First rate,” I agreed. “She keeps an eye on my apartment when I’m out of town, and lets me putter around in her garden whenever I get the urge. You would love her husband; he was a prosecutor in New York until he retired. A man after your own heart.”

“I prefer a woman after my own heart.” He stood just inside the door, watching me.

“Sit down, I’ll get you a drink.”

“Forget it,” he said.

My heart sank. I thought he was leaving, then saw the glint in his eyes.

“That’s a beautiful dress.”

I grinned like a fool and almost laughed. “You really like this old thing?”

“It makes you look like an angel.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

He moved toward me, then stopped. “I better wash my hands.”

They were grimy from tossing my tires around. So were his white trousers. I didn’t care.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, and hugged him, pressing my cheek against his shirt.

“Ummmmm,” he crooned, arms folding around me. I felt the wall hard behind my back as he pressed forward, his mouth on mine.

“I warned you,” he whispered huskily. “Now look at that.” A dark smudge on my right sleeve.

I whispered in his ear. “Then I guess we’ll have to wash it, and your pants, too.”

“You’ve got a washing machine in here?” he murmured, between kisses.

“Outside the back door. Just big enough for my dress and your pants to get all sudsy and swirl around together.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I guess that means we have to take them off.”

“I guess it does.”

Our bodies moved together again as he kissed me. We were making the framed print behind me hang crooked; in another moment it might fly off the wall altogether.

“Did I ever show you the rest of my apartment?”

“No,” he sounded breathless.

“Like to see it?” My lips felt swollen, my bra too tight.

This was not exactly a guided tour. We walked together like some clumsy, four-legged creature. I backed up and steered in the right direction, his mouth on mine all the while. We landed on my flowered comforter, me fumbling with his trousers, he fumbling with the buttons on my dress.

A soft tropical breeze billowed the sheers at the windows, and the room was filled with the scent of fragrant night blossoms. I had one last sharp moment of reservation. “The department? Our jobs?” I mumbled against his throat as he kissed my ears and my forehead.

He was not so swept away by passion that the thought did not penetrate. His eyes locked onto mine, and at that moment we both knew that this could be a big mistake—but it sure as hell was not going to stop us.

The slow-moving ceiling fan paddled over my bed, making me dizzy. My dress was bunched up around my waist, then around my neck. I leaned forward and was soon free of it.

So we did what Gretchen had suspected all along, and it was wonderful. Then we did it again. And then we discussed it.

“The chief always says he wants better police-press relations.” He lay naked and relaxed, with me curled up inside the curve of his arm.

“I can tell you for a fact, this is not what he had in mind,” I said, raising up on one elbow and pushing back my hair. “What if he could see us now?”

“Hate to lose another chief to heart attack. We could plead insanity.”

“Or just say we took him literally.”

Eventually we traipsed out to the kitchen, weak and exhausted, and opened the refrigerator. A gloomy sight. McDonald peered over my shoulder at the half-empty can of cat food on the top shelf.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “I would know it wasn’t tuna.”

“Moldy cheese?” I said, sliding open the bin.

“Just what I love,” he said, his finger lightly skating figure eights down my spine until I shivered.

Billy Boots had responded as usual to the sound of the refrigerator door and curled around our bare legs. I found some ham, fresh lettuce, and tomato. McDonald sliced the bread, and I fixed him a sandwich and a glass of wine while his pants and my dress followed our lead, tumbling around together in the washer and dryer. After he finished his sandwich, he led me back to bed and we made love again.

The night sky was wild and wonderful. I opened all the windows and blinds wider, drew back the curtains, and slipped back into bed beside McDonald. The cool ocean breeze caressed our bodies, carrying in with it the music of wind chimes and the exotic haunting perfume from the ylang-ylang tree outside. We were lulled to sleep, our bodies tangled together as though bedded down in a windblown meadow full of flowers.

There was a faint light in the sky when something woke me. McDonald was moving quietly about the room gathering his scattered clothing. He had succeeded in finding all but his trousers. He bent to plant a light kiss on my forehead.

“They’re in the dryer,” I whispered.

“Ah ha,” he said, remembering. “Lucky I didn’t have to beat feet in a hurry.” He sat on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair.

“Hope nobody stole them during the night. Occasionally that happens, with panties and things,” I teased.

“What?”

“Just kidding.” I sat up, slipped on his shirt, padded barefoot through the kitchen, and stepped out the backdoor. The sky looked bruised and threatening. I plucked the dress and the trousers from the dryer, shook them out, and ducked back inside.

“Gee, my dress was there, but your pants were gone.” I tried to look serious, holding them behind my back.

He took my face gently in his hands, kissed it, and, when I was thoroughly distracted, wrestled away his trousers.

“Hey,” he said. “I wish I could stay, but I’ve gotta get home and change. I’ve got an eight-thirty bond hearing. Remember Placido Quintana?”

“What? You can’t call in sick?”

He laughed. “Mind if I take a shower?”

“Nope.”

“Join me?”

“Sure thing.” He took my hand.

We splashed each other, wrestled around under the spray, and scrubbed each others’ backs while he got psyched for court by singing, “I Shot the Sheriff.”

“No, you didn’t,” I whispered over his slick, soapy, wet shoulder. “You nabbed the police reporter.”

He stepped out of my shower, hair damp and tousled, his skin all ruddy and pink. “I wish ‘our song’ was more romantic,” I pouted, as he held the blow dryer over my hair.

We slowly sipped coffee and eyed each other across my tiny kitchen table. “What a way to start the day,” he said.

“Somebody has to do it. Maybe I should have car trouble more often.”

He frowned. “What you had was a lot more than just car trouble.”

“I know, I know,” I said, wondering if I could somehow factor the cost of two new tires into my expense account. “I’m gonna wrap up the Hudson story and get this thing over with as quick as I can.”

“That goddamn story. You never back off, do you?” He put his cup down.

I shook my head and tried to change the subject by plopping myself on his lap and kissing him soundly. He was not placated. “Is all this about getting the goddamn story?”

“You know better,” I said, spine stiffening in indignation.

His eyes turned the color of sheet metal. “Be careful, Britt,” he said at the door. “Keep turning over rocks, and sooner or later something ugly jumps out at you.”

I am never lonely. I love my life and living alone, doing whatever I please whenever I want to, like a spoiled child. But when the door closed behind that man, my apartment suddenly seemed empty. It had been a long time since I’d felt that close to anyone. I tidied the kitchen, thinking about the phone call, the flattened tires, and the message on my car. Suddenly, instead of feeling great, I was bummed out.

Pulling on shorts and a T-shirt, I jogged the two blocks to the beach and ran the length of the boardwalk, turned, and started back again. The heavy tread of another runner thudded behind me. The sound had always been a comfort in the past; someone else sharing the same exhilaration. Now the steps, gaining rapidly, seemed ominous, filling me with dread. I scanned the beach and the boardwalk ahead. Few people were about. No witnesses. The threatening skies had kept most early risers at home. I picked up my pace, but he continued to gain. Heart pounding, I braced myself, my hands balled into tight fists, as the runner neared. And passed. A familiar face, a black boxer in training from the Fifth Street Gym, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and carrying a five-pound weight in each hand. He was out here every morning, rain or shine.

My own angst made me angry, angry that one of my simple pleasures had become a frightening experience. How could I let anyone, any story do this to me? Why, I asked myself, was McDonald so angry? The answer seemed obvious. The cops who had chased D. Wayne Hudson are hiding something terrible, I thought, and he knows what it is.