63.
The black and white kitten was stalking my pencil eraser. It had white paws and a patch of white fur on its chest. It was slowly picking its way across my cluttered desk, around a Vicks Chloraseptic, over the latest James Rollins novel, and finally peering around my water bottle. From there it had a good view of the pencil eraser, which, coincidentally was twitching invitingly in my fingers. Now within perfect pouncing range, the kitten dug its hind paws into the grain of my pine desk, wound itself tight as a drum, then sprang forward, pouncing like a true champion. The eraser didn't stand a chance. The kitten and pencil rolled together across my desk in a furry ball of black and white.
My door opened, and in came defense attorney Charlie Brown and his faithful assistant Mary Cho. Charlie was bald as ever and Mary Cho's skirt still hung just above her knees. Nice knees. I looked up at her; she was frowning.
Caught again.
Charlie walked over and dropped an envelope on my desktop. The kitten pounced on the envelope. Charlie jumped back, surprised as hell that something on my desk actually moved. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat, tried his best to look venerable. When he spoke, he kept his eye on the feline just in case it should make an attempt on his jugular.
"A bonus," he said to me. "For catching the bad guy."
I looked at the envelope, which at the moment was feeling the unholy wrath of the furry critter. "You don't give a shit about the bad guy. Your client's free, and that's all that matters to you."
"I do give a shit, and I resent you saying that. That's slander."
"So sue me. Know any good attorneys?"
"Fuck you, Knighthorse. If you quit being such a hardass, I might throw you some more cases, seeing as you performed above expectations on this one."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Charlie," I said.
He sighed. "Charles."
I picked up the kitten and thrust it toward the attorney; he jumped back, stepping on his assistant's toes, who stifled a scream.
I said, "Would you like to hold him, Charlie?"
"No, godammit. And it's Charlie. I mean Charles. Fuck." He turned and left.
"Assistant Cho, how about you: would you like to pet my kitty?"
"You're a pig."
When they were gone, I brought the kitten to my face and kissed his little wet nose. "What did I say?"
Cat Peterson left her abusive husband and she and her daughter moved in with her sister in a modest Spanish-style home in a city called Temecula, in a neighboring county called Riverside, a county made popular in many a Perry Mason novel. I pulled up in front of the house and, kitten in hand, walked up to the front door and rang the bell. As I waited, the kitten made every effort to kill my nose.
"It's been fun having you around," I said to him. "But you're going to grow up with a little girl now. You take good care of her, okay?"
He gnawed on my thumb, purring.
The door opened and once again I found myself staring down at little Alyssa.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said.
"Tinker Bell ran away."
"I know."
"You know?"
I bent down and handed her the kitten. She gasped, then ripped the little booger from my fingers and hugged it with everything she had. The kitten, perhaps realizing that it had met its energetic match, submitted to the unabashed love. She twirled him around and around and dashed inside the house screaming for her mother to look at Tinker Bell Jr.
If ever a kitten was destined to be gay, it was Tinker Bell Jr. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that.
Footsteps echoed along the tiled entryway, and Cat Peterson appeared in the doorway. She was smiling, shaking her head.
"How did you know her cat ran away?" she asked me, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. There was a hint of a smile on her face.
"Might be better if you didn't know."
She nodded, suddenly somber. "I see."
I was motionless; she wasn't looking at me. Suddenly, and with surprising speed, she threw herself into my arms and thanked me over and over again for finding her daughter's killer. She didn't let go and I let her hold me and cry on me, and we stood like that for a long, long time.
64.
It was a rare spring storm.
Cindy and I were sitting together on my sofa, my arm around her shoulders, looking out through my open patio doors. The rain was coming down steadily and hard, drumming on my glass patio table. In the distance, above the rooftop of the restaurants, the sky was slate gray, low and ominous.
"You like this kind of weather," said Cindy.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's different. Don't you ever get tired of the never-ending sunny days?"
"No."
"Don't you ever think that it's nice for the land to replenish itself?"
"Only when you bring it up."
"Wanna walk in the rain?" I asked.
"I thought your leg hurt in this kind of weather."
"It does."
"But it's nothing like the hurt you've been putting it through these past few weeks," she said.
"I was blinded to the pain," I said, "pursuing an old dream."
"You're not blinded now?"
"No," I said. "The blinders are off. And now my leg just hurts like hell."
"What about your dream?"
"The dream was there for the taking. I didn't take it."
"Why?"
"People change. Dreams change. Life goes on. If I really wanted it, I would pursue it."
"So you don't really want it? Is that because of me? God, I feel horrible."
"Not because of you. When I was twenty-two, I wanted to prove I could play in the NFL. I wanted to prove I was tough enough. I had no other goals in life, no other conceivable ambition. Then, suddenly, I was forced to rethink and refocus my life, and I discovered that I could live without playing football."
"But you've always been...bitter towards being a detective. Because it was something your father did. It was something that caused him not to be in your life when you were growing up."
"Father runs a big agency. I am determined never to be that big. But you're right, I was bitter towards my job. It was not my first choice. But then something happened."
"You discovered you were good at detecting," she said. "Damn good."
"Yes."
"What about proving yourself in the NFL?"
"Maybe some things are better left unproven."
"But you think you could have made it?"
"In a heartbeat." I said. "Wanna go for that walk?"
"Okay."
I knew she didn't want to get wet, but she did it for me. We got our coats on. I grabbed an umbrella for her. I didn't mind getting wet.
Outside, in the rain, we moved slowly along Main Street. The shops and stores were all open, and a trickle of tourists, looking confused at this unprecedented Southern California weather, moved past us. I heard one of them say: "We can get rain at home."
"Can't please everyone," I said to Cindy.
"No."
"Want some chocolate?" I asked.
"Mmm, sounds yummy."
We ducked into The Chocolatiers. A massive peanut butter cup for me and a sugar-free almond rocca for Cindy.
"Sugar-free?" I asked, when we stepped outside again.
"You can't taste the difference."
"Sure."
"Plus it's half the calories."
We sat down on a bench under an awning and ate our chocolate and watched the rain.
"How's Derrick doing?" asked Cindy.
"His family is moving east. Hard to have a normal life after being accused of murder. Kid will be looked at differently, no matter how innocent he is. UCLA is interested in giving him a scholarship."
"Did you have anything to do with that?"
"I happen to know a few people there."
"So your work here is done?"
I looked away, inhaling deeply.
She reached out and placed her hand on top of mine. It was warm and comforting.
"You're thinking of your mother," she said.
I kept looking away. "Her killer is still out there."
The rain continued to fall. She continued holding my hand. She squeezed it.
"You're going to find him," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I don't know what I will do to him when I find him."
"Does that worry you?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Then it doesn't worry me."
