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As the day wore on, Geno was bombarded with memories that he had long since boxed up and put on the shelf, never to be felt again. But he couldn’t do anything but feel, as he thought about their three months of conversation, laughter, sex, good food, travel, and more sex. But mostly he remembered their laughter and those long conversations about nothing in particular.
Although Geno knew that he was just something to do before she got married, he fell in love with Valencia, and felt like even though she never said it—and neither did he for that matter—that she was just as in love with him as he was with her, and he hoped that she wouldn’t get married.
Geno could still remember the love they made the day before she left for Brazil, how she cried when she came and tried to hide it from him. He could feel her love. But in the morning, she said goodbye and closed the door behind her, reminding him that he was just something to do. Knowing that, should have made it easy to move on.
But it didn’t, he thought, as he got out of the cab in front of La Grenouille.
It was ten minutes to seven when he presented himself to the maître d’ and wasn’t at all surprised when he was escorted to the table and Valencia was there waiting. She stood up to greet him when she saw him coming toward the table.
Valencia was looking radiant in the artistic rose print Alexandre Vauthier one-shoulder ruched texture mini dress that hugged each of her curves and highlighted her long and shapely legs. Valencia stood up and gave him the type of hug that said I remember yesterday.
“Because I damn sure remember you,” he said softly, as he held the chair out for her, remembering the feeling of his tongue sliding around her engorged clit.
“Thank you, Geno,” she said, as he took his seat across from her.
Once they were seated, each complemented the other on how they looked, and then the pair chatted about how Valencia always liked to arrive places early, until the waiter came to take their order.
“I’ll have the Velouté De Céleri-Rave Au Crabe Du Maryland,” Valencia said, and handed the waiter back the menu.
“Excellent choice. And for you, sir?”
Geno looked at the menu again. Most of the items were in French, so he chose one of the few things that he understood. “I’ll have the Oxtail braised in red burgundy wine.”
“Another fine choice,” he said, taking Geno’s menu. “I will put this in for you and be back soon with cocktails and, your first course will follow shortly.”
“What is Velouté De whatever Crab Du Maryland?” Geno asked once the waiter had left the table.
“It’s a crab cake with celery cream soup,” Valencia said smiling at him, and remembering how simple and uncomplicated their time together was.
It was then that Geno saw the two men talking to the maître d’, and thought they looked like cops. He could spot cops a mile away. When the maître d’ pointed toward their table, he prepared to receive them, wondering what it could be about.
“Valencia DeVerão?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Landon,” he said, discreetly showing his badge. “And this is Detective Brunetti.”
Geno looked at Valencia; she didn’t look alarmed or surprised that the police were there for her.
“Would you mind coming with us? We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Chapter Eleven
The ride to the precinct was a quiet one. Detectives Landon and Brunetti didn’t say a word, and neither did Valencia. Upon arrival at the precinct, Valencia was escorted to a room to be interviewed and was told that somebody would be with her shortly. It was a little after eight when the door closed, and it was nine-thirty when it opened again.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, Ms. DeVerão. I’m Detective Victoria Gutiérrez and this is my partner Detective Bryant,” she said, and the detectives took their seats across the table from Valencia.
“Did you want to have a lawyer present for this interview?” Bryant asked.
“I would like to know what this is about?” she said calmly, but on the inside Valencia was shaking. She knew exactly what this was about. Even though she didn’t kill Coleman, she was there the night he was murdered.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Coleman Patterson,” Gutiérrez said, and Valencia smiled as brightly as she could.
“Coleman is a client of mine,” she began, trying to sound as relaxed and calm as she could, under the circumstances. “I run a technology firm and I do some consulting work for his company.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Two, more like three years now, I’m guessing.”
