by Stalker
“I don’t think so,” Beaudry answered. “But he has a good set of teeth. I know because he’s smiling a lot.”
Cindy looked up at her charge. “Burly” was a fitting adjective for him. No wonder the former U.S.S.R.’s mascot had been the bear. “Your license to drive.” She steered an imaginary car wheel. “Driving.”
The man nodded. “Da.” He pointed to his truck.
He didn’t get it.
“License,” Cindy repeated louder. As if turning up the volume would increase his comprehension of English. “License.”
The man repeated, “License.”
She cried out, “Officer Beaudry, can you get the Breathalyzer?” She figured if he was over the legal limit, she wouldn’t even need to see his license. She’d just arrest him on the spot.
“I’m watching someone,” Beaudry said. “Just put him through a field sobriety test.”
Meaning Beaudry didn’t want to leave her alone with two drunken big guys. Okay. That was legitimate. So she’d put the driver through a field sobriety test. She could handle that.
She said, “Are you Anatol Petrukievich?”
The man broke into an instant grin. “Da!” He nodded again. “Da!” He launched into a slur of foreign words, ending his oration with a big smile. She smiled back. Then he grinned like a schoolboy.
Great. They were now buddies.
She said, “Lookie here, Anatol.”
At the use of his name, his eyes went to her face. Again, the goofy grin.
“Look at my leg. See what I’m doing?” Cindy stood on her right foot and lifted her left about three inches off the ground. She counted to ten aloud. Then she pointed to him. “You! Anatol! Anatol does this, okay? You do it. Capische?”
He stared at her.
Which made sense because capische was Italian. She put her leg back down and slowly picked it up a second time, once more counting to ten. She pointed at his chest. “You try it.”
“Da!” He took the challenge and attempted to stand on his right foot. But he faltered as the last of his toes cleared the sidewalk. Anatol reddened, tried again, and failed again. Clearly, the man’s cerebellum was in need of a tune-up. He spoke to her in Russian. From his tone, he appeared to be apologizing.
“No, it’s okay,” she found herself saying.
“O-key?” He smiled brightly.
“No, not okay.” She shook her head. “Not okay, just…do this!” She extended her arms out at her shoulder, made fists, then stuck out her right index finger. She brought the tip of the finger to her nose by bending her elbow. She did it without lowering her arms. “Now, Anatol, you do this. You.”
The man nodded, but didn’t move.
She tried to give him a jump-start by raising his right arm to his shoulder and extending it. But as soon as she let go, the arm fell to his side.
So far, he was getting an F. But there was that thing called a language barrier. Harking back to her life as a grad-school researcher, Cindy decided to gather more objective data before hauling him in. Gently, she turned him around until he faced the Chevy’s side. She took his hands and placed them, palms down, on the roof. Then, she brought them behind his back, one at a time, and cuffed him.
Absolutely no resistance.
He was big and drunk, but a damn happy guy.
Carefully, she led him to the cruiser, his feet dragging against the ground as they approached the patrol car. His body swayed and staggered with each step. Cindy found herself propping him up. The teddy bear was a heavy man with a capital H. She linked her hands around the cuffs and tried to keep his spine erect. But instead of being his guide, she found herself being jerked from side to side as he sidled like a monstrous stoned crab.
Finally, they reached the cruiser.
“Easy does it, Anatol.”
She opened the back door and positioned him parallel to the seat.
“In.” She gave him a gentle prod. “In.” She pushed down on his head so he wouldn’t bump his rather thick skull on the car’s ceiling. Partial success. Anatol’s head and body were safely ensconced inside, but his shoes still dangled in the street’s gutter.
Holding up an index finger, she declared, “Wait here.”
Anatol grinned. He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Cindy brought out the Breathalyzer from the trunk. At the sight of the machine, the Russian’s eyes lit up in recognition. Without directions, he took the protective paper off the blow hose and exhaled enough sodden breath to knock out a rhino.
“Whew!” Cindy said. “We’ve got a sizeable BAL. You are drunk, sir.”
Anatol grinned and measured off an inch of space between his thumb and index finger. “Dis much vodka.”
Cindy spread her arms out. “More like this much vodka.”
Anatol laughed.
“Do you have one of these?” Cindy reached in her wallet and pulled out her own license.
Anatol shook his head. “No hev.”
“You don’t have your license or you never had a license?”
The subtlety of English grammar was lost on him. “No hev.”
“I see we’re in a rut.” Cindy bent down, picked up his paint-splattered gunboat-size shoes, and placed them in the car. She shut the door. “Officer Beaudry,” she called out, “I got him trussed and ready to go.”
“I’m coming.” As Beaudry started toward the cruiser, the other drunk Russian dogged his heels.
Beaudry turned to face him. “No, you stay here.” He pointed to the wizened truck. “Sit in there. Call up a lawyer for your friend.” Beaudry mimicked a phone call, then pointed to Petrukievich. “Call up help for your friend. He’s going to jail.”
A perplexed look. “Jail?”
“Yeah, jail.”
Cindy watched Beaudry as he tried to act out a prison scene. He wasn’t Cagney, but he got the point across.
“Ah!” Drunk Passenger smiled. He got back into the truck, threw his head back, and closed his eyes. Bunking down for a snooze.
Cindy said, “Do we arrest him as well?”
“For what?” Beaudry answered. “Sleeping? Let’s go!”
Since the backseat was divided from the front by a metal grate, and since Anatol was still handcuffed, they left him sitting solo behind them.
Cindy started the motor, then gripped the automatic transmission shift knob. Something tickled her flesh. A small yellow Post-it had stuck to her sweaty palm. She peeled the paper off her skin. On it was written the word “Remember,” the printing done with a black felt-tipped marker. The dampness on her palm had caused the word to smear. She showed it to Beaudry. “You leave this here?”
He glanced at the paper. “No.”
“I didn’t, either.”
Beaudry shrugged.
Cindy said, “How’d it get here?”
“With traffic being this light, I’m sure it took the freeway—”
“I’m serious—”
“How the hell should I know, Decker? Maybe you put it there and forgot.” He smiled. “Maybe that’s why it says to remember.”
“Very funny.”
Beaudry said, “Maybe the guys over at servicing left it there.”
“Then I would have noticed it when I drove the car out of the lot. I certainly would have noticed it when I pulled Mr. Petrukievich over. Are you sure you didn’t put it there?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d remember something like that.”
Cindy was perturbed, but she didn’t say anything. She stared at the paper.
Beaudry said, “Decker, it’s late. I’m tired. Let it go. And let’s go.”
She crumpled the mysterious message. Shifting the car into drive, she released the hand brake and took off. Beaudry called in the arrest, giving the RTO an estimated time of arrival to the stationhouse.
Remember.
Cindy tried to erase it from her mind. “How long do you think it will take to process our friend?”
“What do we have on him?”
“Reckless driving, a D
UI with a BAL of over point-two, and operating a moving vehicle without a license.”
“Maybe an hour.”
“Criminy!”
“Why? You got something planned?”
“Later on.”
“I hope you’re not tight for time,” Beaudry said, “because if our drunk tank is filled, then we gotta either take him down to Parker Center or find another substation that can handle him. That means it’s gonna take longer.”
“Graham, it’s three-thirty in the afternoon. How many drunks could there possibly be?”
“Lots of people just hanging, Cin. For them, cocktail hour starts right after the soaps.”
Wrapped in a white terry-cloth towel, Cindy stared into her clothes closet. It was too early in the season to wear the light fabrics. (Besides the fact that it was way too chilly outside.) However, it wasn’t heavyweight wool weather, either. That left her with several options.
Option one:
Her midweight, sleeveless black gabardine dress. Always appropriate dinner wear, but way too sexy for a business meeting with a superior, let alone a man who worked with her father. Now, she could wear her black blazer over the dress. That would certainly tone it down. But the jacket was a more bluish-black while the dress was more greenish-black. Which never made sense to her; why black came in so many different shades.
Option two:
An olive-drab skirt suit, which looked great with her red hair. But it was militaristic in style, replete with spangles and epaulettes. She had to be in the right mood to wear it. Tonight, she didn’t feel like WACing it.
Option three: her last selection.
A single-breasted navy pantsuit—good cut around the hips, not too tight around the ass, no plunging neckline. It said, I am all business so don’t even think about it. Maybe it was even a little unfriendly. She supposed she could gussie it up with a scarf.
Except that she hated scarves.
There were women who were naturals with them, tossing them over their shoulders in a carefree serape manner or winding them like jeweled chokers around the neck. She, on the other hand, never could get the damn things to sit properly. On her, scarves always looked like weather wear rather than stylish accessories. Besides, with her red tresses, she had to be careful with multicolored objects.
She unhooked the plain Jane pantsuit from the closet pole and regarded the sedate outfit. It would suffice. To accent it, she’d wear a simple gold chain around her neck and gold stud earrings. Definitely nothing about that ensemble could be deemed inappropriate. Not that she thought that Scott had ideas, but men were men. Even old men were men.
She gave herself a final toweling, then put on her undergarments. Next came the pants, which fit nicely, even a little loose. Well, that was a nice surprise.
She slipped her arms through the jacket and began to button it. She was shocked to find it pulling across her chest. She took off the blazer and checked herself out in the mirror. Her boobs hadn’t gotten any bigger, but her underlying chest musculature sure had. Her shoulders had also widened.
She wondered why she hadn’t noticed before. Probably because she wasn’t a preener. She checked herself out only when necessary, which meant before dates. And they hadn’t happened for a while. Not that this shindig with Scott was a date, but at least it was dinner outside the house with a man who wasn’t a relative. She accredited the change in her physique to a regimen of weight lifting and exercise, including a daily workout of a three-mile jog, fifty push-ups, and two hundred crunches.
So the blazer stretched across her chest. No big whoop! She just wouldn’t button it. Except now she’d have to wear something under the blazer. Her blouses would probably pull, too. So that left her with sweaters. Most of them were too thick and too casual to wear with a suit. Except she did have one black-ribbed turtleneck.
Did black go with navy?
Alas, she thought. Cursed with a pathetic sense of style. If only she had been brought up with a mother who knew about these things. A mother who knew how to knot scarves and how to coordinate separates and just what shade of lipstick would work.
Her mother was just as fashion-blind as she was. Mom’s attire consisted mainly of cotton caftans or peasant blouses worn with ruffled skirts. Her jewelry was almost always chunky bead necklaces or Southwestern sterling-and-turquoise numbers. Cindy never understood why her mother dressed in such a shapeless manner, since she had a nice trim figure. When Cindy had been heavily into psych, she once had told her mother that wearing loose clothes was akin to denying sexuality. Her mother—also into psych—had said she liked sex just fine (If you want confirmation, go ask your father. Yeah, right!), and her choices had more to do with comfort.
Cindy put on the turtleneck. It was tight, but it would suffice. The blazer, of course, softened her protruding bustline. In midsized heels, she stood a svelte five ten, one hundred forty-five. She regarded herself in the mirror. All she needed were sunglasses and a two-way squawk box, and she could have been typecast as a Fed.
She smoothed some blush over her cheekbones, and covered her lips with something gooey and shiny. Rolling her shoulder-length tresses into a knot, she then pinned her hair up with a butterfly clip. She slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and went out of the bedroom. Just as she was about to lock up, she tossed a final glance around her living room.
Her eyes landed upon the mantel, staring at it longer than necessary.
Because something struck her as off.
She walked over to the fireplace and studied the knickknacks perched atop the ledge. There was a bud vase, a small Waterford crystal clock (a birthday gift given by her stepmother, Rina), a dozen miniature porcelain animals (her childhood collection), and several pictures of her parents in silver frames.
That was it!
Hannah’s picture was missing. Cindy’s eyes scanned the area until they lit on the coffee table. There sat her six-year-old half-sister, a boisterous smile plastered over her little mug. She picked up the silver frame and restored the photo to its rightful place.
How’d it get on the coffee table? Cindy knew she hadn’t touched it since she had set it on the mantel.
Or maybe she had moved it when she had last dusted.
God, when was the last time she had dusted?
She checked the clock that read twenty to seven. Even if she were lucky with traffic, she’d barely make it to the restaurant on time.
She’d deal with the picture later. After locking the bolt securely, tugging on the knob to make sure everything was buttoned up, she left her apartment, bolting down the three flights of stairs.
Maybe Oliver had moved the picture last night. Maybe he had walked over to her mantel and picked it up, walking around with it as he waited for her. Then, when he went to put it back, he had forgotten where it belonged.
Which really didn’t make sense. All he had to do was look at the mantel and see the other photographs.
She looked around, checked over her shoulder, then unlocked her car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she immediately locked the car. She took a final glance around before she started the motor.
Maybe Oliver had been walking around with it, then had put it down quickly when she had come into the room. Because he hadn’t wanted her to catch him looking at her personal stuff.
Now that made some sense.
You know how it is. You’re alone in a strange place; you get curious and start touching things you shouldn’t be touching. Then the person comes in and you don’t want him or her to see you snooping.
She started the engine, let it idle, then took off. After a block, she checked her rearview mirror. Free and clear—both in front of her and behind her.
No doubt that was it. Oliver probably moved it.
She’d ask him about it…after he picked up the tab.
8
As she approached the table, Cindy saw Oliver stand up. Like Dad, Scott was from the old school, a guy who probably opened doors and pulled out chairs for the ladies.
So unlike her own generation, where every person was on his or her own—good for self-reliance, bad for manners.
Scott looked good. His attire was not only dressier than last night, but also far less slick. He wore a camel-hair jacket over a cream-colored shirt, a red tie, and charcoal slacks. When he held out his hand, Cindy took it. Instead of shaking it, he pulled her forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, leaning over the corner of the table to reach her face. He let go, his eyes giving her a quick once-over.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“I look lovely?”
“Uh, I mean good. You look good.”
“Good is fine. I’ll even take lovely. Have a seat.”
Cindy slid her body between the tabletop and a red leather banquette, parking herself catercorner to Oliver. The table itself was from another century, surfaced with linoleum designed to look like marble. It was so tiny that their knees touched. She readjusted her position to break the contact. If Scott noticed, he didn’t say anything.
The place was a blast from a long-ago past, when Hollywood glamour meant Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame instead of piercing salons and tattoo parlors. The interior decor could best be described as a hunting lodge, with beamed ceilings, wood-grained moldings, and prints of the chase complete with hart, hare, and hound. Below the coursing images were dark-stained wood panels. Old wood…good wood. A mirrored-back bar ran the length of the room, the specialty of the house being a dry martini with an olive or—if you’re supersophisticated—a pearl onion. Busboys, identified by green jackets and smiles, poured the water and gave them bread. A waiter, identified by his red jacket and surly expression, handed them menus and asked them if they wanted a drink.
“Wine at dinner?” Oliver asked Cindy.
“Sounds good.” She looked up at her server. “Any specials not on the menu?”
The waiter regarded her with suspicion. “The menus are printed daily.”
