James Patterson - Cat & Mouse

I got down on the floor, growled like Jabba the Hut, and started wrestling with the kids. As usual, they were healing me. I looked over at Nana Mama, who was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. She was strangely quiet, not joining in as she usually does.

“You want some of this, old woman?” I said as I held Damon and lightly rubbed my chin against his head.

“No, no. But you’re sure nervous as Rosie tonight,” Nana said and finally started to laugh herself. “Why, I haven’t seen you like this since you were around fourteen and off to see Jeanne Allen, if I remember the name correctly. Jannie’s right, though, you do look, let’s say, rather dashing.”

I finally let Damon up off the floor. I stood and brushed off my snazzy dinner clothes. “Well, I just want to thank all of you for being so supportive in my time of need.” I said it with false solemnity and a hurt look on my face.

“You’re welcome!” they all chorused. “Have a good time on your date! You look beautiful!”

I headed out to the car, refusing to look back and give them the satisfaction of one final taunting grin or another rousing another rousing huzzah, I did feel better, though, strangely revived.

I had promised my family, but also myself, that I was going to have some kind of normal life now. Not just a career, not a series of murder investigations. And yet as I drove away from the house, my last thought was, Gary Soneji is out there again. What are you going to do about it?

For starters, I was going to have a terrific, peaceful, exciting dinner with Christine Johnson.

I wasn’t going to give Gary Soneji another thought for the rest of the night.

I was going to be dashing, if not downright beautiful.

KINKEAD’S IN Foggy Bottom is one of the best restaurants in Washington or anywhere else I’ve ever eaten. The food there might even be better than home, though I’d never tell Nana that. I was pulling out the stops tonight, trying to, anyway, doing the best I could.

Christine and I had agreed to meet at the bar around seven. I arrived a couple of minutes before seven, and she walked in right behind me. Soul mates. So began the first date.

Hilton Felton was playing his usual seductive-as-hell jazz piano downstairs, as he did six nights a week. On the weekends, he was joined by Ephrain Woolfolk on bass. Bob Kinkead was in and out of the kitchen, garnishing and inspecting every dish. Everything seemed just right. Couldn’t be better.

“This is a really terrific place. I’ve been wanting to come here for years,” Christine said as she looked around approvingly at the cherrywood bar, the sweeping staircase up to the main restaurant.

I had never seen her like this, all dressed up, and she was even more beautiful than I had thought. She had on a long black slip dress that showed off nicely toned shoulders. A cream-colored shawl fringed in black lace was draped over one arm. She wore a necklace made from an old-fashioned brooch that I liked a lot. She had on black flat-heeled pumps, but she was still nearly six feet tall. She smelled of flowers.

Her velvet brown eyes were wide and sparkling with the kind of delight I suspected she saw in her children at school, but which was absent on the faces of most adults. Her smile was effortless. She seemed happy to be here.

I wanted to look like anything but a homicide detective, so I had picked out a black silk shirt given to me by Jannie for my birthday. She called it my “cool guy shirt.” I also wore black slacks, a snazzy black leather belt, black loafers. I already knew that I looked “beautiful.”

We were escorted to a cozy little booth in the mezzanine section. I usually try to keep “physical allure” in its place, but heads turned as Christine and I walked across the dining room.

I’d completely forgotten what it was like to be out with someone and have that happen. I must admit that I sort of liked the feeling. I was remembering what it was like to be with someone you want to be with. I was also remembering what it was like to feel whole, or almost whole, or at least on the way to being whole again.

Our cozy booth overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and also had a view of Hilton tinkering away at his piano. Kind of perfect.

“So how was your day?” Christine asked after we settled into the booth.

“Uneventful,” I said and shrugged. “Just another day in the life of the DCPD.”

Christine shrugged right back at me. “I heard something on the radio about a shooting at Union Station. Weren’t you involved just a little bit with Gary Soneji at one point in your illustrious career?”

“Sorry, I’m off-duty now,” I said to her. “I love your dress, by the way.” I also love that old brooch that you turned into a necklace. I like that you wore flats just in case I needed to be taller tonight, which I don’t.

“Thirty-one dollars,” she said and smiled shyly, wonderfully. The dress looked like a million on her. I thought so anyway.

I checked her eyes to see if she was all right. It had been more than six months since her husband’s death, but that isn’t really a lot of time. She seemed fine to me. I suspected she’d tell me if that changed.

We picked out a nice bottle of merlot. Then we shared Ipswich clams, which were full belly and a little messy, but a good start to dinner at Kinkead’s. For a main dish, I had a velvety salmon stew.

Christine made an even better choice. Lobster with buttery cabbage, bean puree, and truffle oil.

All the while we ate, the two of us never shut up. Not for a minute. I hadn’t felt so free and easy around someone in a long, long time.

“Damon and Jannie say you’re the best principal ever. They paid me a dollar each to say that. What’s your secret?” I asked Christine at one point. I found that I was fighting off an urge simply to babble when I was around her.

Christine was thoughtful for a moment before she answered. “Well, I guess the easiest and maybe the truest answer is that it just makes me feel good to teach. The other answer I like goes something like this. If you’re right-handed, it’s really hard to write with your left hand. Well, most kids are all left-handed at first. I try to always remember that. That’s my secret.”

“Tell me about today at school,” I said, staring into her brown eyes, unable not to.

She was surprised by my question. “You really want to hear about my day at school? Why?”

“I absolutely do. I don’t even know why.” Except that I love the sound of your voice. Love the way your mind works.

“Actually, today was a great day,” she said, and her eyes lit up again. “You sure you want to hear this, Alex? I don’t want to bore you with work stuff.”

I nodded. “I’m sure. I don’t ask a whole lot of questions I don’t want to hear the answers to.”

“Well then, I’ll tell you about my day. Today, all the kids had to pretend they were in their seventies and eighties. The kids had to move a little more slowly than they’re used to. They had to deal with infirmities, and being alone, and usually not being the center of attention. We call it ‘getting under other people’s skin,’ and we do it a lot at the Truth School. It’s a great program and I had a great day, Alex. Thanks for asking. That’s nice.”

Christine asked me about my day again, and I told her at little as possible. I didn’t want to disturb her, and I didn’t need to relive the day myself. We talked about jazz, and classical music, and Amy Tan’s latest novel. She seemed to know about everything, and was surprised I had read The Hundred Secret Senses, and even more surprised that I liked it.

She talked about what it was like for her growing up in Southeast, and she told me a big secret of hers: She told me about “Dumbo-Gumbo.”