Free There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of by Marcia Muller Page B

and said, “Shall I walk you to your car?
    “You don’t have to—”
    “That’s okay.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “Yes. I wanted to ask you, though—can I remain on the case?”
    Faint amusement flickered in his eyes. “Would it make any difference if I told you not to?”
    “Yes, it probably would.”
    “It hasn’t in the past.”
    I didn’t want to dig up that particular bone of contention. “Look,” I said, “that was a long time ago. I’m older now; people change with the years.”
    “Don’t we.” For a moment his eyes were far away. Then he said, “Sure, stay with it. I know you’ll keep me posted on any important developments. And feel free to call me, if you need information.”
    “Thanks.” I unlocked my car door.
    He remained standing there, his hands in the pockets of his coat, blond hair gleaming in the rays from a nearby streetlight. “How have you been, anyway?”
    “Pretty good. You?”
    “The same. You still seeing that disc jockey?”
    “Yes.” I hesitated, and when he didn’t say anything more, I asked, “What about you—are you seeing anybody?”
    “Yeah, for about six months now. Nice lady, strategic planner with one of the big clothing firms. She travels a lot, but that’s all right. I never had the opportunity to get used to someone who had dinner waiting on the stove every night.”
    “No, I guess you didn’t.”
    Then he did a surprising thing: He leaned forward, put his hand on my shoulder, and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Take care, will you?”
    He squeezed my shoulder, turned abruptly, and walked out of the parking lot. I put my hand to my cheek and watched him go, amazed.
    It was the damnedest thing, I thought. And what was even more surprising than the kiss was the other factor: Not once since he’d arrived at the hotel tonight had Greg called me by that insult to my one-eighth Indian ancestry, the godawful nickname he had for me—Papoose.
    Now, sitting at Don’s dining table and working on my third glass of wine, I still felt strangely suspended between different worlds. There was this world of the past, when Greg and I had been together; the world of the present and my comfortable life with Don. The violence of the Tenderloin, where human life was a cheap commodity; the security of this loft, where music and love were precious assets.
    Confusion welled up inside me, and I knew it would soon be followed by tears. I’d better quit drinking, I told myself, and go to bed before I got maudlin.
    I poured the rest of my wine down the sink, descended the stairs from the loft, and crossed to turn the lights off in the big central space. Then I climbed to the smaller loft, slipped out of my clothes, and crawled into the wide bed under the skylight. It was a clear night for December, and as I lay there on my back, I could see stars and high-flying wisps of clouds.
    It was almost two in the morning. Right now they’d be taking last call for drinks at Don’s favorite bar, the Blue Lagoon on Army Street, not far from the KSUN studios. The Lagoon had been a gay bathhouse before the AIDS epidemic; now it was converted to a bar with a tropical theme, and a heated courtyard with wrought-iron tables surrounded the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Don and the musicians he’d been interviewing would be sitting there by the turquoise water . . .
    And then I was back at the Globe Hotel. In the basement. Kneeling next to Hao Dinh’s crumpled body, and all around me was the smell of death—
    I jerked awake and turned over, bunching the pillows under my head. They smelled of Don, his talcum powder, the spray he used in an unsuccessful attempt to control his thick black hair. I hugged them closer, breathing in deeply, then turned my head and caught the orange numbers on the digital clock. A little after three.
    They’d probably gone someplace to eat. Or to one of the many after-hours places Don knew. He’d be here soon. All I had to do was relax and