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Obsession, Deceit And Really Dark Chocolate
Kyra Davis
Sophie Katz's relationship with the irresistible and occasionally insufferable P.I. Anatoly Darinsky is on the fritz when a friend recruits Sophie's investigation skills to decode her possibly two-timing husband's strange behavior.When Sophie shows up in a short, red cocktail dress and her friend's hubby winds up dead, the loveable would-be sleuth can't help but take on the job.Suddenly plunged into a crazy world of campaign mudslinging, dirt-digging and cover-ups, Sophie begins to uncover some pretty dirty secrets indeed–involving a conservative congressional hopeful's involvement in the Furry community, a group of people who dress up in mascot-size stuffed animal costumes. Sex and politics, wouldn't you know?Way in over her head as usual, Sophie reluctantly–or not-so-reluctantly–enlists the help of her two-time sidekick and ex–Anatoly. Together they set out to determine who killed Eugene and why, and in the process can't resist falling for each other–again?



Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate
Kyra Davis


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my readers. Your letters and e-mails of support
and praise never fail to inspire and motivate me.

Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my wonderful editor, Margaret Marbury, for all of her help and encouragement, and Police Chief John Weiss for helping me with this book’s ending. I also want to thank my stepbrother, Chris Sullivan, my mother, Gail Davis, and my stepfather, Richard Sullivan, for taking care of my son while I wrote this novel. Last but absolutely NOT least I want to thank my son, Isaac, for being my biggest fan and greatest motivator. Isaac, I love you with all my heart and soul.

1
Why sleep with the enemy when you can screw ’em?
—C’est La Mort
It’s not often that an old friend and mentor asks you to seduce her husband. I suppose it was the bizarre nature of the request that made me want to do it. Or perhaps it was because I knew that Melanie O’Reilly was at least partially responsible for my becoming a novelist. Or maybe I just agreed because I thought it would be a good way to get my mind off my ex-boyfriend, Anatoly Darinsky.
Whatever. The point is that after years of very sporadic contact Melanie invited me to lunch and asked if I would do her a big favor. My initial assumption was that she wanted me to donate some money to one of her favorite organizations or charities—the Salvation Army, the Symphony, the Boy Scouts…what have you. It even occurred to me that she wanted me to attend one of those five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners to support Flynn Fitzgerald, the majorly right-wing Contra Costa County congressional hopeful whose campaign was currently employing her husband, Eugene. The last really would have been a huge favor since I disagreed with almost everything Fitzgerald stood for, but for my favorite former writing professor I would have done it. But this…this one came out of left field.
It seems that Eugene had not been the same since he and a few of his evangelical buds had returned from a Moral Majority road trip, an excursion not unlike the MTV Rock the Vote road trip, except this expedition involved more Jesus talk and less talk of body piercing. Melanie was convinced that the Jesus van had doubled as a magnet for wayward sluts, and that her husband had been nibbling on the forbidden fruit.
But I digress. My mission had nothing to do with Jesus, nor was I supposed to emulate the Virgin Mary. My mission was to tempt Eugene by behaving like Mary Magdalene during her party years. Melanie explained that I was the only “younger woman” friend who had never met her husband. At thirty-one I wasn’t sure I still qualified as a younger woman, but it was true that I had never met Eugene O’Reilly. I was supposed to have gone to their wedding but a bout of strep throat put an end to those plans.
I wasn’t going to sleep with him, of course. Apart from the fact that this was only a fact-finding mission, one look told me that the man’s weight had to be somewhere under one hundred and twenty pounds. If a guy looks like Brad Pitt I’ll willingly compromise my political ideals in exchange for a little face time, but when confronted with a conservative who’s twice my age and skinny enough to make me feel fat, I emphatically refused to cross the party line.
I’d simply be testing him: if Eugene O’Reilly wanted to play “break the commandments” with me I would simply ditch him and report back to Melanie. If he resisted my charms, all was right with the conservative world.
I took one more sip of the lemon drop I had been nursing while scoping him out from my seat in the darkened corner of the Antioch bar, screwed up my courage and then crossed the room to Eugene.
“Is this seat taken?” I pretended not to notice the way my short red dress rode up when I climbed onto the bar stool.
The man didn’t even bother to look up from his Scotch and soda. “Not that I’m aware of.”
So far so good—still, I couldn’t help but feel a little hurt. I mean really, when an older man doesn’t bother to give you the time of day after you stick your boobs in his face you have to question your own sex appeal.
I tried to discreetly glance at myself in the mirror behind the bar. No major pimples, and as far as I could tell I didn’t have food in my teeth. My hair was a little out of control but no more than usual. My father was African-American and my mother had curly hair that was typical of her Eastern European Jewish ancestry, so when it came to my hair “a little out of control” was the best-case scenario.
I rested my elbow on the bar and tried another tactic. “I’ve never been to this place before.”
“Mmm.” He took another sip of his Scotch and casually looked around the room. I caught a glimpse of his hands, which seemed to be one of his few saving graces. They were big and strong…I’m into hands, but they need to be attached to a body that is at least a little appealing. Anatoly had great hands, and arms, and shoulders…but I wasn’t going to think of him right now or ever again. I was over Anatoly. Really.
“I don’t usually go to bars,” I said, bringing my focus back to the task at hand, “but tonight I just had to get out of the house. You ever feel like that? Like you just need to go somewhere no one knows you and forget your troubles?”
Eugene looked at me for the first time. “What are you trying to forget?”
I hesitated. I hadn’t really worked this story out in my head yet. “Oh, you know…family stuff.”
He nodded and turned his attention back to his Scotch.
“My younger brother dropped a big bomb on the whole family today,” I said quickly. In reality, the only sibling I had was a younger sister, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Oh?” His disinterest was palpable.
“Yeah…it turns out he’s ga…a homosexual.”
Eugene snapped his head back in my direction. “I’m so sorry.”
“It gets worse,” I said, encouraged by the reaction. “He has a boyfriend and they’re going to Massachusetts to get married.”
“No!” Eugene put his glass on the bar with a thud. “Did anyone see this coming?”
I shook my head and looked away. “He was always such a good kid. He consistently made the honor roll, played lots of sports in high school…he even got a full scholarship to Syracuse University.”
“Syracuse is a good conservative town.”
“I know! That’s why everyone in the family was so happy when he decided to go there instead of to the other university he was accepted to—” I leaned over and lowered my voice to a tremulous whisper “—UC Berkeley.”
Eugene exhaled loudly. “Clearly he made the right choice. But something must have gone wrong. Something must have happened to make him lose his way.”
“Yes, but what? Here we all thought he was busy studying and partying it up with a bunch of nice Republican fraternity brothers, and as it turns out he was spending all his free time campaigning for…for…” I dropped my head in my hands in what I hoped looked like a display of grief rather than an attempt to hide a smile “…for Hillary Clinton!”
“My God! Your parents must be devastated.”
“Oh, they are, and so am I. I keep replaying the whole sordid event in my head.” I glazed my eyes and pretended to relive the moment. “I’m eagerly awaiting his arrival with my parents at their place, he walks in the door, and before you can say ‘Green Party’ my whole world is turned upside down!”
Eugene put a hand on my arm. I held my breath and waited for him to use his thumb to stroke my skin or to somehow make the gesture more intimate, but he released me quickly, leaving me with nothing but the sense of being comforted by a well-meaning stranger.
“You need to have faith that your brother is going to be okay,” he said in a tone that was much gentler than what I was expecting. “People sometimes make mistakes, but with the love and the guidance of a good family many find their way back to the path of righteousness. You can’t give up on him.”
I looked up into Eugene’s eyes, expecting to see some kind of mad religious fervor, but all I saw was sincerity and conviction. He waved the bartender over. “Sir, I’d like another Scotch and soda and the lady needs a drink as well.” He turned and smiled at me. “Put it on my tab.”
I ended up closing the place with Eugene. I kept waiting for him to make a move on me, but everything he did seemed to be motivated by a desire for companionship. He sucked down a countless number of cocktails, and while the alcohol definitely made him more talkative, it didn’t make him more flirtatious.
“This country’s going to hell in a handbasket,” he said as he stumbled to his feet and tried unsuccessfully to help me put on my coat. “Immorality is everywhere—on the TV, radio, don’t even get me started about the Internet.”
“Tell me about it,” I said as I gently guided him out of the bar and into the warm night. “There’s this Web site, www.womenserotica.com—it’s despicable. I go on it every day to read the new entries and I’m horrified every time.”
“Exactly what I’m talking about!” Eugene slurred, too drunk to pick up on my sarcasm. “How are we suppose-ta raise children with good solid Christian values when they’re continually confronted with evil temptations?”
I nodded gravely. “I’m having a hard enough time just trying to shelter my cat from the filth they’ve been promoting on Animal Planet! Do you know that they had a whole show on elephant sperm?”
“My God!” Eugene shook his head. He looked at me in a blatant attempt to focus. “You realize that you’re not fit to drive.”
My lips curved into an amused smile. “And you think you are?”
“No, no. I’m gonna walk back to my hotel. I live in Walnut Creek. I’m jus’ here on business, my hotel’s only a mile away,” he slurred.
“It’s two in the morning, kind of late for a long walk.”
“Normally I’d take a cab,” Eugene conceded, “but tonight I need fresh air. You’re not the only one who had a bad day, ya know.”
I spotted a park bench on the other side of the street. “Why don’t we sit down for a while and talk? Like you said, I can’t drive and you’re obviously not in any big hurry to get to sleep, so you might as well hang out with me and talk while I sober up.”
Eugene nodded and followed me to the bench. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a green SUV parked at the end of the city block. Other than that, the area had already been deserted. The vehicle probably belonged to one of the bartenders closing up. I sat down on the bench and patted the seat next to me, but Eugene hesitated.
“Sophie, you’re a very nice girl and you’re very beautiful…but I’m married.”
“I saw the ring.”
“My wife’s been impossible lately, but I believe in the sanctity of marriage,” he said matter-of-factly. He sat down next to me and gazed at me with bloodshot eyes. “I practice what I preach.”
I felt myself soften toward him instantly. “I respect that, Eugene.”
“That’s the real problem with the world today,” he said, grandly gesturing out into space, “no one ever means what they say anymore. They’re all a bunch of bloody hypocrites. Moral corruption is everywhere, Sophie. Everywhere. Look! Look at that!” He jumped to his feet and picked up a discarded candy wrapper featuring a cartoon sea animal. “We now have sponges promoting deviant behavior!”
“Eugene, I think maybe we should get you a cab so you can sleep this one off.”
“Damn furry freaks if you ask me!”
How did Melanie end up with this man? I mean, he was honest and honorable, but his view of the world was incredibly whacked. I stood up and smiled at him sympathetically. “I think it’s time for me to head home. I have a long drive ahead of me.”
“But you’ve been drinking.”
“I switched to soda water a while back, you probably just didn’t notice—” because you were too drunk to notice anything “—because soda water can look like vodka and tonic.”
Eugene nodded. “Let me walk you to your car.”
I shrugged and waited as he staggered to his feet. I thought I heard the sound of an engine start up a ways behind me on the otherwise quiet street. We walked in silence for the three blocks to my car. I’d decided to be cheap and forgo the nearby garage, which meant that I had been forced to park a bit off the main strip. When we got to my Audi I turned to Eugene and put a hand on his shoulder. “Can I please give you a ride back to your hotel? It’s really no trouble.”
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I wanna walk.”
I suppressed a giggle. “I really think you should let me drive you.”
“No thanks, Sophie.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “It’s nice to know there are some decent people out there. You give me hope.”
And with that he stumbled off. I watched him until he turned the corner before getting into my car. I felt sorry for him. I wasn’t sure why he seemed so dejected, almost disillusioned.
I sighed, fastened my seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.
Just then I heard a quick series of loud bangs and the sound of a car screeching away.
My heart stopped. I quickly checked my rearview mirror, but there was no one on the block. The commotion had happened on one of the streets nearby.
Eugene.
Obviously the smart thing to do would have been to stay in the car and call 911 on my cell phone, but common sense temporarily abandoned me. I jumped out and ran to the street corner where I had last seen Eugene. As soon as I rounded the corner there he was, lying on the sidewalk, motionless. Blood was seeping through his previously white dress shirt.
I could see lights being turned on in the surrounding buildings as some of the residents tried to figure out what was going on. I sprinted to Eugene’s side and kneeled down. His eyes were at half mast and I heard a gurgling coming out of his throat.
“Eugene, it’s Sophie. Eugene, can you hear me?”
“Goddamned furry shit,” he muttered.
“Eugene, you’re delirious, just stay calm and I’ll get an ambulance.” But even as I said the words I heard the distant wail of sirens.
I also heard Eugene take his final breath.

2
People expect so much from the individuals they bear a fondness for. That’s why I focus my energy into being as disagreeable as possible.
—C’est La Mort
“Thank you so much for coming.” Melanie gestured for me to sit on her tan leather couch as she settled herself into an overstuffed armchair.
I sat down and stared blankly at the wall behind her. It had been three days since I called Melanie to tell her that she was a widow, and this was the first time since that awful event that I had seen her. I took three Advil before driving from San Francisco to her Walnut Creek home and now, forty-five minutes later, I still had a headache.
“Can I get you anything?” Melanie asked. “Johnny, Fitzgerald’s personal assistant, brought me a lovely fruit basket the other day. I could cut up a few pieces and some cheese if you’re hungry. Or how about a cup of tea?”
I shook my head mutely. Migraines and food didn’t mix.
There were a few moments of silence. Melanie squeezed her knees causing her linen pants to take on the quality of wrinkled paper. “I don’t really know what to say.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to say.”
Melanie winced. “You think less of me now.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” I asked, surprise overwhelming my discomfort. “What I think of you? How can that possibly matter at this point?”
“Your opinion has always mattered to me, Sophie. You were a very special student…my favorite, really.” A sad smile played on her lips. “I am so proud of all of your accomplishments. I understand that C’est La Mort hit the NewYork Times bestseller list in its first week! I like to think I played a small part….”
“Melanie, your husband’s dead. Your fanatically conservative, crazy, good-hearted and loyal husband is being embalmed right now.”
“I know.” Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her, and her rapid blinking seemed to imply that she was holding back tears, but her grief didn’t do a lot to alleviate my indignation.
“I’ve spent the last few nights awake berating myself for agreeing to entrap him. I can’t believe he spent the last minutes of his life with me and all I did was lie to him.”
“You always told me you were a good liar,” she tried to joke.
“I’m a great liar! And I enjoy it, but now all of a sudden lying seems ugly and…wrong! I spent all of three hours with your husband, and I know damn well that this was not a man who would have ever compromised his beliefs by cheating on you. What I don’t understand is how could you even suspect him of something like that?”
Melanie ran her hand over the loose skin that draped from her neck. “I did know him, but something had changed. Eugene didn’t like secrets. He always said that a husband and wife should tell each other everything.
“Let me give you an example,” Melanie said, apparently noting my incredulity. “Last year Eugene was trying to organize a boycott against The Da Vinci Code in keeping with the request of the Vatican. But I really wanted to see what all the fuss was about so I went ahead and bought the book, and once I started reading it I couldn’t put it down! I was just finishing up the last chapter when Eugene walked in on me. It was awful. At first I thought it was because he thought that reading it against the Vatican’s advice was a sin and that was clearly a problem for him, but what hurt him the most was knowing that I had tried to hide it from him. He saw that as a betrayal.”
“Not telling him that you were reading a book that everyone and their brother had already read was a betrayal?”
“I know it sounds extreme, but that’s just the way Eugene was.” I could have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a note of respect in her voice. “Lately I could tell that something was bothering him and yet he wouldn’t talk about it. It was so unlike him, and even though I couldn’t imagine him cheating on me I didn’t know what else it could be. We all make mistakes, and I thought that maybe he wasn’t as immune to temptation as I thought he was. I wouldn’t have left him, Sophie, I just wanted to know what I was dealing with. But now…now, he’s gone….”
Fresh tears trickled down the pale skin of her cheeks and I felt the unwelcome pang of guilt. I shifted in my seat, unsure if I should offer an apology, condolences or just get up and leave.
Melanie was right. I did think less of her. The dynamics of our relationship had changed so much over the past twelve years. She had started as my writing professor and then quickly become my mentor. When my father died I completely fell apart and Melanie had helped me pull myself together. After I graduated from University of San Francisco we had stayed in contact, meeting for coffee every few months. During our visits I began to see Melanie for who she really was: an intelligent, kind and altruistic woman with a lot of insecurities. Eventually she took a teaching position at Saint Mary’s College in Moraga and our visits became semiannual occurrences. That was my fault. It just seemed like every time she suggested we get together I had something else I had to do. When she got married to Eugene and moved to Walnut Creek our visits became even less frequent, although she never forgot my birthday or failed to congratulate me when one of my books hit the stands. I often thought of her but rarely picked up the phone to tell her so. I assumed that she was happily occupied with pursuits that didn’t involve me; perhaps mentoring another young writer. But looking at her now it was hard to admire her. For once it felt like I was the stronger one, the one with the most common sense, which was really scary since common sense isn’t always my strong suit.
“I didn’t want him to die, Sophie.”
I took a deep breath and forced myself to reassess the situation. Who the hell was I to give her grief? She didn’t give me a hard time when I told her I was getting a divorce after only two years of marriage, nor did she take issue with the content of the novels I wrote even though I knew they flew in the face of many of her religious beliefs. I leaned forward so I could take her hand. “Of course you didn’t want that, Melanie. I know that.”
“It never occurred to me that we would end this way.”
“It was just one of those awful random twists of fate,” I said. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one could have foreseen this.”
“Yes, a random drive-by shooting.” Melanie said the words slowly, as if trying to convince herself of them. “Or at least that’s what the Antioch police are saying.”
I pulled back in surprise. “You think they’re wrong?”
“They don’t know everything.”
“What else is there?”
“It’s just a feeling I have.” Melanie tucked a gray-streaked lock behind her ear. “As I said, Eugene was keeping something from me and he was so agitated and distant during the past few weeks. Definitely not himself.”
“Okay, but to assume that his recent attitude change had something to do with his death?”
“Thing is, he wasn’t just upset, he was nervous. All of a sudden he started looking over his shoulder when we’d be out in public. He’d double-, then triple-check the locks. For a while I thought that maybe he’d had an extramarital affair with a stalker, like Michael Douglas in that awful movie with the rabbit. In retrospect I feel terrible for thinking that, but still, something was wrong and I’m afraid that maybe, just maybe, that something got to him….” Her voice faded away once more.
“Melanie, you need to talk to the police about this.”
“I can’t! What if he was involved in something he shouldn’t have been? Reputation was everything to Eugene. If I did something to besmirch his name now, his memory would be tarnished—I just couldn’t!”
But testing him to see if he’d make a drunken pass at a woman half his age was okay? I bit back the remark and tried to smile reassuringly. “Eugene wasn’t involved in anything that he felt was immoral or unethical. I’d bet on it.”
“Sophie, forgive me for saying this, but you spent one evening with the man. You’re not in the position to make that statement.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s say you’re right. What are you going to do? Are you going to keep this information to yourself even if it means that the person who killed your husband might get away with it?”
“Sophie, I need one more favor.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I understand you’re dating a private detective. The newspaper mentioned it right after your brother-in-law’s killer was captured.”
My heart fell to the bottom of my stomach. I wasn’t supposed to be upset by references to Anatoly anymore. He was an idiot. A commitment-phobic, womanizing, egocentric idiot…with an incredible body and a sexy half smile that sent tingles down my spine and straight into my nether regions.
“Is he discreet?”
“Hmm?” I said absently as I briefly entertained a multi-orgasmic memory.
“Is he discreet?” she asked again. “Can I trust him to keep any information he digs up out of the hands of the media?”
“Are you saying you want to hire him?”
“I want to find out what happened to my husband, but I don’t want people to know that I’ve enlisted a detective outside the police department. This whole thing is getting enough publicity without making things worse.”
“Ah, right. The thing is, Anatoly’s really expensive. For a case like this he’d charge you at least ten thousand dollars.” I wasn’t exactly lying. Anatoly had quoted that price to me before. Of course that was only because he was trying to piss me off.
Melanie’s eyes fluttered at the figure. “He must be very good at what he does.” She nodded resolutely. “I’ll pay it.”
“Really?” Note to self, those who possess American Express Platinum Cards cannot be scared away by high prices. “But…um…I don’t think Anatoly’s available.”
“I see.” Her disappointment was palpable. I should have probably just put her in touch with Anatoly. No doubt he’d take the case and I could stay out of the whole thing. But for some reason I didn’t really believe that. I was the one who found Eugene. He’d want to talk to me about that. In fact he’d probably spend a lot of time questioning me, coaxing me to go over every detail and nuance. One thing would lead to another and before you knew it I’d be cuddled up in bed with my commitment-phobic Russian love god, sipping espresso. I just couldn’t go there again.
“Maybe you don’t need a detective,” I suggested. “Maybe you just need someone trustworthy who’s sneaky, good at networking and knows how to craft well-worded, probing questions.”
“Someone sneaky?” I could hear the hope creeping back into her voice. “You?”
“And good at networking,” I said a bit defensively. “I could talk to a few people…just try to get a sense of whether or not your fears are founded. If they are, then we could call a P.I. to do some more digging. But if Eugene’s problems can be explained by the typical stresses of working on a campaign then you’ll leave it to the police to find the person responsible for what happened.”
“So this would be a preliminary investigation…a fact-finding expedition, as it were?”
“Exactly.”
Melanie nodded slowly. “I suppose we could do that. Are you up for it?”
I hesitated and thought about what exactly I was up for. A couple of years ago the very idea of using the amateur sleuth tactics I wrote about in my novels in a real-life situation would have been laughable. But within the past few years I had been stalked by a serial killer and my sister’s husband had been killed. I had been instrumental in solving both crimes and I got some satisfaction out of knowing I helped. Furthermore, solving crimes was often a rather enjoyable activity. Kind of like playing Clue with live psychotic actors. Well okay, it wasn’t a lot of fun when people were trying to kill you, but the rest of it wasn’t so bad. Plus, for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I felt compelled to help Melanie with this. Logic told me that Eugene’s death was probably a random act of violence. If that was the case I could talk to a few of his co-workers, tell Melanie she was imagining things and leave it at that. Melanie could rest easy and I would never have to talk to Anatoly again. That was a good thing. I nodded eagerly. “I’m up for it.”
Melanie offered me a shaky smile. “Very well. Should we start the questioning now?”
“You mean of you?”
“Yes. I assume there’s information that you’ll need from me.”
“Um, yeah…okay.” I quickly tried to formulate a few passably intelligent questions. “Who was Eugene closest to on the campaign?”
“I’m not sure I know the answer to that. He was very close to Flynn Fitzgerald, perhaps more so than most of the other strategists and consultants. Fitzgerald’s media consultant, Maggie Gallagher, was a friend. We had her and her husband over for dinner a few times. Eugene was also an old family friend of Fitzgerald’s top political strategist, Rick Wilkes.”
“Had he complained about any problems at work?”
“No. Well, he was frustrated that Anne Brooke is always neck and neck with Fitzgerald in the polls. Considering her character, she should be trailing far behind by now.”
I took a deep breath. A lot of very unpleasant information had come out about Anne Brooke since she announced her bid for Congress. And if the Republicans had run someone who was a moderate, Brooke’s career would have been political toast. But the Republicans had given their endorsement to Flynn Fitzgerald, a man who was just to the right of Pat Robertson. Although Contra Costa County citizens were definitely more conservative than their Bay Area neighbors, they were understandably reluctant to vote for a man who had blamed single mothers and “queers” for the downfall of our society. Unless Brooke was caught making out with Fidel Castro, she could probably prevent Fitzgerald from getting a double-digit lead on her.
“Anything else?” I asked. “Was he having problems with any of his coworkers? Or anyone at all, for that matter?”
Melanie shook her head. “Eugene was opinionated, and that sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, but in the end most found that he had a good heart. He had a subtle charm that tended to transcend political differences.”
I smiled slightly. I had been exposed to some of that charm. It had been nice to meet a man who had really believed in something, even if his beliefs differed from mine.
“Tell you what,” I said as I pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll find a way to talk to some of the people he saw or worked with regularly and see if I can find out anything.”
Melanie swallowed hard and looked up at me from her seat. “Do you want me to introduce you to anyone? Because—”
“You don’t want people to know that you’re looking into Eugene’s death…or rather his life,” I finished for her. “No, I don’t need introductions, but if anyone in his circle invites you to a social event and you can find a way of bringing me along without it looking suspicious, give me a ring.”
Melanie f lashed me a relieved smile. “I can do that.” She got up and walked me to the door but hesitated before opening it. “There’s one more thing I was hoping you could help me with.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“I just wanted to know what—” Her voice caught and she looked down at the floor. “What were Eugene’s last words?”
There were two ways to go with this. I could tell her the truth, that her husband’s last words had been “Goddamn furry shit,” (which was either evidence of the fact that he was completely delirious or that he truly had a problem with sponges that wore pants) or I could lie.
“Tell Melanie I love her,” I said confidently. “His last words were tell Melanie I love her.”
“Really? But wait…” Melanie’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Are you sure he said Melanie?”
“You really need to get over this jealousy thing. He wasn’t cheating.”
“I know, I know,” she said quickly. “It’s just that he so rarely called me Melanie. He always referred to me by my pet name.”
I swallowed and looked away. “Well, it was kind of a stressful moment, I could have misheard him. What’s his pet name for you?”
“Curly. He loved my curls.” She held up a lock of wavy hair that would have been f lat as a board without the help of her stylist.
“I’m sure that’s what he said. There was a lot to take in at that moment.”
For instance, I could have heard “furry” when in fact what he said was “curly.” My mentor and former professor could be a Goddamn curly shit.

I popped in the latest Gorillaz CD and turned over in my mind all the things I had just learned, which wasn’t a lot. With traffic it took me over an hour to get back to San Francisco. Even if I had misheard Eugene, it didn’t mean anything other than that he was in pain, delirious and pissed off at his wife. (Melanie wasn’t capable of violence.) Besides, I was ninety percent sure that I did hear him correctly. Eugene had been cursing someone named Furry. Which, of course, raised another question: was Eugene the adulterous type after all? Wasn’t it possible that someone who was dorky enough to call his naturally straight-haired wife “Curly” might also be dorky enough to call his mistress “Furry”?
But what kind of woman would sleep with a man who called her Furry? No, Eugene had to have been delirious. It didn’t really matter; this entire mess was much ado about nothing. I decided to shelve the whole thing until tomorrow and spend this time on more productive activities like cursing at the traffic.
My cell phone rang just as I was contemplating the best way to stir up a little road rage.
“C’est Sophie.”
“Hello, Sophie, it’s Melanie. I just thought of a social event that you could attend where you would meet almost all of Eugene’s friends and coworkers.”
“And what would that be?”
“His funeral.”
I felt the beginnings of another headache coming on. “Melanie, I can’t interrogate people at a funeral.”
“Of course not. I just thought you might be able to meet a few people and make connections. If someone happens to volunteer something useful you can pursue it at a later date.”
Gee, that sounded like great fun. Melanie would be busy receiving all of Eugene’s friends while I walked around by myself trying to initiate conversations with grieving strangers.
“If I come I want to bring a friend…actually, I want to bring Leah.” My sister was one of maybe ten Republicans who actually lived in San Francisco. If nothing else she’d be able to help me come up with topics of conversation that would play well with the politicians Eugene used to hang with.
“Then bring Leah,” Melanie said. “But…do you think she’ll be comfortable standing quietly by your side while you ask people about Eugene?”
I tried to imagine Leah doing anything quietly. “I’ll bring my friend Mary Ann, too. That way Leah will have someone to complain—I mean talk to, no matter what.”
“I think I met Mary Ann once. Is she the pretty girl with the long curly hair?”
“That’s her.”
“Very well, bring them both. And Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
I smiled and beeped at the idiot who had just cut me off. How many times had I said those words to Melanie? I owed her a lot, but I was fairly sure that when this was over we would finally be settled up.

3
I would rather burn in the fires of hell than spend eternity in heaven listening to a bunch of religious zealots say I told you so.
—C’est La Mort
It was like a black-and-gray sea of St. John and Brooks Brothers suits. I looked down at my own dark brown Old Navy dress as Mary Ann, Leah and I found seats in one of the rows toward the front, and then eyed their designer black dresses with undisguised resentment. “I thought you said earth tones were the new black when it came to mourning.”
“They are,” Mary Ann said slowly, “but being in mourning and attending a funeral are different things.”
“Oh?” I regarded her skeptically. “Don’t people come to funerals to mourn?”
“Really, Sophie.” Leah let out an exasperated sigh. “People mourn on their own time. They come to funerals to get credit for mourning. There’s a huge difference.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”
“I didn’t expect them to have an open casket,” Mary Ann whispered. “Gosh, it’s so sad,” she added, tugging at the ends of her hair. “And look, they put way too much blush on him.”
“Is anyone sitting here?” I looked up to see two men, both wearing the prerequisite gray suit. The one who had spoken was probably in his late thirties and was smiling down at Mary Ann. Or at least his mouth was smiling. His eyes were far too red to twinkle. He seemed fairly calm at the moment, so I wasn’t sure if the redness was due to a morning of crying or a night full of drinking. Still, he was cute in a teddy bear kind of way. His hairline was receding but he had a healthy tan that hinted at a love for the outdoors and a pug nose that automatically gave him a youthful air, despite his conservative attire. The other man was younger, taller and maybe in his mid-twenties. His dishwater-blond hair was cut a little too short for his round face and he was fidgeting with the knot in his tie in a way that made me think he wasn’t accustomed to wearing one.
Mary Ann scooted over enough to make room for them. The older man nodded his appreciation and slid in first; the younger sat at the aisle and pulled out the prayer book in front of him.
“I’m Rick,” the older said, presumably addressing all of us, although I noticed that his gaze lingered a little longer on Mary Ann. “And this is Johnny.”
“Hi there!” Johnny chirped, then immediately looked a little abashed as if his tone had been too cheerful for the occasion.
“I’m Mary Ann,” she said, “and this is Sophie and her sister Leah.”
“Sophie…” Johnny looked at me and his eyes widened with recognition. “You’re that novelist…the one who found him!”
“Yes, that’s me.”
Rick did a quick double take while Johnny kept talking. “It must have been horrible. The newspaper said you didn’t see the crime actually happen, but surely you must have seen something, the make of the car driving away, perhaps? It doesn’t seem possible that someone could do something like this and not leave any evidence behind.”
“Probably not, but if there was an eyewitness it wasn’t me.”
“So it’s true, all you really saw was Eugene,” he said glumly. He looked like a kid who had just been forced to witness a Harry Potter book burning.
“I can’t imagine what that was like for you,” Rick said. “You must have been terrified and—”
“Did you know Eugene well?” I asked, cutting him off before he could miscast me in the role of innocent damsel in distress.
“I spent time with him every day. I’m Flynn Fitzgerald’s main strategist. Johnny here is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant.”
So he was that Rick! Perfect! Networking made easy.
“Flynn Fitzgerald?” Mary Ann asked. “He’s a writer, right? I think I might have read one of his books a long time ago. Didn’t he write about parties and socialites?”
Rick knitted his brow and studied Mary Ann as if trying to determine if she was joking.
Leah cleared her throat awkwardly. “Mary Ann, you’re thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
Rick nodded in agreement. “I actually love F. Scott Fitzgerald. I just reread Tender Is the Night last month.”
“He was a great writer.” I patted Mary Ann’s knee. “But I’m fairly sure he doesn’t need an assistant or strategist.”
“Why not?” Mary Ann asked innocently.
Even sitting several feet away I could tell that Johnny was working hard to stop from giggling. “Well, for one thing, he’s dead, Mary Ann,” I explained.
“Oh!” Mary Ann put a gentle hand on Rick’s arm. “And you loved him! So much loss in such a short time! When did Scott pass away?”
For a second Rick just looked stunned, but then his expression changed and it was clear that he was amused despite himself. “I never actually met F. Scott Fitzgerald,” he explained. “Just Flynn Fitzgerald. The one running for the House of Representatives.”
“The man Eugene worked for!” Mary Ann smacked her hand against her thigh, the whole situation becoming clear to her. “That would explain how you knew Eugene.”
Rick broke out into a full grin. “Yes, that would explain it. Were you acquainted with Eugene?”
Mary Ann shook her head, causing her perfect chestnut curls to bounce around her face. “No, I’m just here to support Sophie.”
“That’s a shame. Eugene would have liked you.”
She cocked her head to the side. “What makes you say that?”
“Eugene liked sweet, compassionate, genuine people.”
Mary Ann blushed slightly. “That’s one of the nicest compliments anyone’s ever paid me.”
“They’re flirting,” Leah whispered in my ear. “They’re flirting at a funeral.”
I glanced over at our three other companions. Johnny was engrossed in the Bible and Rick had his head bent toward Mary Ann in a rather intimate fashion. I could make out that he was telling her about Eugene, but his voice was too low for me to really eavesdrop effectively. I would grill Mary Ann later. I shrugged and turned to Leah. “I had sex after your husband’s funeral,” I whispered.
“That’s different. You were bereaved, and bereaved people can have sex after a funeral. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“But I wasn’t all that bereaved….”
“Well you would have been if my husband hadn’t been an adulterous parasite. The point is that you and Bob were family, and any person who’s related to the deceased is allowed to have sex with someone after the funeral.”
“Melanie actually told me about this guy. Eugene was a friend of Rick’s family, which means they were almost related, so he should be able to almost have sex…or at the very least flirt.”
Leah clucked her tongue in disapproval. Just then a distinguished-looking couple walked down the aisle toward the front row where Melanie was sitting. The man was in his early forties, and was wearing a perfectly fitted, very expensive-looking suit. The woman on his arm was about ten years younger, dressed equally well, with sandy blond hair coifed in an elegant updo.
“There’s the boss man and the missus,” Johnny said, finally looking up from his reading. “I should probably sit with them. Never know when Fitzgerald might need his personal assistant.”
“At a funeral?” Leah asked skeptically.
Johnny shrugged. “Maybe he’ll need me to provide him with Kleenex.”
I started to laugh but checked myself when I noted that Johnny wasn’t joking. He jumped up and took a place at Fitzgerald’s side.
“Johnny’s very enthusiastic about his job,” Rick noted.
“Clearly,” I said, but I didn’t have a chance to add more since the priest had just taken his place at the pulpit.
The funeral consisted of one long-winded speech after another. Flynn Fitzgerald spoke, as did his speech writer, who claimed to have been close to Eugene. Neither of them said anything that would make me think someone would want to kill the man they were eulogizing. It was a full hour into the service before the priest called up Rick Wilkes. Rick walked to the front of the room and adjusted the microphone. His initial statements were basically the same as everyone else’s, just reworded. I was beginning to drift off when Rick started talking about Eugene’s previous vocations.
“Eugene excelled at everything he did. My father continually told me that Eugene was one of the best agents in the FBI, and everyone working on Fitzgerald’s campaign can tell you that he was a star….”
“Did you know about that?” Leah asked in a hushed voice.
“No!” I said a little too loudly. The woman in front of us shot me a mean look and I slipped down lower in my seat. “I can’t believe Melanie didn’t tell me,” I said in a much softer whisper. “If he was in the FBI, he could have been dealing with any number of unsavory types.”
“Maybe Melanie didn’t think it was important because he wasn’t that kind of agent,” Mary Ann whispered. “Maybe he was like a…a travel agent for the FBI.”
Leah started giggling and the woman in front of us shot us another glare. We all fell into silence as Rick continued to wax poetic.
When the service was over I tried to get a moment with Rick, but he was whisked away by other friends. I tried again during the wake at Melanie’s house, but while he took pains to check in with Mary Ann a few times, he never got more than a few words out before someone else took him away to discuss something. Flynn Fitzgerald was equally unavailable.
I was fiddling with my necklace while listening to Mary Ann and Leah discuss the wisdom of serving fondue at a buffet when Johnny sidled up to me, offering me a glass of wine. “I have a confession to make,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’ve read every one of your books. I just finished C’est La Mort. You’re one of my favorite authors.”
“Thank you, that’s sweet,” I said, referring to both the compliment and the wine.
“I’m an author, too, you know.”
“Really?” I asked. “What have you written?” My eyes sought out Melanie. She was in the middle of a group of women engaged in what looked like a friendly but somewhat somber conversation.
“I haven’t actually written anything, but I do have a book. It’s all up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.
I managed not to roll my eyes. I had long since lost track of how many people (from lawyers to waiters) had told me that they were really writers at heart. As far as I was concerned that claim didn’t mean a lot until you wrote something. It was a detail that most of these unrecognized “authors” didn’t seem to be willing to address.
“I was a computer science major in school,” Johnny babbled. “But computers aren’t exciting. I mean, can you see me as a computer geek? Not my thing. I’m still amazed I didn’t flunk out due to intense boredom. Then I got my master’s in poly sci and somewhere along the line I said to myself, hey, I can write political thrillers! I still think that’s my true calling, but for now I’m a personal assistant. I love my job and Fitzgerald’s great, but I don’t think I want to go into politics. I want to be a writer like you, or maybe a journalist.”
I wrinkled my nose ever so slightly. Johnny was a spaz. Maybe he could write scripts for the Wiggles or something.
“Look at poor Melanie. I feel so bad for her. I bet she’s feeling kind of alone. Maybe I’ll invite her to come to church with me on Sunday. I’m not Catholic, but maybe she’ll come. It might make her feel better. Just look at her standing in the corner by herself! Doesn’t she look sad?”
“By herself?” I looked back at Melanie. Sure enough, she had managed to extricate herself from the crowd and was now enjoying a rare moment of solitude.
“Leah, hold this.” I turned and handed my glass to my sister, who was standing a few feet behind me as she and Mary Ann continued to chat about the buffet.
Johnny started to say something but I ignored him and made a beeline for Melanie, who greeted me with a fragile smile. “Sophie, thank you so much for being here.”
“Don’t you think you should have mentioned that Eugene was in the FBI?”
“Is it relevant?”
“Of course it’s relevant! What if someone whom he investigated while at the bureau decided to get revenge? Maybe that’s why he’s dead!”
Melanie shook her head. “Eugene hasn’t worked for the FBI in over twenty years. If someone wanted revenge, they would have gotten it by now.”
“Are you sure? I mean, come on, Melanie, my theory has to be as good as the one you have.”
“I don’t really have a theory.”
“My point exactly.”
Melanie sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve given you nothing to go on. I suppose I’m not thinking straight these days. It’s just that nothing seems to make sense anymore.”
“Melanie,” I said, cutting her off, “I just need to know if Eugene was involved in anything or anyone else that might have led to his death. Is the FBI thing the only bit of information you were keeping from me?”
“That’s it…really.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Melanie gave me a pained look before turning her attention to a couple of well-wishers who apparently had no qualms about interrupting our conversation. I marched back to where Leah and Mary Ann were standing. Johnny had moved on.
“I can’t believe you just handed me a wineglass like I was hired help,” Leah spat.
“Sorry, I wanted to catch Melanie while she was alone, and I knew that was probably going to be my one and only opportunity to do so today.” I checked my watch. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting late and I’m not finding anything out.”
“Fine with me,” Leah said. “Liz isn’t expecting me for another few hours, but I like the idea of showing up early to make sure she’s not doing anything she shouldn’t. I think her boyfriend may be stopping by for the occasional visit while she’s watching Jack, which is completely unacceptable. I will not have Jack exposed to his babysitter’s love life.”
Yes, God forbid Jack be exposed to a healthy relationship between a man and a woman. Given a frame of reference he might come to understand how romantically challenged his mother and aunt really are.
“If you’re worried about your babysitter why didn’t you leave Jack with his grandma?” Mary Ann asked.
“Mama’s on a three-week cruise to Baja with her Jewish seniors’ group,” I explained.
“Baja?” Mary Ann repeated. “Wow, that sounds like a fun vacation.”
“Yes,” Leah confirmed. “Sophie and I have been enjoying it immensely. Now, let’s get our coats, shall we?”
“Did I just overhear that you were leaving?”
We all turned at the sound of Rick’s voice.
“We have to get back to the city,” Mary Ann explained.
“I see, well it was good to meet you.” He looked deep into Mary Ann’s eyes. “Thank you so much for talking to me. You made today a little more bearable.”
“It was good to meet you, too,” I said, although it was exceedingly obvious that he wasn’t talking to me. “I know this isn’t the place to ask for a professional favor, but I recently pitched an idea to…um…the National Review for an article dealing with the inner workings of political campaigns,” I lied. “I’d love to interview you for it…and Flynn Fitzgerald, of course.”
“The National Review?” Rick shifted his weight back on his heels. “That’s a fairly conservative periodical.”
“Yes, I guess it is.” And Microsoft is a fairly big computer company.
“Forgive me if I’m out of line, but Johnny was just telling me about your books. He said they were quite good, but he also said that your protagonist is a committed Democrat. I had assumed that you were a Democrat, as well.”
“Um…yes, I am, but a very conservative one.”
Rick cocked his head. “You must be if you’re writing for the National Review.”
“I’m like the John McCain of the Democratic party.”
“Really?” Rick sounded incredibly skeptical.
“Yes, I really think we should lower the income tax and I just love the idea of…school vouchers.”
“Is that so? Do you have children?”
“No, she has a nephew, my son Jack,” Leah said, eyeing the door longingly. “He’ll be attending Adda Clevenger Junior Preparatory and then I plan on sending him to the Bay School of San Francisco. I’ve spoken to people in the admissions offices of Harvard and Yale and everyone agrees that a Bay School education will be beneficial.”
Rick nodded appreciatively. “How old is your son?”
“Two. I’m truly sorry, Rick, but I have to pick him up now. Do you think you could give my sister your card so she can contact you later to set up an interview?”
“An interview?” Johnny had just popped up from nowhere. “Are you going to interview somebody? Are you researching one of your books? Can I help? I would love to help you research an Alicia Bright novel!”
“I’m actually writing an article for the National Review,” I muttered. I should have said that I was researching a book. That would have been a much easier lie to pull off.
“So you’re a journalist, too? That’s so cool!” Johnny gushed. “Who do you want to interview? Can I help?”
“This article is about the campaign process, so I’d love to talk to any of the top people on Fitzgerald’s team. You know, the people Eugene worked with.”
“I suppose I could help you with that,” Rick said, pulling out his card and pressing it into my hand. “Even when I’m out of the office I always check my messages.”
“Good to know.” I smiled at my companions. “Shall we?”
“Bye!” Johnny called after us.
When we got out to the car I threw my arms around Leah’s neck. “Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. All that stuff about making college plans for your two-year-old was perfect.”
Leah broke away and looked at me. “I didn’t make that up. My son’s going to Harvard. Yale’s just his backup.”
“Oh…right, of course.” I bit my lip as I got behind the wheel of my car and waited for Mary Ann and Leah to get themselves settled. I love my nephew, but I didn’t see him going to Harvard so much as I saw him going on Ritalin.
I dropped Mary Ann off first and then started toward Leah’s babysitter’s family home, which was conveniently located across the street from Leah’s. “How’s work?” I asked as I idled my car at a stoplight.
Not long ago Leah had been a stay-at-home mom married to Bob Miller. Now Bob was dead, which should have been sad except he had been such an incredibly awful and emotionally abusive man that pretending to be mournful over his early demise was kind of like shedding tears over the retirement of stone-washed jeans. So no one blinked an eye when Leah quickly pulled herself together, sold her large Forest Hill home for $3.4 million dollars, along with most of Bob’s things and bought a $1.6 million two-bedroom in Laurel Heights. She used some of her excess cash to get herself set up as a freelance special-events coordinator. Her Junior League friends helped out by funneling business her way, and it quickly became apparent that Leah was born for the job. Whether it was a corporate retreat or an elaborate birthday celebration for a debutante’s shih tzu, my sister managed to make the event an elegant affair to remember.
“Work’s fine,” Leah said as she adjusted the clasp of the new Tiffany charm bracelet she had recently bought herself. “I’m currently planning the retirement dinner for Delcoe’s CEO. I’ve convinced them to have it at the Marines’ Memorial to honor the years he spent in the service.” She paused a moment before changing subjects. “Do you realize that today was the first time I’ve seen Melanie since Dad’s funeral? Odd that it would take another death for our paths to cross again.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t like thinking about Dad’s funeral.
“You almost never talk about Melanie anymore,” Leah added.
“Melanie and I have both been busy living our lives in different towns and in different social circles. We still talk on the phone every once in a while and she’s still important to me.” I opened the moon roof to give us a little more fresh air. “You’re probably wondering why I agreed to investigate Eugene’s death for her.”
“I know why you’re doing it,” Leah said, “although I seriously doubt you know why you’re doing it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the reasons that you have allowed your relationship with Melanie to fade into the background of your life are the exact same reasons why you continue to care about her so much. But of course you can’t examine any of that because that would require you to revisit painful memories that you’ve pushed into your subconscious.”
I gave Leah a questioning look as I turned onto her block. “Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Exactly my point. Aha! That’s Liz’s boyfriend’s car! That’s why that little harlot asked if she could watch Jack at her parents’ house, because she knew Bruce would be welcome there! And to think I bought her line about wanting Jack to be able to play with their new puppy! Let me out here. I swear, if either of them so much as has the top two buttons of their shirts undone I’m going to have them arrested for indecent exposure in front of a minor.”
“Mmm, that will go over well in a city that allows men to parade in G-strings during Carnival.”
Leah glared at me right before she shot out the door to scare a couple of overeager teenagers into a life of abstinence. As I drove home I made a halfhearted attempt to make sense of what Leah had said but quickly gave up the effort. Leah was a lot crazier than I was, so it seemed foolhardy to take her psychobabble seriously.
When I got back to my neighborhood I began the arduous task of looking for parking. After fifteen minutes with no luck I finally accepted the fact that I was going to have to give Anatoly’s block a go. Anatoly lived all of three blocks away from me, and over the past two months I had spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to avoid him. I would never make that mistake again. From now on if a man lived so close that it would make honoring a restraining order a challenge I would not get involved with him. I turned onto his block and, as Murphy’s law would have it, there he was at the other end of the block, crouched over, examining the front of his Harley.
It occurred to me that maybe this was why I hadn’t heard from him. It wasn’t that he had moved on, it was that he had been standing on his corner in the hopes that I would eventually drive by and pick him up.
But if that was the case he should have noticed my car by now, and he definitely had not. He was too absorbed with his tire.
I slowed the car from ten miles an hour to two. Something about Anatoly’s crouched position reminded me of certain things he used to do to me. Just drive by. If I stopped and talked to him I was bound to do something stupid, or he would do something that would make me feel stupid, and then I would be thrown into a downward spiral of lost pride and low self-esteem.
But of course, there was a parking place just a few feet in front of him.
Beads of sweat dampened my brow. I had two seconds to figure out what was more important to me—my dignity or parking. My God, it was like Sophie’s Choice. Of course, if I lost my dignity I could always turn to my friend Smirnoff for some much-needed comfort. But if I gave up the parking spot I might be stuck driving around my neighborhood for days, and there would be no solace since there are laws about drinking before you parked your car.
I took a deep breath and made the only logical choice by pulling into the empty space. Anatoly looked up as I did so and I felt his eyes boring into me. Here it comes. This is the part where he walks up and tells me that we should put our differences aside and indulge in safe, casual, early-evening sex.
Anatoly nodded in greeting as I pulled up on the emergency break and then returned all of his attention to the bike.
Okay, self-esteem gone.
I got out of my car. Turn around and walk away. I walked over to him. “Nice tire. Do you usually come out here to pay homage or is today a special occasion?”
“Someone hit my bike while it was parked here. The front fairing is seriously damaged.”
“I hate it when people try to screw with my fairing.”
“This is going to cost me at least twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“Seriously?” I tapped the part that he was examining. “It’s a flimsy piece of metal. How can that possibly add up to twenty-five hundred?”
“It’s not just a piece of metal, it’s the front fairing.”
Two months. We hadn’t spoken in two months and he wanted to complain to me about his fucking fairing? I felt my hands ball up into fists. “Well, good luck with this.” I turned and started to walk away.
“Doesn’t that hurt your palms?”
I slowly pivoted. “Excuse me?”
He had straightened up and was wearing that little half smile of his. “Whenever you’re angry you make a fist, and I’ve always wondered if your nails dug into your palms. They’re long enough that it seems like they should.”
“This is something you think about?”
“Occasionally I wonder.”
“Huh, what else do you wonder about?”
“Lately, I’ve been wondering how you are.”
“I’m fine.” I waited a beat before adding, “If that’s really been on your mind so much you could have given me a call.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me to call.”
“Why would you think that?” I asked.
“Because you told me not to.”
“Oh…and you listened to me?”
“Didn’t you want me to?”
Of course I hadn’t wanted him to. I had wanted him to fight for me, to ask me to come back to him and to tell me that he was hopelessly in love with me and couldn’t live without me. “Yes, I wanted you to listen…I’m just surprised that you did.”
Anatoly nodded, then looked down at the bike again. “My insurance won’t cover this.”
And we were back to the fairing. “I’m sure one of your clients will give you an advance if you ask them to.”
“Business has been slow lately.” Anatoly stuffed his hands into his leather jacket and smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who needs a private detective.”
Shit. This was the moment of truth. Was I a good person or a selfish bitch who would rather avoid a potentially uncomfortable social situation than give a man in need the opportunity to make a living? “I don’t know anyone who needs a P.I.” Selfish bitch it was.
“Not a single person?” By the tone of Anatoly’s voice I could tell he wasn’t really asking a question but underscoring the desperate state of his finances.
“Not a soul. All of my friends’ significant others have been annoyingly faithful lately.”
“Ah, well.” Anatoly shrugged and then looked me over carefully. “You look good.”
“Thanks.”
“Really good.”
And here comes that self-esteem again.
“There’s one more thing I’ve been wondering about.”
“Oh?”
“Last time we talked you said you wanted more of a commitment.”
“I did say that.”
“That was two months ago and we’ve both had some time to think.”
I felt my heart pick up in speed. He had reconsidered. He wanted to be in a relationship with me. Suddenly I saw my future and it was filled with emotional growth!
“I’ve missed you, Sophie,” he said, taking a step forward. “If you were willing to let go of this idea of improving on what was already a good thing, we could go back to the way things were.”
And we were back to feeling like shit. I stepped forward and ran my finger across his pecks. “Anatoly?”
He smiled his sexy half smile and leaned in closer. “Yes?”
“Take your front fairing and stick it up your ass.”

4
I don’t mind asking the tough questions. I just don’t want to hear the answers.
—C’est La Mort
“So let me get this straight,” Dena said slowly. “Melanie wants a private dick and Anatoly wants more clients, but you’re not going to get them in touch with each other.”
“That’s right,” I said. We were sitting in the back room of Dena’s store, Guilty Pleasures, and I had just finished telling her about everything that had gone down with both Melanie and Eugene and my little run-in with Anatoly and his front fairing. Beyond being my favorite supplier of sensuous flavored body oils, Dena was also my best friend in the world and had been since high school. Normally she’d be the first person I’d call after an awkward exchange with an ex or if, say…the husband of my old mentor was shot right after I made a pass at him, but she had been off attending a bondage-wear trade show in Amsterdam.
“Sophie, this is insane. It was one thing to play detective when your own life was at risk or when your sister was falsely accused of killing that asshole husband of hers, but to do it just so you don’t have to answer a few casual questions for Anatoly…”
“Nothing’s ever casual when it comes to Anatoly. Every exchange I have with the man is emotionally volatile and nerve-racking. Except for the sex, and according to Anatoly the sex we’ve had has been nothing but casual.”
“So this is about avoidance?” Dena crossed her toned lambskin-clad legs and ran her fingers through her short dark hair. “Are you sure the real reason you’re not telling Anatoly about this gig is because you’re pissed at him and you don’t want to help his business?”
“Of course not,” I shot back, but Dena’s brown Sicilian eyes were skeptical and I knew I couldn’t carry off the lie. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a little pissed. Why should I refer clients to him or help him in any way after what he did?”
“You know, I’m still not really clear on what exactly he did that was so wrong.”
“Are you kidding me? We had been dating for almost a year, Dena. A year! And it wasn’t like I was looking for a ring. You know I don’t want to get married again. I don’t even want to live with someone. I like my space too much, and besides if I moved a guy into my place how would that make Mr. Katz feel? He might think I was trying to replace him.”
“Please tell me your relationship with your cat is vastly different from your relationships with the men you date.”
“Obviously it’s different—I trust my cat. But we’re getting off the subject. The point is that all I really wanted out of Anatoly was for him to fess up to being my boyfriend and to agree to be monogamous, but he couldn’t even do that.”
“But he wasn’t actually sleeping with other people while you guys were together, right? He just didn’t want the option taken away from him.”
“Well, yeah, but who the hell wants to give her boyfriend that kind of option?”
“Me for starters,” Dena said. “If he has the option that means I’ve got it, too, and that can only be a good thing. You see, men are like See’s candy lollipops.”
“Excuse me?”
“See’s candy lollipops, Sophie. I like the chocolate pops the best, and nine times out of ten that’s what I’m going to buy when I want something sweet. But every once in a while I have a craving for butterscotch or vanilla, and if that’s what I’m craving that’s what I’m going to have. Why should I limit myself to only sucking on chocolate when I can suck on so much more?”
“But the only guy I wanted to suck on was Anatoly! Wait—can I change that to lick? I don’t really like…you know…sucking on anyone.”
“Lick him, suck him, saddle him up and ride him like a bronco if that’s what you want to do, he certainly doesn’t seem to be stopping you. He just doesn’t want to emotionally commit. So stop obsessing on words like boyfriend, girlfriend and monogamy and use him as a GBC.”
“GBC?”
“Glorified Booty Call. A guy you sleep with who also occasionally takes you out to a nice dinner.”
“I don’t think I could use Anatoly as a GBC at this point. There are too many emotions involved.”
“Emotions? Sophie, when you say emotions do you mean you care about him or…you don’t love him, do you?”
“No,” I said quickly, “but for a second there I thought maybe I was sort of falling in love with him. I mean, I hadn’t hit bottom yet but I could have gotten there pretty quick.”
“But he drives you nuts!”
I shrugged. Everything had been so perfect for a while. After the first six months of dating I had kind of figured that Anatoly was my boyfriend. I just assumed that the reason Anatoly wasn’t dating other women was because the nature of our relationship would have made doing so inappropriate, not because he hadn’t been able to fit infidelity into his schedule. Despite what Dena seemed to think, it wasn’t always what someone did or didn’t do that was important; it was why they did or didn’t do it. Clearly he hadn’t felt as strongly about me as I had felt about him. I suppose one could argue that I didn’t have the right to be angry with him just because he didn’t feel what I wanted him to feel, but I couldn’t help it. He had no right not to love me, particularly when there had been so many times in which he’d treated me as if he had.
Dena wiggled a pen between her fingers and sighed. “Sophie, men are good for a lot of things, and they’re also a nice accessory to wear to the opera. Kind of like an expensive bracelet or wrap. But when it comes to emotional stuff they do nothing but disappoint. That’s why we all need girl-friends. If you’re having a crisis and need a shoulder to cry on, call me. If you want to get off…well you can call me for that, too, since I am the one who sells vibrators, but if you’re craving a penis that isn’t battery-operated, then that’s the time to call a man. Live by those rules and you’ll never get your heart broken.”
“So you’re not a big believer in the whole ‘better to have loved and lost’ thing.”
“You were in love with your first husband and you lost…well maybe you didn’t lose him so much as you threw him out, but the point is you gave your heart away once and it didn’t work out. Why give it away again to a man who’s stupid enough not to want it?”
I laughed softly. Dena was the only person I knew who could be callous and supportive at the same time. I glanced at my watch and winced. “I’ve gotta go. Rick Wilkes managed to get me an interview with Flynn Fitzgerald this afternoon and I’m supposed to meet him at his Pleasant Hill campaign headquarters in about forty-five minutes.”
“Rick’s that guy Mary Ann met at the funeral, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“I can’t believe my uptight little cousin allowed some man to put the moves on her at a funeral,” Dena said. “I wish I could have seen that.”
“It’s probably best that you weren’t there.”
“How come?”
“Well, it was in a church and it would have really sucked if you had stepped inside and burst into f lames.”
Dena grinned. “Get the hell out of my office before I smack you.”

When I stepped inside Fitzgerald’s campaign headquarters I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. I had expected to be confronted with a scene reminiscent of the trading floor on Wall Street, but instead no one looked harried or stressed, and the only multitasking going on involved stuffing envelopes while talking on the phone. The room was unimpressive, too. Fluorescent lights, gray carpets: a far cry from the elitist image Fitzgerald had been unintentionally projecting to voters.
“Hi, Sophie!”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Johnny clearly had a knack for being able to sneak up on me.
“Wow,” he said, looking down at his watch. “You’re right on time! It’s four o’clock on the button.”
“I didn’t want to be late.” I treated him to a disinterested smile. I had the uncomfortable feeling that Johnny’s effusive babbling was his way of flirting.
“But you’re not early, either! That’s pretty impressive considering you came from Frisco. You timed it perfectly!”
“Mmm-hmm, Johnny? It’s San Francisco. Never, ever Frisco.”
Johnny laughed as if I had made a great joke. “Oh, right, Frisco is like the F word for you city people! Too funny! Do you think that there’s a name that New Yorkers hate? Like do the people upstate call it York or ’ork…”
“Johnny, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you let Fitzgerald know I’m here?”
“I’m fairly certain he already knows,” said a deep, friendly voice.
I turned to see Flynn Fitzgerald f lashing his perfectly straight white teeth. He had to look up to make eye contact with me, which surprised me since even with the three-inch heels I was wearing I only came to five-eight. But he carried himself well, giving him the illusion of height.
He gave my hand a firm shake. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“No, I just…followed the scent of victory,” I said with a smile.
Fitzgerald released a chuckle.
“I’ll call and confirm your appointments for tomorrow,” Johnny said to his boss. “Have a good interview!”
“Thank you, Keyes,” Fitzgerald said, addressing Johnny by what I assumed was his last name. He then led me to the back of the main room and into a small office. “Thank you so much for coming.” He gestured for me to sit.
“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you,” I said as I draped my jacket over the back of my chair. “You’re the one doing me a favor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Fitzgerald closed the door before sitting down behind his particle-wood desk. “Politicians should always be grateful when a journalist takes the time to talk to them. You’d be surprised how many reporters write articles without ever bothering to question the person they’re writing about.”
“Thank you, but this article isn’t so much about your campaign per se as it is about campaigning in general.” I took a small notebook and pen out of my purse. “I thought we could start by discussing how you divide up responsibilities among your top staff.”
“We all wear a lot of hats around here. I have a media consultant who spends an enormous amount of time editing my speeches, a speechwriter who spends hours talking to the press, and so on and so forth.”
“So everyone here is a jack-of-all-trades?”
“You could say that.”
“It must be hard with Eugene gone. I mean, with the workload.”
“O’Reilly was a wonderful man and his absence will be sorely felt. However, I have an incredible staff and they’ll rise to the occasion.”
“What was Eugene responsible for?”
Fitzgerald’s smile tightened. “As I said before, we are all responsible for a little bit of everything.”
“But what did the bulk of his responsibilities entail?”
For a moment Fitzgerald didn’t answer and I had the horrible suspicion that he had just figured out that I wasn’t there for the reasons I had claimed. Perhaps it was the knee-length leather skirt that was giving me away. Only Ann Coulter could pull off right-wing shtick in leather. The rest of us needed to wear pastels or risk being called out as imposters. But then Fitzgerald’s expression softened and he leaned back in his chair. “Eugene was a researcher. But every campaign is run differently, as I’m sure you’ll discover if you talk with Anne Brooke. Have you made an appointment to speak with her?”
I shifted slightly in my seat. The idea had never occurred to me. “I’ll be speaking to her soon.”
Fitzgerald lifted his eyebrows. “So she agreed to an interview? I wasn’t sure if she would since, as you probably know, the National Review has the unjust reputation of being somewhat biased.”
Shit, I had just walked into a trap and an obvious one at that. “I told her the same thing I told you. This article is less about the politics involved in the campaigns and more about the campaigns themselves.” Fitzgerald nodded but didn’t say anything. “Plus, I told her I was impressed that she had the courage to speak out against the cigarette tax, despite its popularity within the Democratic Party.”
“Right, the cigarette tax. It may be the only issue Brooke and I agree on. That and Robert Louis Stevenson, the school she chose for her son. I went there myself. However, I do find it odd that a woman who refuses to support school vouchers would send her son to a private boarding school.”
“Guess she has her reasons.” I didn’t know enough about Brooke and her son’s situation to be able to comfortably comment further. “Are you and your wife planning on sending your children to Robert Louis Stevenson?”
Fitzgerald frowned and looked down at his desk. “We haven’t been blessed with children, though we are planning on adopting.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful father,” I said, unsure if that was true. He was being nice and appeared to have some gentlemanly qualities, but my gut told me that he wasn’t a spare-the-rod kind of guy.
“Thank you. Getting back to Brooke, she’s run a very good campaign so far, but then again I expected nothing less. She’s a very calculating woman.”
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not sure her campaign has been all that great. Since it began she’s had to spend more time explaining her previous affairs and drug use than talk about her positions, and then one of her campaign workers threw himself out of the fifteenth-story window of her campaign office. I’ve got to think it’s a bad sign when the people who are supporting you start killing themselves.”
If Fitzgerald was amused he showed no sign of it. “What happened to that boy was tragic.”
“What happened…to him?”
“He was only twenty-two, much too young to die,” Fitzgerald replied. “It was just an awful thing.”
“But it didn’t happen to him, he did it to himself.”
“The loss of a life is a tragedy under any circumstances. As for Brooke, she wouldn’t have to defend her reputation if she would just live a moral life. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the woman personally. In fact I pray for her every day.”
I tried to imagine how these little conversations would go. “Dear God, please help Anne Brooke get her priorities straight and decide to become a stay-at-home mom sometime before November.”
“She’s cheated on her last husband three times that we know about, and when O’Reilly told me about her aborted pregnancy…” Fitzgerald stopped short. I couldn’t be positive, but I thought I saw him flinch.
“Eugene told you about that?”
“Yes, well, I can’t be the first to know about everything, can I?” He laughed, but it sounded forced. “I think he read about it in some periodical.”
“So he found out about it after it came out in the press.”
“I don’t really remember. Are you going to be comparing Brooke’s campaign and mine?”
“Yeah, sure. Eugene told me that the workers on this campaign had become sort of an extended family, if you will. That everyone really looks out for one another.”
“Yes, everyone here is very close.”
“It certainly seemed that way at Eugene’s funeral. Rick Wilkes gave a beautiful eulogy and so did…um…who was that woman who spoke? The one who said she met him during this campaign?”
“Maggie Gallagher. Gallagher is my media consultant. She and O’Reilly bonded immediately. I think their Irish heritage played a role in that.”
“Is Gallagher here today?” I was following Fitzgerald’s lead by referring to her by her last name. In California pretty much everybody called one another by their first name, but clearly Fitzgerald had a preference for surnames.
“No, her husband is having surgery so she’ll be out for the next two days.”
“How awful. Is he going to be all right?”
“He’ll be fine, he’s had severe back pain for years and Gallagher finally convinced him to get a laminectomy.”
A bad back usually translated into a bad sex life. Plenty of people had been driven to adultery for lesser reasons. In her eulogy Gallagher said Eugene had been a father figure to her, but maybe she had a Freudian thing going on.
“O’Reilly hit the nail on the head when he compared us all to a family,” Fitzgerald continued. “Family unity is definitely what this campaign is all about. Politicians should take the principles and values they nurture within their homes and apply them to their work environment and their policies. That’s why character is so important.”
Fitzgerald was beginning to sound like one of his commercials. “Campaigning must be incredibly nerve-racking. There’s so much on the line,” I said. “I remember Melanie telling me a few weeks ago that Eugene was a bit on edge. How do you and your staff deal with the stress?”
“I find that prayer helps.”
The phone rang and Fitzgerald smiled apologetically before picking up.
I studied him while he proceeded to mutter a series of I-sees and interestings into the receiver. There was something about him that I didn’t trust—something about his hair. It was as if all that pomade was hiding something, maybe even the beginnings of a bald spot. I had always felt that men who tried to hide something as innocuous as hair loss were also likely to go to great pains to hide all of their other issues and faults.
“Ms. Katz, I’m so sorry,” Fitzgerald said as he hung up, “something’s come up and I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this interview short.”
“I think I have all the information I need for now, but if I have any further questions…”
“Just give me a call.” He rose from his seat and waited for me to do the same. “I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.”
Funny, he didn’t look happy. He looked nauseated. Whatever had “come up” couldn’t have been good. “Okay,” I said, “then maybe you could help me get an appointment with Maggie Gallagher and Rick…”
“Of course. I’m sorry to rush you out like this, but the mayor of Orinda is under the impression that I’m scheduled to meet with him this afternoon, although I would have sworn that meeting was tomorrow. But that’s politics for you. No one’s ever on the same page.”
“Totally understand.” I stuffed my notebook in my purse as he escorted me out of his office. Johnny was sitting at a desk right outside the door, clicking off his computer. “Did you have a good interview?”
“It was fine,” Fitzgerald said a bit too quickly. “Are you leaving for the day, Keyes?”
“I was going to, but if you need me to stay, I can. I don’t mind staying.”
“No, you go enjoy your evening,” Fitzgerald said. “Perhaps you can escort Ms. Katz to her car.”
“Sure thing, boss!” Johnny looked a little too excited about the task.
“Wonderful. Ms. Katz—” Fitzgerald turned to me one last time “—it’s been a pleasure.”
Fitzgerald disappeared back into his office, leaving me in Johnny’s incapable hands. I took one look at his dippy grin and started booking it toward the elevator. “You don’t need to escort me to my car,” I said over my shoulder as Johnny struggled to keep up with me. “It’s really not necessary.”
“I insist!” Johnny said. He jumped onto the elevator with me and eagerly pressed the button that would bring us to the ground floor. “That interview was shorter than I expected.”
“I had thought it was going to be longer, but as it turns out Fitzgerald forgot about an appointment with the mayor of Orinda.”
“The mayor of Orinda? He doesn’t have an appointment with him today.”
“Apparently the mayor wrote down the wrong date.” The elevator doors opened and I started race-walking toward my car.
“But I’m the one who confirms Fitzgerald’s appointments, and I don’t know anything about any appointment with the Orinda mayor today or even this month.” Johnny’s voice was getting a little panicky. “I couldn’t have forgotten something that important. Oh, jeez, what if I did? No wonder Fitzgerald looked kind of mad when he came out of the office. What if I messed up? I’ll be in so much trouble!”
“I guess you might be,” I said, not really caring. We had reached my car and I was desperately fishing for my keys.
“You want to join me for my dinner plans tonight?”
“No.” I knew it was rude to be so blunt, but clearly Johnny wasn’t good at picking up on subtlety.
“How come?”
Subtlety definitely wasn’t his thing. “Look, Johnny, you seem like a really nice guy but…”
“I’m actually meeting Rick Wilkes for dinner at Max’s Opera Café in Frisco and was hoping you could join us! You know, the one on Van Ness. He’s taking me out for my birthday—it was my birthday yesterday. Maybe you could bring your friend Mary Ann. I think Rick really liked her.”
“You’re meeting Rick Wilkes?” This could be helpful. I needed to talk to Rick, and if I could get him in a social setting (other than a funeral) he might be a little more chatty than if I set up a formal interview. “What time’s dinner?”
Johnny beamed. “Six-thirty. Do you think Mary Ann will come? Rick would really like that.”
“I’ll give her a call,” I promised. “Nice of you to invite us to your birthday dinner,” I added. “Especially since we’re all just friends.”
“No problem, it’ll be fun!” He looked down at his watch. “I guess I should let you go. I want to change before dinner. I want to look good for you, my new lady friend.” He winked at me before turning and heading off in the opposite direction.
Ew. I always attracted the winners.

I called Mary Ann on my way back to the city and she quickly agreed to dinner. I had a feeling that she was as interested in Rick as he was in her, which surprised me a little. Men were always asking Mary Ann out but she rarely said yes. Despite her naiveté she was pretty discerning when it came to the opposite sex.
Getting back to the city took far longer than I had anticipated. I was hit with a major Frappuccino craving but couldn’t find a Starbucks (a problem I hadn’t had since 1994). Then I hit rush-hour traffic, there was an accident on the Bay Bridge, yada, yada, yada.
When I finally arrived in my neighborhood I only had fifteen minutes to spare before getting to the restaurant. I thought about just going straight to dinner, but I needed to feed my cat and my feet were screaming to be freed from the designer torture devices I had confined them in.
I ran upstairs to my third-floor, two-bedroom f lat, and went straight to the bathroom, then rushed into the living room, where I pressed the play button on my answering machine and sat down on the arm of my sofa as I began to unbuckle my strappy sandals.
“I know what you’re really up to, Sophie,” a voice began. I did a quick double take. The voice wasn’t normal. It didn’t even sound fully human. Someone had left a message on my machine using a voice synthesizer.
“You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat,” the caller continued, “and that would be a shame…because I do…love…cats.”
And that was it. The whole message.
I looked down at the one shoe I still had on and tried to make sense of what I had just heard. “Curiosity killed the cat,” I repeated. Was that a death threat or a donation request from the SPCA?
Where was my cat?
My heart jumped to my throat. Where was Mr. Katz?
In a f lash I was on my feet, my gaze quickly moving from the window seat to the couch to the love seat. Not there. Not under the coffee table or under the dining table.
I opened my mouth to call out to him, but I was too scared to actually make a sound. He had to be here, he just had to be!
With one shoe still securely on my foot I hobbled into the kitchen. No Mr. Katz. Okay, no need to panic yet. He could be asleep in my bedroom, or in the guest room. I lived in a f lat, not a mansion. I just needed to check the other rooms.
But of course even that wasn’t necessary. If Mr. Katz was home and able to walk I could get him to come to me. I reached out and, after sending up a quick silent prayer, pressed down on the electric can opener.
I squeezed my eyes closed. “Give him to the count of ten, Sophie,” I whispered to myself. “One, two…”
I felt something soft against my ankles. I looked down at Mr. Katz, who was nuzzling me and swishing his tail in anticipation of his next meal.
“Oh, thank God!” I dropped to my knees and tried to scoop him up in my arms. He evaded me and jumped up on the counter instead. He cast one eager glance toward the can opener, then narrowed his kitty eyes and glared down at me accusingly.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really do have wet food,” I assured him, my voice shaky with relief.
Mr. Katz didn’t look convinced.
I got up and pulled a can of Fancy Feast from the cupboard and waved it in front of him. “See, it’s all good. I have food and you’re here, safe and gluttonous as always. No need to freak.”
I emptied half the can into his food bowl and then hurried back to my bedroom to change into a cute but much more comfortable pair of Munros, conscious of the fact that my car could be towed any minute.
The call had been a prank. That’s all. Although, the last time I had gotten a prank call it had been a serial killer playing the joke….
But this was different. Serious psychos killed cats, they didn’t love them. Everybody knew that the best way to identify which child was most likely to grow up to be a serial killer was to figure out which one liked to torture animals (which didn’t bode well for my nephew, but that was a different issue). The point was, I had nothing to worry about.
I just wish the caller hadn’t known my name.

5
When it comes to men I prefer the strong silent type. The ones who speak annoy me.
—C’est La Mort
By the time I got to Max’s, Mary Ann, Johnny and Rick had already arrived and were waiting at a table, Mary Ann and Rick enjoying a glass of cola and Johnny a glass of what looked like Scotch.
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. I had to change and, um, feed my cat. My sweet, very curious cat.”
I gauged Rick’s and Johnny’s reaction. I couldn’t think of a single reason why either of them would have left that message on my answering machine, but then again I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone else would, either.
Rick barely even seemed to hear me. He was too busy ogling Mary Ann. Johnny, on the other hand, reacted the way he always did, eagerly. “You’re a cat person! I should have guessed, you look like a cat person. I mean not like a crazy old cat lady or anything, but like you have it in you to provide an animal with care and affection. I’ve always wanted a pet but I’m allergic. But I can always take a Claritin if you want to introduce me to your pussy.”
As soon as he said it his eyes widened with embarrassment and Rick burst out laughing. “I didn’t mean your—I would never say that! That’s the word my last girlfriend used. For her cat! I really am talking about cats!” He dropped his head in his hands. “I’m seriously messing this up, aren’t I?”
“You’re just a little nervous,” Mary Ann said, giving him a kindly pat on his shoulder. “I think it’s sweet. Don’t you, Sophie?” She shot me a pleading look. Mary Ann was a little more sympathetic to the embarrassment of others than I was.
“It’s sweet,” I said grudgingly as I took my place at the round table between Johnny and Rick. “But you don’t need to be nervous, after all we’re all just friends here, remember?”
Johnny removed his head from his hands and f lashed me a relieved smile. “Thanks for understanding. I get a little tongue-tied around beautiful women, and when that beautiful woman happens to be my favorite author, well, I’m done for.”
A young waitress approached our table and handed me a menu. “Would you like another Scotch?” she asked, looking down at Johnny’s now-empty glass.
Johnny nodded eagerly. “That’d be great. It was the Macallan 18.” He pushed his chair back and smiled down at me. “I need to use the boy’s room. Be back in a minute.”
I watched his back retreat and shook my head in wonder. “Is he always like this?”
“Not quite this bad,” Rick said with a laugh. “He honestly is very nervous. He’s a huge fan of your work so he’s star-struck. Plus, what he said was true, he has a habit of getting tongue-tied in the company of a woman he’s become interested in. Give him a chance, he’ll calm down.”
“Without the help of medication?”
“Yes, without medication. He’s a little naive and inexperienced, but he’s a good guy and he’s sort of like a little brother to me. I’m trying to be a mentor to him at work.”
“How nice of you to take him under your wing!” Mary Ann said. “And taking him out for his birthday was nice, too.”
“A whole bunch of people from the office took him out for drinks on his real birthday yesterday but I had other plans. This is my way of making it up to him and apparently I’m being rewarded for my good deed.” He leaned in a little closer to Mary Ann. “I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t think it was right to ask for your phone number at a funeral, but I’ll admit that I wanted to.”
Mary Ann blushed prettily and took a sip of her cola. She really did like him, which was understandable since he was kind of likable. Unlike…
“I’m back!” Johnny sat down at my side. “Miss me?”
I bit my lip to prevent myself from answering honestly.

After I consumed two chocolate martinis Johnny went from being insufferable to being vaguely annoying.
I had been hoping that Rick would switch to alcohol at some point, since I needed his lips loose, but he and Mary Ann steadfastly stuck to soda. He did seem a little drunk, though, but it was Mary Ann that was causing the intoxication. When one of the singing waiters (all the waiters at Max’s Opera Café sing, thus the name) approached the mike in order to perform a rendition of a Broadway show tune, Rick would turn his eyes to them politely, but the rest of the time he kept his focus on my friend as she devoured Max’s signature Meaty Lasagna. I had hoped to discreetly control the conversation so that I could get everyone talking about Eugene without having to ask pointed questions. I realized that discretion would not be mine when we got to the point of ordering dessert without a single word about Eugene.
I waited for Mary Ann to finish telling us all about the features, advantages and benefits of Lancôme’s Juicy Tubes before asking pointed question number one. “How long ago did you two first meet Eugene?”
“Huh?” Rick was preoccupied with Mary Ann’s juicy lips. “I’ve known him most of my life. He worked with my father when they were in the FBI.”
“I didn’t meet him until I got the job with Fitzgerald,” Johnny said. “He was always nice to everyone on Fitzgerald’s team, just a really swell guy.” He laughed. “Did you hear that? I just used the word swell. Does anyone use that word anymore? Well, I guess I do, don’t I? Let’s see if I can use it again. These bread sticks sure are swell.”
It took everything in me not to use one of the swell bread sticks to whack him on the head. “What did he do between leaving the FBI and joining Fitzgerald’s team?” I asked, angling my body away from Johnny and toward Rick.
Rick fiddled with his fork. “Aren’t you friends with Melanie?”
“We’re like family,” I confirmed.
“Then how come she never told you any of this?”
A damn good question. “When I say family I mean she’s like a favorite aunt. I love her to death but I don’t see her all the time. For the most part Melanie and I have been out of touch since she moved and married Eugene. I never got the full scoop and asking her now feels a bit insensitive.”
“Poor Melanie,” Johnny sighed. “I think she just wants some company. She’s such a nice lady. Kind of reminds me of my mom.”
“I bet she’d like your mom,” Rick mused. “They’re both religious and passionate about reading. Maybe you should introduce them.”
“Great idea! I take my mom out to lunch all the time,” Johnny explained. “I think I’ll ask Melanie if she wants to come with us next time. She could probably use some more friends. Don’t you think so, Sophie?”
“Yeah, sure, great idea.” I tried to imagine the kind of parents that would have produced a man like Johnny. No, better not go there. I turned back to Rick. “So, anyway, you were telling me about Eugene’s work.”
“Yes.” Rick f lashed Johnny a sympathetic smile. I think it was pretty obvious that he was striking out. “Eugene worked on a lot of political campaigns,” he explained. “He had so many areas of expertise, but I personally think his greatest strength lay in his research ability.” He smiled fondly. “The man should have been a librarian.”
“Wait a minute. What kind of research?” I sat back in my chair as a new realization hit me. “He dug up the dirt.”
“Excuse me?” Rick dropped his eyes to his food. Johnny just looked confused.
“Fitzgerald hired him to be an operative of sorts,” I said, “to get the goods on the competition. In this case the competition would be Anne Brooke.”
“Eugene and everyone else working for Fitzgerald have the same basic job,” Rick said a bit too sharply. “To convince the voters to put their faith in our candidate…no, more than that, our job is to make them love Fitzgerald. Tearing down the opposing candidate isn’t going to do that.”
“Are you telling me that Fitzgerald didn’t hire Eugene to dig up dirt?” I asked incredulously. “Because while dissing Brooke may not, in and of itself, score Fitzgerald enough votes to win, it does seem to be enough to keep things in a dead heat.”
“Eugene may have stumbled onto a few details regarding Brooke’s personal life,” Rick hedged, “but I don’t think any of Brooke’s past indiscretions are important enough to seriously affect the polls. Fitzgerald is managing to give Brooke a run for her money because of his proposed policies and positions on the issues. I know that people in San Francisco see him as a conservative extremist, but you have to remember that people in Contra Costa County see San Francisco as a beacon of liberal extremism. Fitzgerald’s family-values platform strikes a chord with the folks he wants to represent.”
“Fitzgerald really does have a lot of great things to say about family,” Johnny piped in. “He knows God and family are the most important things, but he’s not one of those dowdy politicians who thinks the only way to have fun is to take the wife to a church picnic in the beige family Oldsmobile. He drives her there in a green Sportrac! It’s like he’s the cool evangelical husband who knows how to live it up!”
“Give me a break,” I scoffed. “Brooke’s personal reputation is so bad it’s even made the San Francisco papers. If voters liked Fitzgerald so much he’d have a huge lead on Brooke, but as it stands now he’s never been ahead by more than three points, which is within the margin of error for most of those polls. Brooke may be more liberal than what the people of Contra Costa are used to, but they’re more comfortable with her love of labor unions than they are with Fitzgerald’s hatred of contraceptives. Based on his positions he should be losing this race. The only way he’s going to win is if Brooke self-destructs, which she seems to be doing,”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s self-destructing,” Rick mumbled.
“I would,” Johnny said. “You’d have to be pretty self-destructive to marry that broccoli guy! You do know she’s married to the guy who wrote Broccoli for Life. Can you imagine how much gas he must have? I know, I know, it’s a gross thing to think about, but it’s funny since—”
“She was arrested for drunk driving at seventeen,” I said, completely ignoring Johnny and holding up my fingers to count off Brooke’s faux pas. “When pressed, she admitted to taking all sorts of drugs in college, she had an abortion at the tail end of her first trimester when she was in her early thirties, and a former coworker from her private-sector days is claiming that she slept with her boss in exchange for promotions and raises. Furthermore, we know that she cheated on her previous husband at least two times. This woman makes Clinton look like a poster boy for moral behavior. And now there are accusations that she cheated on her taxes and broke one of the fifty million rules regarding campaign fund-raising. But no one knew any of that stuff before she announced her run for Congress. Now, look me in the eye and tell me that Fitzgerald didn’t hire Eugene to dig that information up so it could be leaked to the media.”
Rick swallowed hard and evaded my obvious attempts at eye contact. “Brooke’s problems have helped our camp,” he said begrudgingly, “but that has nothing to do with Eugene or what he did for the campaign.”
Just then a large group of waiters materialized carrying a huge piece of chocolate cake and singing a perfectly harmonized version of “Happy Birthday.”
“You guys did this for me?” Johnny asked. “This is great! Isn’t this great?”
No, it wasn’t great. Rick was lying to me; I was sure of it, which meant that I was right about the dirt-digging stuff. Some of the accusations floating around about Brooke were so bad that if anyone was able to prove them she would most likely lose her freedom right along with the election. If Eugene had been able to prove that she had done something really awful she might have felt the need to shut him up quickly. Ruthless political ambition mixed with a healthy dose of survival instinct. It was a dangerous combination. And one that scared me, a lot.
The rest of the evening passed without any more revelations. Johnny continued his pathetic attempts to flirt with me and Rick and Mary Ann became more and more enamored. We eventually parted ways after Mary Ann and Rick exchanged numbers. I gave my number to Johnny as well, but only because he said he might be able to convince Maggie Gallagher to agree to an interview. All I wanted to do was go home, curl up in front of the television. But any hope I had of achieving a state of calm went out the window when I saw Anatoly sitting on my doorstep.
“You lied to me,” he snapped.
“How is that possible?” I quibbled. “I haven’t been talking to you.”
“You spoke to me for five minutes the other day, which is apparently all the time you needed. Did it ever occur to you that the reason I wasn’t ready to commit was because you were so rarely honest with me?”
I blinked in surprise. “That’s the reason?”
“No, but if it was it would have been a logical one.”
“I think I hate you.”
Anatoly’s mouth turned up slightly at the corners. “Another lie.”
“Why are you here?”
“Your friend Melanie O’Reilly called me.”
“What! Why?” The pounding in my temples increased in force. “How the hell did she even get your number?”
“I’m listed in the phone book under private detectives. That is my vocation if you recall.”
“Yes I recall,” I emphasized the last word to underscore my feelings about his condescension, “but Melanie doesn’t need a private detective. She has me.”
Anatoly lifted his eyebrow. “Explain to me how this is helpful.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been gathering information for her!”
Anatoly took a step forward and put a hand on each one of my arms. “I know I’ve said this before, but since you never listen I’ll say it again. You are not a detective. You are a writer. You have no business running around the city trying to solve murders.”
“I’m not trying to solve a murder. I’m just doing a little research.” I unlocked the door to my building and tried to close it in Anatoly’s face, but he was too quick for me and scooted into the lobby.
“I’m not in the mood for this, Anatoly,” I snapped. “If you want to talk to me you call me. You do not get to just show up at my place unannounced.”
“I called your home and cell. You didn’t pick up.”
“Bullshit.” I reached into my purse and fished for my cell phone. “I’ve had this on all day and you didn’t…oh.” I looked at the words “one missed call” printed across the screen of my Nokia. The restaurant had been a little noisy. “So you phoned,” I grumbled. “You still shouldn’t have come over without talking to me first.”
“We can talk now,” he said. “Melanie told me that Flynn Fitzgerald hired Eugene to get the goods on Anne Brooke.”
Melanie told him that? “Tell me something I don’t know.”
He crossed his arms and leaned his back against the wall of mailboxes. “I think there’s a chance Eugene’s death might be politically motivated.”
“Really?” I tried to swallow my panic. Hearing that idea vocalized by someone else gave it a validity that I didn’t want it to have.
“Melanie offered me a significant sum of money to look into Eugene’s death. She said she wanted to hire me before but you told her I was unavailable.”
“You aren’t available…at least not emotionally.”
“I’m going to take the case,” Anatoly said.
“You are?” Maybe this was a good thing after all. He was forcing the issue of my talking to him, anyway, so now I could give him the information I had collected so far and start focusing on my next book. And if I did have to talk to him, this was the way to do it, in my lobby while he was being too obnoxious to be attractive.
“But I’m going to tell her I have one condition,” he continued. “I don’t want you involved in the case at all. You are not to question people or research Eugene O’Reilly’s death in any way.”
I blinked in disbelief. “Excuse me? What gives you the right to tell me that I can’t be involved?”
“Sophie, in the past few years you’ve ticked off several people and a few of them have been murderers.”
“So I’ve had a few guns pointed at me. You even pointed a gun at me once.”
“You were wielding a broken bottle at the time.”
“It wasn’t a rock-paper-scissors game. There was no need for you to trump me.”
Anatoly shook his head in annoyance. “What I’m saying is that you have been very lucky. You have behaved stupidly in extremely dangerous situations and yet you have managed to stay alive.”
“Which is more than they’re going to be able to say about you unless you change your tone.”
“This time you may need more than luck,” Anatoly said, completely ignoring my threat. “If the motivations for this killing can somehow be traced back to Eugene’s actions in the FBI, or worse yet, his position on Flynn Fitzgerald’s campaign, then Eugene’s death isn’t so much a murder as it is an assassination. As dangerous as it is to antagonize serial killers, it’s even more dangerous to antagonize professional assassins. I may not be able to protect you this time.”
I laughed bitterly. “What the hell are you talking about? The closest you’ve ever come to protecting me is when you put on a Trojan!”
“This is too dangerous, Sophie. Let me handle it.”
“And what makes you more qualified to handle this than me? Oh, let me guess, it has something to do with the Y chromosome.”
“No, it has to do with my service in the Russian and Israeli armies.”
“Being a mercenary doesn’t make you more qualified to deal with professional killers.”
“First of all, I’m not and have never been a mercenary. I was a citizen of both countries at the time of my service. Second, of course it makes me more qualified! What the hell do you think a mercenary is?”
I leaned forward and looked him in the eyes. “I told Melanie that I’d help her and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Getting me to take her case is helping her. You’re done now.”
“Um, I don’t think so.”
Anatoly glared at me. “You’re making a big mistake with this, Sophie.”
“If that’s true it’s my mistake to make. I’ve already interviewed Flynn Fitzgerald and his top adviser, and I have an appointment to interview Anne Brooke.” Okay, that last part was a lie but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m in this now. If Melanie wants to hire you, fine, she can do that. But if you actually plan on solving this case and not just bilking her for thousands of dollars for no reason, then you might want to start working with me instead of treating me like a spoiled five-year-old.”
“It would be easier to treat you like an adult if you’d start acting like one.”
“This from the man who three months ago bought a bunch of lawn chairs to use for his living room furniture.”
“They’re comfortable!”
“They are so not comfortable. I’m going upstairs now.”
Anatoly smirked. “Is that an invitation?”
“Yes. I’m inviting you to walk out of my building before I call the police.”
“The police?” Anatoly laughed. “Are they still taking your calls?”
“Out!”
Anatoly shook his head resignedly. “There’s nothing I can do to convince you to stop investigating this case, is there?”
“Nope.”
“Fine.” Anatoly yanked the door open. “I’ll call you about the information you’ve gotten so far and accompany you to your interview with Anne Brooke.”
“You’re not going on that interview.”
“If you don’t invite me I’ll tell her people about the time you signed a petition supporting the death penalty, and then you know she’ll refuse to see you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Anatoly raised one eyebrow and then strolled out onto the street, leaving me seething in frustration.
It wasn’t until I was back up in my apartment that I realized that I had just insisted on doing something that I didn’t want to do.
I cursed under my breath and plopped myself down on the love seat where Mr. Katz was sleeping. What if the cat message on the phone had been a death threat after all? What if the caller was actually Eugene’s killer and now he had decided that I was going to be his next victim? I should call Anatoly right now and tell him I’d changed my mind.
Then I thought about the smug expression he would be wearing if I did that.
No. I couldn’t back out now. There were very few things in this world that were worth risking your life for. Pissing Anatoly off was definitely one of them.

6
Politicians are like cartoon characters. With a few charming one-liners and a lot of corporate support, they persuade people to excuse their violent and stupid behavior and learn to love them.
—C’est La Mort
“Did I hear you correctly?” Marcus asked as he ran his fingers through my hair, his handsome brown face scrunched up in confusion. “You are going to investigate Eugene O’Reilly’s murder, even though you don’t want to, and now Darth Vader is threatening your cat?”
I sighed and studied Ooh La La through the mirror in front of me. One of the things I liked about the salon was that the stations were far enough apart and the music just loud enough so that you were able to converse with your hairstylist without worrying about being overheard. That and the fact that they served free cappuccinos and mimosas.
“I didn’t say he was Darth Vader, although now that you mention it, the synthesized voice did kind of have a Darth Vader-like quality, so who knows? It’s as likely as anything else at this point. But he didn’t threaten my cat. Whoever called really likes cats. He was emphatic about that,” I said. “And I do want to investigate this. I just don’t think I want to.”
Marcus shook his head hard enough to make his short, well-groomed dreadlocks jiggle. “You lost me.”
“What I’m saying is that I want to do it more than I don’t want to do it. I just have to figure out why that is.”
“I thought you were helping out your mentor.”
“That was the original excuse, but I’m not sure that holds up anymore. She asked me to get her in touch with Anatoly so she could hire him to investigate. I was the one who suggested that I do my amateur-sleuth thing. So technically Anatoly was right when he said that my obligation to her ended as soon as he took the case.”
“Technically he was right? Honey, he was completely right. He was absolutely right. Pick any positive adverb, place it in front of the word ‘right’ and that’s pretty much what Anatoly was.”
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “But I’m still not going to stop investigating this case.”
“Because you want to.”
“Yes.”
“Even though you don’t think you want to.”
“Don’t ask me why, but I feel like I need to do more for Melanie than what I’ve done for her so far.” I tried to turn to face him but Marcus held my head in place, so I was forced to talk to the mirror. “Besides, if I stop investigating now Anatoly will think it’s because he told me to stop. I can’t give him the satisfaction.”
“So you’re proving a point.”
“Kind of.”
“You realize that’s insane.”
“No, it’s not,” I insisted. “Do you remember what you told me right after I caught my dear ex-hubby screwing that dancer?”
“I said that he was an asshole.”
“Yes, but you also said that someday I would be an incredibly successful and famous writer and I would be able to flaunt that success in front of Scott. You said he would suffer every day of his life because he would know that he blew his chance to reap the rewards of my accomplishments and that I would gain an enormous amount of satisfaction from that.”
Marcus grinned. “And look at you now. C’est La Mort was on the New York Times bestseller list for five weeks straight. I am wise and all-knowing.”
“No, you’re not because Scott fell off the face of the earth so I have never had the chance to rub it in his face. He’s probably living like a king in some third world country where they have legalized gambling and women waving around I-will-hook-for-food poster boards. Living well is only a good revenge if those you’re trying to get revenge on know you’re living well.”
“And this is pertinent because…?”
“Because I don’t repeat my mistakes. I’m seriously pissed at Anatoly and I want to show him that I’m better at his job than he is. This is my chance to make him miserable and I just can’t pass up an opportunity like that.”
“Okay, right now you’re putting out a ‘Kathy Bates in Misery ’ kind of vibe.”
“I’m not crazy!” I snapped. “But I’ll admit that maybe I sound…well, a little bit less than sane. If I were to give one of my characters this motivation, Publishers Weekly would tear me apart. That’s why you need to help me come up with a good cover story. Melanie has left me five messages asking me to leave this whole investigation to Anatoly and I have to find a way to change her mind about that.”
“But aren’t you too busy for these kind of games? Shouldn’t you be writing a book or something?”
“Well, yeah. But, Marcus, did it ever occur to you that investigating this case is going to help me write my next book? What better way to research a cozy mystery than to start volunteering as a real-life amateur sleuth?”
“This has nothing to do with research.”
“Of course it doesn’t, but if anyone else asks me about this, that’s what I’m going to say. There! That’s my reason. Or does that sound dumb?”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, you’re way past dumb, now you’re moving toward idiotic.” Marcus plugged in a curling iron. “Honey, think about what you’re getting yourself mixed up in. You said it yourself, this murder could have been politically motivated. Eugene could have pissed off the wrong Democrat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said with more conviction than I actually felt. “Democrats don’t kill people.”
“Are you sure about that?” Marcus asked as he parted my hair at the side. “Maybe this is the party’s new strategy for getting the support of the NRA. And then there’s that cat message. Sounds like code-speak to me and code-speak is something government agents are likely to use. You know how they talk—” he bent down so he was ear level and said in a low, dramatic voice “‘—the eagle has landed—shoot the moon.’”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s from an old Sean Penn movie…at least I think that’s how it goes. Nonetheless, the cat thing probably means that you’re dealing with a politician who’s coveting the support of fanatical animal rights organizations, and as it so happens, Ms. Brooke recently announced that she’s going to write a big ol’ check to help save a few endangered toads. You could be dealing with the next Stalin!”
“I probably should reserve judgment on Anne Brooke until I meet her, but I have to say, she doesn’t really strike me as the Stalin type.”
“She bears certain similarities,” Marcus said as he attacked my split ends with his sparkling silver clippers. “I saw her interviewed on Channel Two Morning News….”
“Didn’t you tell me last month that you were going to start dedicating your mornings to reading your favorite authors?” I asked.
“That was the plan, but somebody absconded with my Lee Nichols book before I had a chance to read it.”
I winced. “I guess I told you I was going to return that last week, huh?”
“Yes, you did, and I’m very cross about it. But back to Anne. I saw the interview, and girlfriend’s definitely on the paranoid side. She was complaining about being mistreated by the media, which you know is just another way of saying that she wants to control the media. Also, Stalin paid lip service to the teachings of Lenin, and in this interview Brooke actually quoted the lyrics of a song by Lennon from his Imagine album or something. And to top it all off, I heard that Brooke’s insurance carrier is State Farm.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Why is that important?”
“Are you kidding? Honey, where do you think Stalin sent all those poor peasants? To the State Farm!”
“Not the insurance company, you dork!”
“Still, it’s a sign.”
I watched as little snippets of my hair fell on the cream marble tile floor. “I’m going to do this, Marcus.”
He released a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why I continue to fool myself into believing that you’ll ever take any of the advice I give you. You wouldn’t be you if you suddenly became rational.”
“Rational? This from the man who just likened the Beatles’ lead singer to the founder of the Communist Party?”
“Johnny wrote a whole song telling people to imagine a world where there wasn’t any religion and everybody shared everything—basically just a rockin’ version of The Communist Manifesto. But seriously, I worry about you, Sophie. I hate the thought of anyone hurting even one chemically treated hair on your head.”
“I won’t get hurt. I can do this…with a little help from my friends. Can I count on you to help me with this marginally important mission?”
Marcus stopped cutting my hair and pretended to consider the question. “Will I help you put your life in danger for no good reason whatsoever? Hmm, I’m going to go with no.”
“Will you at least help me think of a reason to give Melanie for my continued involvement?”
“Tell her…oh, I know! Tell her that while Anatoly is a great P.I., he’s also a recovering alcoholic and that you need to work with him in order to make sure he stays on the sobriety wagon.”
“Hey,” I said slowly, “that’s good! But what if she talks to Anatoly about it?”
“Tell her that he just recently joined AA and that he doesn’t want anyone to know. As I see it, she’ll either fire him, in which case your revenge will be taken care of and you can relax, or she’ll ask you to keep tabs on him, which means that you’ll have to stay on the case, which is what you claim is your unconscious desire.”
“Marcus, that’s genius!”
“Of course it is. My smile isn’t the only reason they call me brilliant.”

The minute I left Ooh La La I was on the phone to Melanie. It was surprisingly easy to convince her of Anatoly’s alcoholism and it wasn’t much harder to get her to agree to my continued participation in the investigation. I suspected that she had hired Anatoly out of guilt. She wasn’t comfortable with the idea of putting me at risk by asking me to investigate a murder. But guilt aside, I think deep down she wanted me to be involved. Melanie was a private person, and furthermore she wanted people to think fondly of her deceased husband. She knew that if Anatoly or I discovered information that would cast Eugene in a negative light, I would do everything in my power to make sure that information stayed out of the papers, even if that meant withholding information regarding a criminal act from the police. Perhaps Anatoly would do the same without my urging, but she didn’t know that.
So, as far as I was concerned, it was a win-win. I could help a woman in need while simultaneously sticking it to my chauvinistic ex. I was certain that Ms. magazine would be proud.

7
A little competition never hurt anyone…with the notable exception of the losers.
—C’est La Mort
“These napkins smell funny.”
I gave Leah a weird look before taking a sniff of my own cloth napkin. Four days had passed since I had told Marcus I was going to continue to investigate Eugene’s violent death, and now I had just made the same declaration to my sister as we prepared to have brunch in a new restaurant located in downtown Pleasanton.
We had chosen this place for two reasons. One, she was contemplating whether the restaurant was suitable for a bridal shower she was coordinating, and two, in a few hours I would be meeting with Anne Brooke in her nearby Livermore campaign headquarters. I had finagled the appointment by posing as a freelance journalist for Tikkun magazine, a famously liberal Jewish publication. I didn’t actually read Tikkun (I was turned off by the magazine’s lack of fashion tips and celebrity gossip), but I knew enough about the causes they championed to convince Brooke and her people that I was writing for them. The best thing about the appointment was that Anatoly knew nothing about it. I had asked him to meet at Boudin in Fisherman’s Wharf this afternoon so we could come up with a new game plan. By the time he figured out that I wasn’t going to be showing up it would be too late for him to do anything about it.
“Stop thinking about Anatoly and tell me what you think of that smell,” Leah said.
“They smell like fabric softener, and how did you know I was thinking about Anatoly?”
“You had that wicked look in your eye,” she said with a disapproving sigh.
“I wasn’t having wicked thoughts, at least they weren’t wicked in the way you’re implying.”
“Whatever. I’m not going to recommend this place to my client unless the management is willing to switch to a lavender wash. And I have very mixed feelings about this china. Why are they serving continental cuisine on plates with fleur-de-lis accents?”
“To remind the customers that they serve French toast?” I suggested. I actually liked the restaurant. It was light and airy and the hostess had mistaken me for the instructor on her workout video. “Melanie doesn’t think that Eugene’s time in the FBI has anything to do with Eugene’s murder,” I continued, hoping to circumvent a conversation about the restaurant’s flatware. “She said that Eugene did most of his work behind a desk and the little fieldwork he did was undercover. So with maybe one or two exceptions, the bad guys Eugene helped put away don’t even know that he was the reason for their misfortune. Plus, as she pointed out, if a man wants to return to a life of crime after being released from prison he’s not going to hunt down the officer who arrested him. Instead he’ll steer clear of the cops and the feds and hang out with those who are more supportive of his nefarious activities.”
“Mmm-hmm, fascinating. You do realize that French toast is about as French as McDonald’s fries, don’t you?” Leah took another look at the fleur-de-lis china and clucked her tongue in disapproval.
I should have known better than to have tried to change the subject on Leah. It had always been an unspoken rule in my family that Leah and Mama were the ones who got to control the conversations, and my father (when he had been alive) and I were the ones responsible for placating them. “Leah, no one is going to notice that the pattern on their plate doesn’t reflect the cultural origins of the omelet on top of it,” I responded reasonably.
“They won’t consciously notice it, but they may very well walk away thinking the event wasn’t quite perfect,” Leah said. “People don’t have to be consciously aware of something in order to react to it. Isn’t that what subliminal advertising is all about?”
Couldn’t argue with that logic. I studied my bread plate with new interest. Were these fleur-de-lis sending me subliminal messages? Would I leave here with the urge to hand out cake to the proletariat while wearing Yves Saint Laurent’s newest fragrance?
“Speaking of being motivated by your unconscious,” Leah said, “you’ve told me that you’re going to continue to help Melanie figure out why Eugene was killed, but have you come to terms with why it’s so important to you that you help her?”
“Yes, I’ve figured it all out.” I launched into the whole spiel I had given Marcus, emphasizing my need to show up Anatoly. “He was so condescending when he told me that I was to have nothing to do with this case. Now I’m going to show him that his low opinion of my investigative abilities is totally off,” I explained. “I can get to the bottom of this whole thing faster than he can. After I’ve beaten him at his own game I’m going to waltz off into the sunset without him, and eventually, when it’s too late, he’ll realize what he lost when he gave me up.”
Leah stared at me for a full minute before speaking. “You’re like a psychological case study,” she finally said.
“Okay, enough.” I rested my elbows on the table, ignoring her look of disapproval. “You obviously have a theory as to what’s motivating me to do all this, so why not just tell me what it is?”
Leah looked away and I watched as she fought some kind of silent internal struggle. “You need to figure this out yourself.”
“What? You are going to keep your opinions to yourself? Have you been possessed by a nonjudgmental alien?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” she said slowly, “but I’m going to therapy now.”
“Really? But you’ve always said that the only therapy you would ever engage in was the kind that involved an Amex and a Nordstrom shoe sale.”
“Jo-Jo changed my mind,” Leah explained. “You remember Jo-Jo, don’t you? She’s one of the women from the Junior League. She’s thirty-nine years old and up until recently she’s never been in a relationship that has lasted more than two weeks. A while back she started seeing this therapist who helped her realize what she was doing wrong, and now, after less than two years of weekly sessions, she’s managed to get a plastic surgeon to propose to her. Now Jo-Jo’s looking forward to a lifetime filled with love, security and free liposuction. As soon as I found out I made an appointment with the same therapist and he said that I need to let the people in my life figure out their own problems.”
“So you think I have a problem?”
“Too many to count. But my therapist also thinks that I push people away by being too critical of them, so I’m not going to criticize you until you’re out of hearing distance.”
“I’m fairly sure that telling me I’m ‘like a psychological case study’ is a criticism.”
“I slipped, sue me.” She gave an approving smile to the waiter as he served her a warm plate of ricotta cheese pancakes and me a seafood breakfast casserole.
“So what’s the goal here?” I asked. “To see this therapist until you get an M.D. to marry you?” I took a large bite of my casserole. Not good. Maybe this would be an ideal time to start my next diet.
“I don’t need to marry a doctor,” Leah said. “A lawyer would be okay, or even a dentist. Dental insurance is so pricey these days and it never covers the cosmetic stuff.”
“And you think I have issues,” I muttered. “Need I remind you that you were a married woman not too long ago and you hated it?”
Leah blinked in surprise. “I couldn’t stand my husband but I loved being married. I loved being part of a family unit, I loved showing off my ring, and I took comfort in the knowledge that I had crossed ‘get married’ off my to-do list. If I could just be married without having to actually have a husband, my life would be perfect.”
“I guess you could become a lesbian and do the whole civil-union thing.” I forced myself to take another bite of my food. Leah’s pancakes looked so much better.
“I’ve considered it,” she said, “but I have a feeling that being married to another woman would be even harder than being married to a man. What if I married a woman who was like me?”
“My God,” I gasped, truly horrified by the idea, “that would be unbearable.”
“Yes, it would be,” she agreed with an amused smile. “Too much of a good thing.”
We both laughed, but our moment of harmonious sisterly love was cut short by the ringing of my cell phone.
Leah glared at my purse. “Really, Sophie. The only people who keep their cell phones on in expensive restaurants are clueless teens and the nouveau riche.”
“It could be important,” I protested, not bothering to point out that she wasn’t exactly old money. “It’s Melanie,” I said once I had fished out my phone. “Would you prefer if I took this outside?”
“Or at least in the ladies’ lounge,” Leah said, pointing toward the restrooms.
I got up and made my way to the ladies’ room, wondering what Emily Post would say about cell phone/bathroom etiquette. “Hi, Melanie,” I said as soon as I was standing outside one of the stalls. “Everything okay?”
“I think so,” she said carefully. “I just received the strangest call from Flynn Fitzgerald.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, at first I thought he was just calling to see how I was holding up, but as the conversation progressed it became clear that he was really calling to find out about you.”
“Me? What did he want to know?”
“How long we’ve been friends, if you had published any other articles dealing with politics or had dealings with any other publications. That sort of thing. He seems to be under the impression that you work with the National Review.”
I braced myself against the sink. “Please tell me that you didn’t tell him otherwise.”
“I surmised fairly quickly that you had made up that story as a way to get an appointment with Fitzgerald, but I may not have covered for you very convincingly.”
“What do you mean?”
“When he first suggested that you were writing for that publication, I laughed. I laughed a lot, Sophie.”
Shit! “If Fitzgerald calls again, tell him that we met for tea or whatever and that now you realize that I’ve moved politically to the right. Tell him that I couldn’t stop gushing about the opportunity the Review has given me.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Fantastic, thank you, Melanie. I’m sure no harm was done. In the meantime, do you think you could help me get in to see Maggie Gallagher? I’ve been trying to reach her, but she never returns my calls.”
“I’ll try, but I don’t know if I’ll be much help. Maggie and I have never been close. I’m not even sure if she likes me very much. She was more Eugene’s friend.”
“Really? But how can anyone not like you?”
“I’m sure there are a slew of reasons,” Melanie said modestly, “but I have no idea what specifically caused Maggie to be so distant with me.”
“Huh.” I briefly considered the possibility that Maggie’s dislike of Melanie had something to do with an inappropriate fondness Maggie might have had for Melanie’s husband. It certainly was something worth checking out. “Listen, Melanie, I’m having brunch with Leah right now so I should get going, but thank you for telling me about Fitzgerald.”
“Of course, Sophie. Enjoy your meal.”
I clicked off and studied my reflection in the mirror. So what if Fitzgerald knew that I had lied to him? It wasn’t like he was a suspect. Still, the idea made me more than a little uneasy.
When I got back to the table Leah had almost finished her pancakes and was looking more than a little irritated.
“Sorry about that,” I said as I took my seat. “But I had to take that call.”
“Of course you did. It was Melanie after all,” Leah snapped. Then she paused and some of the irritation slipped from her countenance as she met my eyes. “Sophie, I’m not going to tell you what your problems are, but I am going to make three suggestions.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.” I looked down at my plate. I wasn’t going to eat my casserole. It wasn’t even good enough to feed to my cat.
“Start thinking about why Melanie became important to you in the first place,” Leah suggested, “and then think about why you don’t have any photos of Dad hanging up in your apartment.”
“I don’t hang photos,” I said a bit too quickly. “I keep them in albums.”
“Albums that can be easily stored out of sight,” Leah pointed out.
The waiter walked by and I got his attention long enough to ask for our check. “I have to get to Livermore,” I said, smiling apologetically at Leah.
“Right,” Leah said dryly. “I’m sure your sudden need to leave has nothing to do with avoidance. But you can’t go without hearing my third suggestion.”
“Uh-huh.” I sent a beseeching look at our waiter, who was now across the room totaling up our tab. I was pretty much done with this conversation. “If your client wants the bridal shower here, tell her not to order the seafood casserole.”
“Don’t change the subject. You need to drop your vendetta against Anatoly,” Leah said. “If he’s not willing to commit, you should definitely walk off into the sunset without him, but it’s better to do it now instead of later. You don’t need to show him up.”
I turned back to her with surprise. “Since when have you had a problem with revenge?”
“I don’t have a problem with it. I just don’t think you should use it as an excuse to stay close to someone. Especially if you happen to be in love with that someone.”
“I’m not in love with Anatoly!”
“I see. Just because you think about him all the time, get agitated every time you hear his name and can’t get past the fact that he won’t commit to you, that doesn’t mean you’re in love with him, right?” The waiter came back with our check and Leah tossed an Amex card at him without even looking at it. “Like I said, Sophie, you’re a walking case study.”
“Leah, you know how you’re going to start criticizing me behind my back, rather than to my face?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m about to make that task easy for you.” I stood up, turned my back to her and walked out.

By the time I was on the elevator going up to Anne Brooke’s top-floor campaign headquarters I was in a better mood. I had spent my life not listening to Leah and I saw no reason to change that pattern now. I was not in love with Anatoly. Furthermore, I knew why I was on this case, and it didn’t matter if my reasons were logical or not. They were still my reasons, and if I wanted to show Anatoly up that was my prerogative. And I wasn’t insisting on staying on this case just so I could be close to him. If that were true I would have told him about this interview rather than trick him into going to Boudin.
The elevator opened, and I put on my most winning smile and was all ready to charm the Brooke campaign workers when I spotted him.
Anatoly’s hands were jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, a large camera case dangled over his shoulder, and he was engaged in a seemingly casual conversation with Anne Brooke.
That son of a bitch. How had he known? I took a steadying breath and tried to walk (rather than march or stomp) over to where they were talking.
Anatoly’s eyes met mine and the right corner of his mouth turned up. “So,” he said, his Russian accent making the word sound sexier than it had any right to be, “the reporter has arrived.”

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