“We should go to the hospital,” I say urgently. We gather our stuff, forgetting about our brainstorming session. It’s more important we reach the Jensons and Paris before anyone else does. As we’re rushing down the front steps, Inspector Robinson is walking up them. She is wearing a taupe pantsuit that flatters her figure nicely.
“The Three Musketeers,” Inspector Robinson says, an edge to her voice. “Just the trio I want to see. Let’s go back up to your apartment, shall we?” Despite being couched in question form, it is an order, and we all know it. We shuffle upstairs without saying anything.
“Can I get you anything, Inspector?” My mother asks as we enter the apartment. Before Inspector Robinson can answer, my mom is up and in the kitchen. Lyle and I look at the inspector, but she remains silent. I realize that she is waiting for my mother to return, so I don’t start a conversation. She will tell us what she wants to know, when she wants to tell us, and no amount of coercion will persuade her to do differently. The silence is taut, but not uncomfortable. Although the inspector is radiating anger, I don’t think it’s directed towards us. Of course, I could be mistaken, in which case, we are in for a long night. I look at Lyle who is staring at nothing in particular. I look at Inspector Robinson who is perusing her notes. I open my mouth to say something, then shut it quickly. Now is not the time for me to be nosy or smart-assed or to use any of the half-dozen of my usual responses. There is one question I need to ask the inspector, however, and I voice it.
“Inspector Robinson?” I make sure my voice isn’t tentative because I don’t want to sound like a beta dog rolling over to have my stomach scratched. The inspector looks up at me and waits for me to continue. “Do you think Paris is still in danger?”
“I do,” Inspector Robinson says immediately. “Him, you, your mother, Mr. Kingston. Possibly Ms. Meadows’ other children. Less likely her husband or the Jensons.”
I wake the next morning, Friday, feeling particularly refreshed. I did not wake up screaming from a nightmare, nor did Lyle have to wake me up. I am downright cheerful on my walk to work. I have put on a green blouse and white slacks because I feel so good. I even whistle a bit as I walk. The weather is sunny with no wind for a change, so it seems as if even the heavens are smiling on me today. At work, nobody is overtly friendly towards me, but no one pointedly ignores me, either. I pour myself a cup of coffee before sitting down at my desk. I drape my jacket on the coat rack, then power on my computer. I like to execute the same movements every morning as my own little ritual. I have emails from my sister and from Vashti as well as a voice mail message from Vashti. There is nothing from Ursula, however, which surprises me a bit. I decide to try to call her again during my lunch break. I read the email from Libby.
Lyle starts to say something, then stops. I look at him inquiringly. He reminds me that he talked to Ursula and Lois Wednesday morning. That leaves them out of the running as Paris’s twin was attacked on Wednesday. His news dismays me for a minute until I ask what time he saw them Wednesday morning. When I find out it was eight or so in the morning and that Lyle had stayed there just over half an hour, that put them back in the running. The assault happened around seven at night, so there would have been time for one of them to talk to Lyle in the morning, hop on a plane, do the dirty deed and be back in San Francisco before anyone was the wiser. The boys might not even have known she was gone. We are so engrossed in our discussion, I forget I was about to call Ursula’s sons.
“What a day,” Lyle mutters, the first to break the silence.
“All right, that’s enough!” My mother says loudly. Everyone but me is so shocked, they immediately stop what they are doing and practically snap to attention. “You are all acting like children. Is this the image you want to present to Paris?” The nurses continue on their way; the cop sits back down; Lyle slowly deflates; Mrs. Jenson’s shoulders sag; Mr. Jenson continues posturing. “I have tried to be diplomatic, but I have failed. Catherine, Douglas, you have the right to do what you want, of course, but I think it’s a crying shame that you want to banish one of the few people who loves Paris for who he is. Why don’t you ask Paris what he wants or don’t you care?” From within the room, we all hear a distinct if faint, “Want Lyle.” Mrs. Jenson has the grace to blush while Mr. Jenson continues to scowl.
He wasn’t able to find Billy Matthews, either, as the latter wasn’t at the gym today. Lyle tried to get an address or a number, but couldn’t charm it out of anyone. It’s a good thing, really, as it’s for the client’s protection; it just makes our task of hunting down Matthews a bit more difficult. I think about how I’m going to find him, but I can’t come up with a better plan than to go to the gym again in the morning—or have Lyle do it—and repeat until we get our man. Too bad I’m not V.I. Warshawski with her plethora of cunning ideas. I put it firmly out of my mind because it’s just giving me a headache to think about the case. I deserve a break after all the hard work I’ve been doing. I reach for my sandwich again, suddenly famished. We all gobble sandwiches as fast as we can.
I dress with extra care the next morning and even apply a little makeup since my face looks wan from lack of sleep. I don’t wear any of the five outfits I had in mind last night. Instead, I pull on a silvery-gray skirt, black tights, a black blouse and whatever accoutrements I think will match. I brush my hair until it shines, then peer at myself anxiously in the mirror. I’m not usually self-conscious about my looks, knowing that I’m put together in a way that is pleasing to most eyes. Short—five-two—curvy, with glossy black hair, dark brown eyes and full lips. I turn heads when I walk down the street, unless I’m with Paris, of course, who is truly stunning. Thinking about him brings me down to earth and away from my romantic aspirations. My mother nods approvingly at my outfit as I gobble down my breakfast. I am late for work, my sleep pattern being so erratic as of late. I arrive just in time to be pointedly ignored by my colleagues. I plunge into my work in order to not feel the shunning so deeply. I have an email from Libby that is so unlike her normal self, I read it twice.
“Let’s go talk,” Lyle says, grabbing me by the arm. With a wave at the others, he steers me to the cafeteria.
I compliment her before making an all-points attack on the food. The way I inhale the food makes me realize that I’ve been neglecting my general health since Paris got hurt. Well, since before that as well, but especially after. I gobble down enchiladas smothered with cheese, sour cream and home-made salsa, tortilla chips, and other delights, happy to have real food for once. It sits nicely in my stomach, causing me to breathe a sigh of relief. As I eat, Vashti asks if I’ve found out anything about Paris. She is focusing on her plate and misses the expression on my face. I quickly assemble my face into a bland visage by the time she looks up at me. I am evasive, not sure that I want to talk about the case with her. I flashback to the first case and how she completely misled me, and I never knew she was doing it. She’s a good liar or evader of truth when she needs to be. Regretfully, I decide to be cautious and tell her that I’ve eliminated a suspect or two and that I think the accident has something to do with Paris’s birthmother. That’s all I’m willing to divulge.