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She looked up at him. Their eyes met.
“What?” she asked.
“You know goddamn well what, Mother.”
“I’m not your goddamn Mother.”
“I know,” he said, softly. “Your move.”
She had not taken her eyes from his. She took her left hand from his and raised it to his unmarked cheek.
“Oh, God!” she said.
Ninety seconds later, atop the white comforter on her bed, while still partially clothed, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne came to know each other, in the biblical sense of the term.
And in the next half hour, now completely devoid of clothing, and between the sheets, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne twice came to know each other even better.
TWELVE
Matt Payne awoke at five minutes to six. For a moment, he wondered why so damned early-he had two alarm clocks to make sure he was awakened at seven-and then he remembered some of what had happened the night before, and thought that might have something to do with it.
“Jesus Christ!” he said in wonderment, then went to his bathroom, which his father had described as being somewhat smaller than those found on old Pullman railroad cars.
He examined himself in the mirror over the toilet.
What the hell happened to my face?
He remembered.
Sliding along the concrete driveway in hot pursuit of the critter in the hot car who’d run the red light and slammed into the Caravan.
“Nevertheless, sir, minor facial blemishes aside, you look like the well-laid man of fame and legend!” he said aloud.
He smiled at the memories of other of the previous evening’s activities.
However, a moment later, when in an habitual act he reached inside the shower stall to open the faucet that would long moments later bring hot water all the way from the basement to the garret apartment, his hand really hurt him.
Shit! The goddamn-what did she say? — “puncture wound.”
When he came out of the shower, the damned thing still hurt, and it looked angry.
“Shit!”
He had two thoughts, one after the other.
Maybe Olivia would know what to do with it. Do I put a bandage on it? Soak it in hot water? What?
Maybe, if I called, she might say, “I’ll come by on my way to work and have a look at it.”
That’s a very interesting prospect.
He went naked and dripping into his bedroom-which his father also compared unfavorably to a sleeping compartment on an old Pullman car-and picked up his cellular from the bedside table, where it lay beside his Colt Officer’s Model. 45.
Twenty seconds later, a sleepy female voice said, “Lassiter.”
“Good morning.”
“Oh, God!”
