T. Parker - Red Light

“It’s really okay. It just surprises me when you get so absolutely pissed off so quick. You remind me of me.”

The joke fell flat. Mike tended not to get jokes other than his own, which were often dumb. He’d lay them on you like a six-year-old handing you a toad. This horse sits down at a bar, the bartender looks and asks, why the long face? And so forth.

She could hear him breathing. Then she heard the old furnace kick on in the basement, the shudder of the ducts and the hiss of warm air through the floor vent. One of the cats slunk in, then out.

“Merci, have you thought about what we talked about?”

Her heart sank. “Sure.”

“And?”

She tried to compose herself. “I’m still not ready, Mike. It doesn’t feel right. It feels too soon.”

“We can make it whenever you want. Wait a year. It’s got to be right for both of us. What’s important is we start planning. Otherwise it’ll never happen. The years, man, they just keep speeding up.”

“Let’s wait.”

Another silence. There seemed to be an endless river of them lately. She felt punished.

The dogs were still yapping in the background. She could imagine Mike’s face drawn in disappointment, his blond forelock hanging disconsolately down, his eyes blue and wide.

“Because of what happened with Hess?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“It’s not me?”

“I love you, Mike. I respect you. It’s not you.”

“You put off a good thing long enough, maybe it just goes away. It says that right in the Bible. ‘Hope deferred is a sadness to the heart.’ ”

She felt her anger and guilt collide. Careful now. “I don’t want you to be sad.”

“I meant your heart, too.”

“I know. It’s coming along, Mike. Things are going to be okay.”

“I’ll stick with you.”

“I need that.”

“You’ve got it. Stick with me, too.”

“I will.”

Another pause. “See you tomorrow, girl. Danny and the bloodhounds love you, too.”

“Good night, Mike.”

No sooner had she hung up than Gary Brice from the Orange County Journal called. Brice covered the crime beat. She trusted him as much as she could trust any reporter — he had never printed something she had asked him to hold back. He’d always trade a favor for a favor.

Sometimes he reminded her of herself, except that the uglier something got, the funnier Brice thought it was. She understood his view of things but didn’t see how he turned it to humor.

Maybe it had something to do with the way memories are storied, which is what Dr. Joan Cash told her about her own critical incident stress. Cash said that Merci’s memories of the murder of her partner and lover, and her subsequent shooting of the predator Colesceau were “disfunctional” memories. Dr. Cash wanted to fix them with Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), a new technique with which she had had some success.

But Merci thought of her memories as fully functional, their function being to torment her with guilt. Over what she should have done. Could have done. Might have done. She had analyzed the sequence of those last days a thousand times, stopping the action for hours to vet every millisecond, every decision, every misjudgment.

Yes, she believed she had found some things she could have done better...

Then there were the nightmares, terrifying and shameful, far beyond any words she could use to describe them for Cash or anybody else. They left her short of breath, stewing in the gamy scent of her own fear and sweat, trembling in hard, regretful silence.

She wondered briefly if Brice’s way might be better: convert all to dark comedy, add a giggle, sleep tight.

No. Not everything in life was amusing. Unless you were talking to certain psychopaths.

“Got some interesting men on your wish list,” Brice said.

“Shoot.”

“What’s it all about?”

“You’ll have to tell me.”

“I think it’s Aubrey Whittaker’s little black book. She was a prostitute, I know that.”

“Can’t confirm or deny that one, Gary. Give me something good.”

“Okay. There’s the owner of Del Viggio Construction — they’re big in north county. There’s an assistant pastor at Newport Maranatha Church. There’s the defensive line coach at a local junior college. There’s an Irvine millionaire who owns a bio-tech pharmaceutical company — they’re working on an herbal, low-cost version of Viagra for women. There’s a pro basketball player who’s got a second home in Laguna Beach. Some married, some with families, some with neither.”

She was more than a little surprised. “All that with twenty names. I should have given you fifty. In fact, I think I might.”

“High-line girl,” said Brice. “What amazes me is these guys’ll give an outcall service a real name and a good credit-card number.”

She wouldn’t comment on that, although it amazed her, too.

She took down the names as he matched them to their occupations and marital status.

Then she gave him twenty more, all of which she’d copied from Aubrey Whittaker’s address book. Some of the names had corresponding credit-card numbers, some were without. Merci wondered if Aubrey’s private clients might be her big boys, her regulars, the ones who might be lucky and rich enough to get a home-cooked dinner.

Preposterous. Call girls just don’t cook for clients.

Merci looked over at Tim, who was using a large orange pipe wrench to clean the panda’s mouth.

“Is that all?” asked Brice, a touch of mock irritation in his voice.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got another question for you then.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you go on a date with me next Friday night?”

“No. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“I got you by ten.”

“You’re the most beautiful homicide cop I’ve ever seen. I like your wiseass personality, too. Something easy. I’ll meet you for a drink, we’ll see one of those action movies, then go drink more and talk about it. When you can’t resist me anymore, you can do whatever you want with me, then discard me.”

“Thanks for the names. I need the others tomorrow.”

“How about just coffee then?”

“How about just names?”

“I guess you’re tight with the bloodhound man.”

“Pretty tight.”

“You’ll regret this,” said Brice, in a theatrical tone.

“I’ll learn to live with it.”

“You can learn to live with warts, too.”

“No warts. No date. But thanks for asking anyway. I’m very slightly flattered.”

“An age thing,” he said. “Cool.”

She hung up and wondered at men. There was Mike who saw no humor in anything. There was Gary who saw no seriousness in anything.

And there was Tim, Jr., asleep on his blanket in the corner with one hand on his orange pipe wrench and the other on his panda.

“Mr. Moladan will see you now.”

Merci glared at the receptionist on her way past. The woman was blond, young, unreasonably beautiful. She smelled like free sample day at Macy’s. Merci noted that Paul Zamorra looked at her and got a smile back.

They’d agreed to lean a little on Moladan even though he wasn’t a suspect. Yet. But if a john had killed Aubrey, it might have been one of Epicure’s, not one of her own. Moladan would have his name. Merci volunteered to do the leaning because it would come naturally to her: She thought pimps and panderers who beat up their girls were even more disgusting than the spineless clowns who leased their bodies.

The office building was in Dana Point, overlooking the harbor. Epicure Services was in suite 12, upstairs. Behind the receptionist’s desk was a hallway that led past two small offices. Each office had two women in it, and all four of them had phones to their ears and pens in their hands.