Finding Isadora (23 page)

He obeyed and I slipped into the driver
’s seat, adjusting it for my height. “Keys?” I prompted, then I realized they were in the ignition. Apparently, his car wasn’t worth stealing.

I didn
’t drive often and I was clumsy at getting the car started and manipulating the standard gear shift. As we pulled away from the curb, I said, “Where do you live?”

“
East Vancouver. Not far from the Cultch.”

Concentrating on driving through traffic helped distract me from thoughts of poor
Valente. Gabriel didn’t say another word. When I glanced over, he was sprawled back in the seat with his eyes closed, his brown skin unusually pale. Fortunately, I’d been to enough theatre and music events at the Cultch—more formally known as Vancouver East Cultural Center—to know where it was.

As I drove past the picturesque old houses along Venables, many restored and painted in interesting colors, I wondered if he owned one
like that. When we reached the Cultch, I said, “Gabriel?”

He jerked upright and stared through the windshield.
“Oh. Turn right on Victoria and look for a spot on the street. My building doesn’t have underground parking.”

I found a narrow space and managed to parallel park, only stalling the car once. We both got out and I locked the car and handed him the keys. Then I glanced around, wondering where to find the nearest bus stop.

“Come up?” he asked.

Startled, I turned back to him.

He reached out and touched my shoulder. “Please?”

I could understand that
Gabriel didn’t want to be alone. I never did either after watching an animal die. “All right.”

He led me to a plain, rectangular three-story apartment building, several decades old. It was painted a cappuccino color with white t
rim, and the landscaping, which featured azaleas and rhododendrons in bloom, was simple but attractive. Inside, the floor tile was obviously old, the paint job neutral, but the lobby was well-maintained and there were a couple of large, healthy plants as well as a faded couch. The impression was friendly.

We took the stairs to the second floor and he unlocked a door marked 204. I stepped inside then walked a few steps farther, into the living area.

I barely suppressed a gasp. Grace and Jimmy Lee’s apartment was positively luxurious in comparison to this one, even though Gabriel’s living room was three times the size of theirs. His decor was vintage 1950s, in a Goodwill rather than trendy way. Aside from huge cushions tossed every which way along the edges of the room, the furniture consisted of a couple of ratty couches, a half dozen chairs of various shapes and sizes, and a wooden crate coffee table. A small television sat on another wooden crate, several large brick and board bookcases held a jumble of books, and he had a decent looking sound system.

My gaze caught on the golden-wood acoustic guitar that sat on a stand in a corner. Of course he
’d play the guitar; his hands were made for it. The guitar was my favorite instrument. I’d grown up listening to Grace and Jimmy Lee’s friends playing and singing. Folk songs and protest songs, mostly. Occasionally, love songs.

I spun away from the guitar and noted the big slab of wood—a door?—s
et across a couple of two-drawer metal filing cabinets. On it rested a laptop computer, pad of paper, and pen. One plain wooden chair sat in front of the computer.

His apartment was the opposite of Diane and Frank
’s designer decorated home in West Van. It could have belonged to a first-year college student—an impoverished one—except for a few interesting paintings and a carved, painted chest.

“
I’ll get out of these dirty clothes,” Gabriel said.

“
Good,” I murmured, not really hearing his words, still staring at his shabby furnishings.

A shower began to run and belatedly I realized what he
’d said. I imagined him stripping off his clothes, standing under the spray of water. The thought of Gabriel naked was enough to take my breath away. I gulped, and sought some activity to distract me. Remembering my menagerie at home, I phoned Mr. Schultz and he said he’d pop in and take care of the feeding and watering, as well as Pogo’s walk. That used up all of about ten seconds.

I could clean Gabriel
’s car. It would get me away from the sound of the shower and the images it evoked. Besides, it would be horrible for him to have to face that blood in the passenger seat tomorrow.

Going in search of cleaning supplies, I was surprised to find his kitchen was an actual room, no
t the typical tiny walk-through. Gabriel’s building must have been built back in the days when space was considered normal, rather than a luxury.

And, for all that it was minimal, his apartment was spotlessly clean. Under the sink I found a neat arrangement of cleaners and cloths. I would never have imagined Gabriel shopping for lemon-scented cleaner, nor sponging stains from the ancient sand-colored carpet. Quickly I spritzed soap into a plastic pail and ran warm water until I had a mass of pristine suds. I tossed in a sponge,
picked up rubber gloves, collected the keys Gabriel had tossed on a rickety table by the door, and headed down to the street.

I had cleaned up blood and worse so many times I barely thought about it. When the job was done, I went back to the apartment.

As I walked inside, Gabriel strode toward me from the living room. “I thought you’d gone.”

My breath caught. Freshly showered, in jeans and an unbuttoned blue cotton shirt, he looked fantastic. Wet hair lay in curly tangles around his strong-boned face and he smelled of lime and soap and man. Oh yes, I knew the
thing
Janice had spoken of yesterday.

I waved the bucket and forced words out of a dry mouth.
“I went down to clean your car.”

He stared at me as if processing that bit of information, then gripped my shoulders.
“Oh, Isadora. You didn’t have to do that.”

His hands burned through my shirt and his bare chest
, brown and muscular, was little more than a foot from my nose. I gripped the handle of the pail in both hands so tightly my short nails bit into my palms. If that bucket hadn’t been between us… I had the bizarre thought we’d be in each other’s arms. But of course that wasn’t true. I’d never betray Richard that way. Nor, I hoped, would Gabriel. Even if, as I was coming to believe, the physical attraction was mutual.

I cleared my throat, aiming for breezy as I said,
“No problem.”

He dropped his hands and stepped aside.
“Thank you.”

He began to button his shirt and I looked away, down, and saw well-shaped bare feet. Was everything about the man
’s body perfectly sized and shaped?

Enough. I scurried for the kitchen and started to rinse out the pail.
“You have a good collection of cleaning supplies,” I called.

He came up behind me.
“That’s my housekeeper, Sun-Hi. She comes in on Mondays.”

“
How sensible for someone as busy as you to have a housekeeper.”

He shrugged.
“The place would be a pigsty if it was left to me. Anyhow, Sun-Hi needs the work. She’s from Korea, came here for what she thought was a real job, ended up as a sex trade worker. The money was better than she was used to, but then she got hooked on drugs, got beaten up a couple too many times. She did rehab and now she’s trying to make a living as a housekeeper.”

“
Good for her.” I wondered if she’d been a client of his.

“
Yeah.” He opened the fridge door then glanced at me. “Like a beer or a glass of wine?”

By now his shirt was buttoned most of the way up, but he
’d left the tails hanging loose. Long legs, casual clothes, bare feet, and damp, tousled hair. He looked no older than Richard. And infinitely more sexy.

He seemed to be back in control now. I should go. I opened my mouth to say so, but the words that came out were,
“Wine, please.” Stupid. Really stupid. And yet I couldn’t resist this opportunity to spend time with him.

“
You drink red.” It was a statement, not a question. I remembered we’d been drinking red with Grace.

“
I drink any color. I’m not picky.”

He closed the fridge and opened a cupboard, taking out a bottle and two glasses—the kind I would use for milk. Red wine splashed and gurgled into them and he handed me one.
“Hope you like this. Come sit down.”

He headed into the living room with his own glass and the wine bottle, and I followed. He sank into a ripped-leather armchair, but I headed over to take a closer look at the carved
chest, recognizing it as a First Nations blanket box. Leaning down to smell, I verified it was cedar. “This is lovely.”

“
Made by a client. That barter system we were talking about the other night.”

“
Is the design a thunderbird?”

When he nodded, I recall
ed what I knew about Pacific Northwest native art. Birds and animals were symbols representing human qualities. “A mystical creature. It’s one of the most powerful symbols, isn’t it?”

He nodded again and said, almost reluctantly,
“Power, leadership.”

I ran my hand over the carved image.
“Your client chose this design for you.” This time it wasn’t a question.

This time he didn
’t bother to nod. “You going to sit down?”

I gave the thunderbird one last caress then went to sit on a battered couch. Gabriel held his glass out toward me and I raised mine uncertainly. He clunked his against it.
“To Valente,” he said. “Chasing those gulls. And to you, Isadora. I don’t envy you your job.”

Was that a compliment or an insult? I took a sip of wine, then reached for the bottle.
“What is this? It’s really nice.” The hand-printed label read, “Vinnie’s Red 2010.”

“
I like it too. The building manager, Vincenzo Vecchio, makes wine in the basement. Always smells of fermentation down there. You can get intoxicated doing laundry.” He stretched his shoulders, as if to ease tension from them. “I’m starving. Can’t remember when I last ate. How about you? Pizza okay?”

“
I love pizza.” Security food was exactly what I needed, alone with Gabriel in his apartment.

“
Place down the street makes a good Greek one. Onions, olives, peppers, tomatoes, feta.”

“
Sounds great.”

He surged to his feet and strode over to the phone on his desk. Then he swung toward me.
“What about your dog? Pogo. Will he be okay?”

How astonishing he
’d think of that. “My neighbor’s looking after him.”

“
Good.”

He placed the pizza order then hung up. Curly damp hair tumbled forward and he raked it back absentmindedly with one of his beautifully-shaped hands. If he picked up the guitar, I swore I
’d run out the door.

When he finally sat down, back in the leather chair rather than on the couch beside me, I asked quickly,
“Anything new on Jimmy Lee’s case?”

His face lit up.
“Great news. I’d forgotten, what with the dog. But it looks like Cassie McKenzie is going to recover. She’s conscious, even talking—croaking—a little.”

My relief was such an overwhelming sensation it brought tears to my eyes. I blinked them back.
“That’s wonderful, Gabriel. Wonderful for her and her child, and damned good luck for Jimmy Lee.”

“
On the negative side, the evidence is pointing strongly toward arson, probably with gas, rags, and a clock. An amateur job, which doesn’t help Jimmy Lee any.”

“
What would a pro use?”

“
Something like propane. From what I’ve learned, propane sinks to the bottom of the building and sits there, waiting. The arsonist sparks it with an outside detonator whenever he chooses to, and bang, the whole building goes up. Often leaving no evidence.”

“
If someone’s trying to frame Jimmy Lee, they’d want it to look like an amateur job and they’d want evidence to be found.”

He nodded
. “Yeah, though that’d be simplistic. Hell, you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet, much less set a fire.”

I sighed in agreement.
“So it doesn’t prove anything, one way or the other.”

“
Nope. Crown’ll argue it one way, I’ll argue it the other. That’s the best I can do unless we can come up with something more solid, like finding the asshole who’s framing your dad. You got any thoughts on that?”

I
’d been musing about this but, like my parents, I couldn’t see any of their friends or colleagues being so horrible. “A frame job suggests enemies, and I don’t think he has any. The people who dislike him most are the cops, but I can’t imagine any cop being mad enough to frame him.” I sipped wine. “I guess there are also the people he protests against, like Cosmystiques. He can be a real pain in the butt. But they’re hardly likely to burn down their own place in hopes of getting him thrown in jail.”