Page 57

“I said yes to drivin’ you home like I was a taxi driver at the end of a twelve-hour shift,” I professed. “I don’t offer up like that for ma’ams.”

Aurilia laughed happily, a child playing in a toy car.

“You’re like your father,” she said, “only you don’t play the same conquest game.”

“You could tell that Chief was my dad?”

“You two look so much alike. He’s a real ladies’ man and you are too, only I bet you go at it one lady at a time.”

“Did Miss Mara tell you that I was a detective?”

“Uh-huh. She didn’t tell you about me?”

“No. When we started talking, she went right to the story of how much she enjoyed the company of men.”

“And their junk,” the jazz woman added, behind a whooping sort of laugh.

“That too.”

When we were making our way from Manhattan up into the Bronx I asked, “What would Mrs. Macintosh have told me?”

“I’m not sure I should say… if she hasn’t already.”

“Okay. Then why was I elected to drive you home?”

“Because Mara told me that she thought I needed to talk to you, and I usually listen to my friend.”

I kept driving, pretending not to notice the inquisitive looks she cast in my direction.

We took the Saw Mill River Parkway up toward her neck of the woods.

“Why don’t you use that, um, that GPS thing?” she asked me when we’d passed the halfway mark to her home.

“Before I was a private detective, I was a New York City cop.”

“What’s that got to do with directions?”

“When I’m drivin’ somewhere a little off the beaten path, I like to test myself, to see if I’m lost or just on the way.”

Aurilia had magnificent teeth. The rest of her smile was pretty great too. There was something about her there next to me, looking like autumn and her voice talking as if in song. Something about her almost imperceptible scent, a distillation of lemons and honey, brought about a revelation of sorts.

This sudden insight in mind, I asked, “Why aren’t you a superstar?”

“Is that some kinda backhanded compliment?”

“No, it isn’t. Technically, you are one of the best singers I have ever heard. You got all the notes on call, waiting for their moment. But that don’t mean much.”

“No?” she asked through that blues smile.

“No. A singer, a jazz singer, a real one, never relies solely on craft. She lets you know that she loves you or hates you or is leavin’ on the next bus outta town. She says all that and feels it. And then, in a little twist or somethin’ at the end of a line, she invites you to answer in your own heart. It’s—it’s like when a baby sees her mama after she been away for two whole minutes.

“You got that vibe. I bet there’s been half a dozen music publishers in there offerin’ you contracts and venues. But you don’t give a fuck about them.”

Aurilia went silent for longer than that made-up baby’s mother was gone.

Finally, she asked, “And why don’t I care about them?”

“Because you’re a dead woman don’t wanna come back to life.”