“The fucking now,” Dena repeated, finally settling on CNN. “Maybe that’s my mom’s problem, she doesn’t like fucking anything. She doesn’t even like fucking in the literal sense.”
“Dena,” I said with a laugh, “we don’t have to get that graphic about your mom.”
“No, I’m serious. I think the reason she is so into her religion is that it gives her a good reason to be against casual sex or any sex that isn’t for the explicit purpose of procreation. But the truth is my mom doesn’t like sex because it’s hard to be completely in control of yourself during the throes of ecstasy, and Mom doesn’t like to ever be out of control.”
“Are you serious?” Jason turned away from the window, so that his figure was framed by the blue-gray backdrop of the San Franciscan sky. “She doesn’t dig ecstasy?”
“Nope.” She looked up at the face of Wolf Blitzer, wrinkled her nose in distaste and changed the station to Headline News. “All my life she’s been telling me that I must always be in complete control of myself. She can’t understand why I ditched that lesson in favor of the ‘wild life.’”
“But you didn’t—” I started but then quickly stopped myself. The truth was that no one maintained control during sex as well as Dena did. Sex was always on her terms. She chose the positions, she decided if there would be role-playing or if her partner was going to be tied to the bed or not. She may not have realized it, but Dena had totally internalized her mother’s life lessons. But I sensed that pointing that out to her now wasn’t going to go over all that well.
But Dena wasn’t paying attention to me anyway. She was staring down at her legs. “A wild life,” she repeated. “I wonder how wild it’ll be now.”
Jason laughed. “Trust me, baby, it’ll be wild. You don’t have it in you to be tame.”
But Dena didn’t even break a smile. She was still staring at her legs and the look in her eyes… God, I had never before seen her look so sad. It made me want to hold her and then throw things and then wave my fists in the air and rail at God for the unfairness of it all.
Dena looked up at me, and behind the sadness I saw the flash of anger. “The guy who did this…he has to be found. I don’t think I’ll be able to live if the person who did this to me gets away with it.”
“The shooter won’t get away with it,” I said softly. “On that you have my word.”
She looked at me for a long moment before nodding. And then she turned her eyes back up to the news.
By the time I pulled my car into my own driveway the sky was darkening and the air was damp and cool. I liked the feel of it. It gave me a sense of place.
I found Anatoly in the kitchen unloading a bag of groceries as Mr. Katz sat on the floor watching him with hungry eyes. Anatoly stopped when he spotted me, a baguette in his hand. “How is she?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I had given up on trying to answer that question. “I thought you might stop by the hospital,” I said.
“I considered it, but I knew she would be inundated with visitors. I’ll go when she doesn’t feel like she’s playing hostess from a hospital bed.”
“Ah, good call.”
He was quiet for a moment before placing the baguette on the island in the middle of the kitchen with a definitive thump. “I’ll make you a sandwich.” His tone implied that an I’m-not-hungry response would not be accepted. I hopped up on the marble countertop as he pulled out ingredients that he had just put away: Brie, garlic cloves and a bowl from the refrigerator filled with what looked like slices of tomato marinating in oil and spices.
“Wait,” I said as I watched him place the tomatoes next to me. “When did you do this?”
“I had a little spare time in the middle of the day so I gave myself a project.” He came over and gave me a slow lingering kiss before going back to the middle of the kitchen where he had placed all the other ingredients. “It’ll take a half hour to bake the garlic,” he said casually as he threw some cloves in a pan.
This is why I’m okay with overcast skies. I had a boyfriend who marinated tomatoes when he was bored. Life doesn’t get sunnier than that.
“They’re reporting the story on the news,” Anatoly said, interrupting my silent reverie. “It’s sensational enough to get a lot of play.”
And now the dark clouds were coming indoors. I sighed and adjusted my position. “What’s the angle? Woman shot by unknown assailant in the Lake Street district while celebrating her cousin’s engagement?”
“Yep,” Anatoly said. “They finally released Dena’s name a couple of hours ago. I take it that means Mary Ann was successful in contacting Dena’s parents?”
“Yeah, they’re here.” Mr. Katz was circling Anatoly’s legs. He knew food was being prepared. Still, it seemed unnatural that a cat would have a craving for Brie. “I can’t imagine that Dena wants to be San Francisco’s celebrity victim,” I mused.
Anatoly nodded. He pulled a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge and poured me a glass. “I talked to the other tenants in Mary Ann’s building today.”
“Oh?”
“They all insist that they didn’t buzz anyone into the building last night.”
“Okay.” I sipped my drink and let the bubbles play on my tongue. “So whoever did this had a key to the building or had access to one.”
“Maybe. Or maybe the tenants are lying to me out of embarrassment,” he said as he dribbled extra-virgin olive oil over a small pan of garlic. “There’s no security camera to prove anything. Also, a lot of the people who live in that building are older and many of them are beginning to lose their hearing. They wouldn’t necessarily have heard someone running up or down the stairs.”
“So you spent the day questioning tenants and you learned exactly nothing.”
“I learned that they all like Mary Ann.” He put the pan in the oven and slammed the door. “I think she’s the youngest person living there. More than one of the other residents said she brightens the place up. I seriously doubt that this was an inside job.”
“Okay, not nothing then. You learned that grandma didn’t shoot Dena with a silencer. Well, I suppose that’s progress.”
“We have to start somewhere, Sophie, and it’s usually a good idea to start with the immediate area around the scene of the crime.”
“I know but…God, I just want someone to pay. I mean, not just someone. The right someone. I was talking to Leah today and she said—”
Anatoly’s phone started ringing. It was by the tomatoes and I picked it up to see the number.
“It’s a 212 area code. Who’s calling you from New York?”
Swiftly Anatoly crossed the kitchen and took the phone from me. He glanced at the number once and then dismissed the call.
“Who was that?”
“Just an old client.”
“An old client?” Mr. Katz was staring at the oven. It would be horrible if he ended up being the first kitty to die jumping into an oven in an attempt to attack an oiled clove of garlic.
“Yes, old. I’m not taking on any more of her cases.”
“Her?” He had my attention now. “Her who? It’s not that Mandy bimbo is it?”
“It wasn’t Mandy, not that it would be a problem if it was.”
“She