Maggie and I were sitting on the rooftop across the street from Liz's. There was a constant parade of people going in and out of the seafood place under her apartment. We kept an eye on her window, wishing we could see more than we could. The curtains were open and the lights were on, but all we could see was the living room, which was empty. We knew she was home. We saw her go in with Ian an hour ago, the lights coming on a few minutes after.
A door slammed nearby, and Maggie and I both jumped. We both felt edgy being this close to KOP station. The fear of running into one of Ian's cop friends around here had us looking over our shoulders like a couple of paranoids.
“There he is,” said Maggie.
I looked at the window where a naked Ian was now standing, gazing down at the street with a drink in his hand. He had a classic 'roid-head physique-maxipecs up high and minipackage down low.
He turned around and gave us a view of his high-toned ass before stepping away and coming back a minute later, still naked but sans the drink. Liz appeared on his elbow in a lively red number that left no doubt that she was very much alive despite the lifeless state she was in the last time I'd seen her.
They talked for a few minutes, about what we couldn't tell. Then they exchanged a long, deep kiss that left Ian popping wood-or should I say twig? Ian left Liz standing by the window and came back shortly after with clothes on. Again they kissed, but this time it was just a peck that I figured for a good-bye kiss. They disappeared from the window. A couple minutes later, Ian exited the restaurant and strutted down the block.
“You sure about this, Juno?”
“Yeah. Call if you see Ian come back.” I started walking away and then turned back. “I gave you the number, right?” We'd already made our new phones exchange numbers. I remembered syncing them up, yet I was driven to ask out of some nervous compulsion.
“Yeah. I got it.”
“Good.”
I took the elevator down to the main floor of the office building and crossed the lobby, stopping at the glass door to look out at the street. From my vantage, I scanned pedestrian faces, looking for cops and not seeing any. I swung the door wide and hustled across the street and into the restaurant. I ignored the maitre d' and followed the same path across the restaurant floor that Ian had followed when we'd watched from the camera in his hair. I stepped into the kitchen and passed through, catching little notice from the kitchen staff. They must've been good and used to men heading upstairs.
I climbed the creaky steps and knocked on the door. Liz pulled the door open, and I thought I caught a twinkle in her eye upon recognizing me. “Come in,” she said.
“Sorry to barge in on you,” I mumbled.
“Who's barging in? I invited you, remember?”
I followed her into the living room. I went to the window where I'd be visible to Maggie, just in case…
“Would you like a drink?”
“Brandy.”
Liz stepped over to a freestanding liquor cabinet with a roll top and poured enough fingers to make a hand. She filled another glass for herself and came over to me. I took my glass, keenly aware of the brush she gave my hand in the exchange.
I hurried a long sip, feeling the need to dampen my jingling nerves.
“What brings you here, officer?”
“I'm not a cop.”
“Indulge me.”
“What is it with you and cops?”
She tasted her brandy instead of answering. I was glad to be catching a close-up of her red dress-slinky, silky, and oh so skimpy.
I took another deep swig. “How's your boyfriend?”
“Which one?”
“There's more than one?”
“Ian doesn't own me, officer.”
“And he's okay with that?”
A playful smile flickered across her face. “You want me to call and ask him?”
“No. I think you're well aware of the fact that I don't want him knowing I'm here.”
“He's very frustrated with you, you know. He doesn't like being suckered.”
“It serves him right.”
“For what?”
“For being an asshole.”
She grinned despite herself. “He can be a real asshole, can't he?”
“I don't understand why you stay with him.”
“He's a good man. Deep down he is.” She added the “deep down” part when she realized how ridiculous her first statement sounded.
“No, he's not,” I said. “He's a sadistic bastard.”
“That's not true.”
“Does he hurt you?”
“No. Never. He loves me. You don't know him like I do. Don't shake your head like that,” she said a tad miffed. “I know he has a good heart.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He used to be so sweet. He was always so gentle.”
“That was before he turned into a pit bull. You see the soft side of him anymore?”
“Sometimes,” she said shakily. I caught a flash of the real her again: an innocent, vulnerable little girl, confused about the ways of the world. And then it was gone. It had lasted for barely a second. She changed the subject. “How about you tell me about your enforcer days?”
“Actually, I'd prefer to learn a little more about you first.”
“Like what?” She dipped her finger in her brandy and put it in her mouth, pulling it out seductively slow. I was amazed at how fast she could shift her moods.
“Let's start with your name,” I said.