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  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, me too.”

  We were staring at each other, looking into each other’s hearts and trying to sort it out, but the words weren’t there. There was no decent explanation.

  “Sierra,” he said at last, “it’s not like what you’re thinking. She was—”

  I interrupted. “You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I said. “And it doesn’t matter what she was, it’s what you were that courts. You were with her. The rest is just window dressing. Bottom line: You were with Carla.”

  His shoulders drooped. “But not like that,” he said. “She was alone. She was stuck in Tallahassee working a case. It was late. She couldn’t get back to Miami and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because she doesn’t have anyone there.”

  I just looked at him, my face frozen into a neutral mask that said nothing, gave nothing, and expected less.

  “I was alone. She was alone. It wasn’t anything other than—”

  “No,” I said, “it was just exactly what it was. Here’s a woman who’s done nothing but dump on you and you take her in? You offer her Christmas Eve because you don’t want her to be alone? Well, here’s how I see it.”

  I took a deep breath and launched in. There was no stopping it now. I was out of control.

  “I know you didn’t sleep with her; that’s not the issue. But if she can treat you like she has, try to ruin your career, leave you, and you still take her back in, then you’re not finished. You and Carla aren’t a done deal. You’ve got feelings for her in the face of her treating you like a dog. And you want me to believe that you and I have something here?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know that you have room in your heart for another relationship right now. You can’t double park love, big man. It just don’t work that way.”

  Nailor’s eyes were still dark, deepening as I spoke. I was hurting him, chipping away at what we had and I knew it.

  “And I suppose you’re an expert at availability?” he asked. The darkness had been replaced by an angry glint.

  “I was trying to be,” I said.

  His shoulders sagged again. “So was I.” He took another deep breath, looking like he was gearing up to tell me something I wouldn’t possibly believe. “Honey, there wasn’t anything to Carla staying at my house, can’t you see that? Sierra, don’t you know that I love you? Why would I try so hard to get past those thick walls of yours if I didn’t love you?”

  I shifted my weight, leaning against the counter and studying him. The truth was, I did sort of believe him, but wasn’t that always my problem? Didn’t I just always believe them when they told me something, and didn’t I just always end up wrong? Was it any different this time?

  Nailor’s pager went off before I could answer him. He swore under his breath and reached for the wall phone, dialing the number to the police department without thinking, still looking at me, reaching for me with his eyes. Trouble was, I was falling for it, stepping toward him, watching my body move and respond to that unspoken thing that ran between us like a hot current.

  By the time he reached the dispatcher, I was in the circle of his arms, my head on his shoulder, my heart in his hip pocket, and my mind going ballistic with the unreality of it all.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest, his arms tightening around me. “When will I be able to interview him?”

  Nailor listened, silently kissing the top of my head. I leaned into him, missing him, missing the way it was before it all got so complicated. I was mourning the way it was when I didn’t know and didn’t care if he still harbored feelings for his ex-wife. But I knew now. I knew that despite what he said, he couldn’t be ready for me until he was through with her.

  And in a way I felt relieved. After all, I didn’t have to deal with the big question, the “what next?” that always comes when you know you love each other and you want to spend all your time together. We didn’t have a “what next?” yet, and that was fine by me.

  But in another way, I was hurt, pretending to be relieved. Wasn’t I special enough to drive Carla out of his heart? Or was it even me? Maybe it wasn’t all about me. I shook my head slightly and nuzzled closer to him, smelling the leathery scent of his cologne, closing my eyes and recalling the way it was to lie in bed with him, skin touching skin.

  Nailor said, “Post someone outside the room. Notify me when he’s awake and I’ll be down.” He listened for another moment, then hung up. He didn’t move, didn’t try to release me. He just stood there, barely breathing, his breath warm against my hair.

  “It will be all right,” he said, his voice soft and deep. “We’ll get this sorted out and we’ll get through it.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything because what was there to say? I couldn’t agree or disagree because this was all new to me. Where I came from, you didn’t work it out, you moved on or you got plowed under.

  “Sierra?” he said, pushing me away ever so slightly.

  I looked up at him.

  “I need to ask you about the shooting at the Oyster Bar.”

  We were back on familiar turf—his turf—only this time I had the urge to turn it around. On any other day I would’ve played it closer to my chest, left out significant pieces of information, just in case he decided not to believe me and use what I told him against someone I knew was innocent. But for some reason I couldn’t yet figure completely, I decided truth might be the correct flavor of the day for us.

  “All right,” I said. “I went to meet with that particular crew of lovelies because they robbed the Tiffany. I didn’t so much care about that because they had information I needed. They had a guy who saw Denny get capped. We figured it to be mutually beneficial for me to know more about that on account of it would take the heat off them and put it more on the guy who committed the murder.”

  This was a little too large for Nailor to handle. He let go of me, took my hand, and led me to my kitchen table. He sat me down, pulled up his own bar stool right between my legs almost, and looked me in the eyes.

  “You’re trying to tell me that you were dumb enough to walk into a setup like that without backup? You really thought they’d tell you something?” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m here, aren’t I? And who got fucked up over it? Not me.” I made a point of examining my body while he watched. “Nope, I seem to be A-okay.”

  Nailor was fuming. “So you walked away knowing who killed Denny and it wasn’t Vincent?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly you don’t know who killed Denny or not exactly it wasn’t Vincent?” The little twitch in Nailor’s jaw started up. He was about to blow and I was almost enjoying it.

  “The former not the latter,” I answered. “I know who saw Denny get shot, but now he’s dead too.”

  “What are you talking about, Sierra?” Nailor asked.

  “The biker that got his neck broken at Denny Watley’s house, Tinky. He was the witness.”

  Nailor shook his head like he was clearing it out, like I’d overloaded him. “I don’t understand. What was he doing at Watley’s house?”

  I shrugged and touched his arm. “They said he was there to gather some information, but I didn’t get to find out what kind of information.”

  “All right, then who shot Dimitri Logos?” he asked.

  “Well, there was a small problem.” I shifted in my seat, moving away from him.

  “Problem? You’re damn right there was a problem!”

  I sighed. “It’s like this: Dimitri didn’t exactly think I was so trustworthy after all, and he didn’t like it that someone told me all about the robbery. He decided the world would be a better place without me and—” I stopped right there, swallowed, unwilling to give up Frankie, and went on. “Well, without me and my friend in it. He was going to kill us.” I smiled at Nailor like it was a big party and he was invited. “But another friend of mine showed up and c
onvinced him otherwise.”

  “Names, Sierra,” Nailor said.

  “It really was shoot or be shot,” I said.

  “Names.” Nailor wasn’t coming off of it. I thought what the heck? It wouldn’t really be the end of the world. It was self-defense after all; Moose wouldn’t pull time or even go to trial. And it might get the mob off my tail long enough for me to figure out who was trying to frame Vincent.

  “All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’ll tell you.” I looked straight at him. “It was ‘Big Moose’ Lavotini.”

  Nailor shook his head, stuck his tongue down in his jaw like he was really pissed, and looked back at me. “Yeah, right. Try again. It’s not like I’m Vincent Gambuzzo believing every little word you say. You are not related to that gangster and I am not buying that a New Jersey mobster suddenly appeared and shot a biker who was threatening you. Now come on.”

  I shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t like he was alone. Raydean was with him.”

  Nailor pushed back his bar stool and stood up. His face was hot with anger and his eyes glittered. “You know, I keep thinking it’s going to change. I think maybe this time you’ll grow up and realize this isn’t a game, but no, you’re still on planet Neptune, laughing at the police. It’s juvenile, Sierra. Don’t mess with an investigation because you’re mad at me.”

  Part of me wanted to laugh, but the rest of me went off.

  “You know, I didn’t have to give you that information,” I said. “I told you the truth and you chose not to look at it. So in the days to come, when I prove you wrong, don’t forget I was straight up with you.”

  Nailor was already headed for the door. He stopped when he reached it, pulling it open wide and ushering in a blast of cold air.

  “Relationships are about communication, Sierra, not games. I was straight up with you about Carla, but obviously you’re not ready to see past being petty. I don’t think I’m the one looking to avoid a commitment. Call me when you’re ready to get honest, and I don’t just mean about this investigation.”

  He was gone then, slamming the door behind him, leaving me speechless, amused, and horrified all in one. What in the hell was happening to us?

  Fluffy picked this moment to wake up from her nap. She wandered out into the kitchen, sniffed my foot, and sauntered over to her dish. She leaned over to eat and farted.

  “If only it were all that easy,” I told her.

  She dug in farther, half burying her face in the bowl, chowing down without a care in the world.

  “You know,” I said to her, “Nailor thinks I’m holding out on him. Isn’t that funny? I tell him the truth and he doesn’t believe me. What’s that? And I’m the one feeling defensive.”

  Fluffy stopped eating long enough to look back in my direction.

  “I know, I know. I’ve got to go with my gut and not my heart.”

  Fluffy turned back to her dish, lost in the pleasure of fine doggy dining.

  “You gotta admit this,” I said. “They’re all the same. Same man, different address. And they think we’re hard to live with!”

  Fluffy sighed and continued eating. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before.

  “I say we move on,” I said.

  Fluffy liked this. It implied a car ride, or so she thought. She liked anything that involved sticking her head out the window and taking in the new scents of the day.

  “You’re right, girl,” I said. “We need to go talk to the others. One of them killed Denny.” Fluffy was practically prancing now. “And we oughta go see the widow, too. You know, just on the outside chance she’d know why her husband got whacked. Maybe we attack it from both those angles and we’ll find something. Maybe I’ll get my head back in focus. You know men can mess you up, girl. You let a man crawl inside your head and the next thing you know, you’re lost, wandering around in a daze.”

  Fluffy was standing by the door, wiggling with impatience. Fluffy was past the point of caring about a man. She had her shit together.

  I would’ve been right behind her, but the phone started shrieking just as I found the car keys, just as I realized I had no car. It was Raydean.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she said.

  Sometimes I wonder if Raydean can read my mind. I mean, it is my experience that crazy people on the whole are a lot smarter than the rest of us. Raydean is a case in point. She always knows when I’m planning to go somewhere. Now, either Fluffy alerts her, or it’s her psycho-ESP swinging into overdrive. At least that’s the assumption I made.

  “I need to borrow your car, but I can’t take you,” I said.

  “Well, you ain’t going anywhere no how, so it don’t matter.”

  I figured her for stubborn.

  “Really, honey, I’d take you, but I’m only going to talk to a couple of people. And if you think I can’t get past Moose’s men, well …”

  Raydean cackled. “No baby, you don’t get it. I mean you are stuck. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. You read me?”

  At that moment someone began banging on the door and Fluffy started barking and growling.

  “See what I mean?” Raydean said. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Twenty-five

  Opportunity stood waiting for me to open the door, and when I did, she smiled a big, fat Barbiedoll grin that had all the sincerity of a drunken husband on payday.

  “Well, look who it is,” I said, smiling back with my own version of a fatuous grin. “Fortune smiles on them what wait around long enough for hell to freeze over.” I shifted a little. “If you’re looking to switch professions, I might have a few tips for you. Otherwise, I’m open to suggestions.”

  The blonde from the deadly poker game that cost one man his life and another man his livelihood stood on my stoop. She looked unchanged from the last time I’d seen her, except her mouth wasn’t open, screaming, as she ran past me and away from the shooting.

  She was wearing a low-cut baby-blue sweater, and if you looked or, in my case, couldn’t avoid looking, you could see the edge of her little angel tattoo peaking out over the crest of her breasts. Her hair was still spun cotton candy, blond with a pink cast to it, and her lipstick was tinted to match. You’d have thought she was making a professional call and not looking for a favor. And I knew she was looking for something because nobody like her comes looking to socialize without an angle.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” she said. “My nonstage name is Yolanda, but everyone else calls me Angel. I just need a little minute of your time.”

  There was a glint to her steel-blue eyes, a hint of determination and street-wise, alley-cat toughness.

  “And what’s that to me?” I said. I was still seeing the way she ran away when the gunplay started, still remembering that it wasn’t her who ended up calling for help or even trying to aid anyone hurt in the shooting. No, this girl was strictly in the game to help herself.

  “I want to talk to you because I hear you’ve got an in with the lead investigator on this case and I’ve got something to say that don’t necessarily need to be said in a police station.”

  “So call him and tell him to meet you in the park,” I said.

  She looked anxious, bobbing her head back and forth in either direction, scanning the street, looking for something or someone that seemed to be breathing right down her neck.

  “Could you just let me come in for a minute?”

  Fluffy sniffed her foot and looked up at me. She was giving Yolanda the clearance to come inside.

  “Fine,” I said. “But I don’t have all day, so let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

  Yolanda stepped into my kitchen, looking back over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold, checking the perimeter one more time before the door closed behind her.

  “It’s like this,” she said. “I was there at the game for a reason. I was working.”

  “Hired by who?”

  She smiled, but not an anxious I-want-you-to-lik
e-me smile. This was a canny, business smile, a let’s-make-a-deal smile that curved at the edges of her mouth but didn’t quite carry through to the middle of her lips.

  “Listen,” she said, “I’m not going to lay it all out and take the risk of getting hurt, or worse, without some financial consideration. If I talk, my business takes a hit. People come to me in confidence. If it gets out I rat on my customers, I’m out of business.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “flat-backing’s like that. They like to know they can drop a dime in the bucket without hearing it echo.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I’m like a priest.”

  I rolled my eyes at Fluffy. Pros are not confessors. Pros are working one angle and one head at a time, not like exotic dancers. We’re your more holistic healers. We trade on illusion and talent, but the difference is, we really care about our customers. We know them. A lot of the guys are regulars. We know about their kids, their wives, and their failures. We know where it hurts and we listen. We don’t gotta lay a hand on someone to make their every dream come true.

  “Anyway,” Yolanda said, “I want you to tell your detective something and then get back to me. You tell him I’m talking to him and only him. Tell him it’s that way or I don’t tell nothing. It’s him. Alone. He can’t tell another living soul, you hear? You tell him I got hired to keep certain individuals from thinking too carefully or noticing too much. Tell him I didn’t do nothing wrong, but I saw plenty. Tell him I think it’s worth setup money for me to start over somewhere profitable, like Texas.”

  I smiled right back at her. “So why are you coming to the police? Why not go directly to your customer?”

  I saw the flicker in her eyes before she could hide it. She was playing both ends against the middle. What a stupid, risky thing to do.

  “Listen, Yolanda,” I said. “I hate to intrude on your business know-how here, but you might not want to piss this guy off. I mean, if you know something, have you considered you might be at risk?”

  Yolanda laughed. “I can handle myself. I just want you to pass along my message: I know something and I’m not telling anyone a thing until I have some guarantees.”