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I stopped and turned slowly. Jaime was fussing with something in her purse.
"What?" I said.
Jaime didn't look up. "She's crossed over. She's gone."
"But you--you said--"
"I know what I said."
"You told her she was fine. How could you--?"
Jaime's gaze snapped to mine. "And what was I supposed to say? Sorry, kid, you're dead, you just don't know it yet?"
"Oh, my god." I sunk into the nearest chair. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean--I didn't mean--putting you through that--"
"Comes with the territory. If not me, then someone else, right? You need to catch this bastard, and this was the best way to get information, so..." She rubbed her hand over her face. "I could really use a drink. And some company. If you don't mind."
I scrambled from the chair. "Sure."
Two-for-One Special
THOUGH I WAS STILL IN SHOCK OVER DANA'S FATE, MY feelings had to take a backseat to Jaime's. She was the one who needed support, and I was happy to provide it.
I'd seen a jazz bar down the road, the kind of place with big plush booths you could get lost in and a live band that never played loud enough to challenge conversation. We could go there, have a few drinks, and talk through our difficult evening, maybe come to a better understanding of one another.
"No, I am so serious!" Jaime shrieked, waving her Cosmopolitan and sending a tidal wave over the glass. "This guy was sitting in his seat, with his pants undone, dick sticking out, hoping that'd get my attention."
The blond guy on Jaime's left leaned into her. "And did it?"
"Hell, no. A four-inch dick? I don't even slow down for that. Zipped right past him...and hoped he zipped up before the old lady beside him had a stroke."
"Would eight inches do it?" asked the dark-haired guy on her right.
"Depends on the face that goes with it. Now ten...ten and we'd be talking. Twelve, and I'd summon his fucking dog if he asked me."
A roar of laughter. I stared into my Mojito and wished I'd made it a double Scotch, neat. I didn't drink Scotch, but suddenly, it seemed like a really good idea.
Around us, music pulsed so loud it rippled Jaime's Cosmo puddle. I thought of wiping it up, but decided to wait until another stoned dancer stumbled off the floor and fell onto our table. It'd happened twice so far and was bound to happen again. I only hoped he or she would be wearing enough to soak up Jaime's spilled drink.
We'd been here nearly two hours, having never come within half a block of the jazz club. Jaime had heard the thumping music from outside and dragged me in for "just one drink." I'd had two. She was on number six. For the first two, she'd ignored all attention from the bar's male patrons. By the third, she'd begun sizing up the interested parties. When number five arrived, she'd made her selection from a quintet of stockbroker types who'd been watching us from the bar, and had waved over the two cutest and offered them seats on either side of her, squashing three into a bench made for two.
Though I'd kept my gaze on my drink, sending clear "I am so not interested" vibes, one of the remaining trio had decided the leftovers didn't look too unappetizing and slid in beside me. I wanted nothing more than to return to my quiet hotel room and mourn for Dana by planning my next step in finding her killer. Yet here I was, trapped against the booth wall, listening to Jaime's war stories, nursing my second Mojito, and fending off the wandering hands of my unwanted companion. And I was starting to get a little pissed.
The guy beside me, Dale--or was it Chip?--wriggled closer, though we were already closer than I liked getting to anyone I wasn't sleeping with.
"You have really nice eyes," he said.
"Those aren't my eyes," I said. "Look up. Way up."
He chuckled and lifted his gaze to my face. "No, I'm serious. You have beautiful eyes."
"What color are they?"
"Uh..." He squinted in the darkness. "Blue?"
They were green, but I wasn't helping him out. I'd already repeated the "I'm seeing someone" line until it sounded like a challenge. Nearly as often I'd told Jaime that I really should be going, but she pretended not to hear me. When I tried again, she launched into another ribald story.
Nice to see she'd recovered from her traumatic experience at the hospital. I'd begun to suspect "traumatic" was an overstatement. Mildly disturbing maybe, on a par with realizing you'd left the house wearing brown shoes with a black dress. Nothing that couldn't be cured with a few Cosmopolitans and some wicked thumping bass.
