by Mia Thompson
Aston quickly gathered his team and took off to remove a soiled homeless man from Urth Café.
This would be talked about all day, and if the others got really excited, even the next day.
* * * * *
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” Sapphire said, trying to suffocate the chuckle arising in her throat. It was too late—it got out.
“Sapphire,” Father O’Riley greeted her through the wall with a slight Irish-American accent. “Is it necessary to laugh every time you say that? I’d rather you wouldn’t say it at all then.”
“I can’t help it. I’m sorry; it just happens.” Sapphire squirmed in the uncomfortable confession booth and peered at Father O’Riley through the square net that prevented them from seeing each other fully.
“Did you do it again?” he asked.
Sapphire fiddled nervously with her nails and sneered.
“Don’t sound so enthused,” she said quietly. “Aren’t you supposed to call me ‘my child’ or something like that? Doesn’t seem kosher to call me by my first name when it’s supposed to be anonymous.”
“Did we not have the kosher-is-Jewish conversation just last week? But, fine. Did you do it again, my child?” Father O’Riley repeated.
“Never mind, now you sound like a pervert; let’s just go back to Sapphire.”
“Seriously. I’m sure you’re not the only atheist waiting for confession. What’s up?”
She paused, trying not to offend her confidant more than usual. “I did, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“You know I don’t condone what you do, but I have to say from what I read in the newspaper you did a very good job. It was you who handled the Double-sided Blade fellow, wasn’t it?”
“Good? Really? More like spectacular.”
“One of the deadly sins is pride, you know.”
Another laugh escaped Sapphire.
She found the church about a year ago by accident, after capturing her third killer. It was raining hard that night, her beloved crap car had stalled out and part curious…part bored, she went into the church across the street to wait until the rain stopped so she could fix her car.
The church had been completely empty, lit only by candle. She worked her way to the altar and stood gazing up at Mother Mary. The big idol. Had Sapphire been religious, she would have preferred to stare at the statue of a slightly dejected woman with a tilted head than a more depressing one of a bleeding man nailed to a cross. She didn’t understand how looking at that all day long would bring anyone peace.
She heard something off to the side. It stopped, held, and repeated. She stood still for a moment until she realized that someone was snoring in the confessional. She snuck up and listened, realizing it was the priest asleep on duty.
The rain stopped, allowing Sapphire to leave and go work on her car. Except she didn’t. She waited until she could no longer ignore the little devil on her shoulder and stepped into the confession booth.
In the booth, she smiled to herself before she raised her voice.
“So anyway!” she blurted out. The snoring came to an abrupt end, and she heard the man in the next room snap out of his sleep with a gurgling sound. “What do you think I should do, Father?”
He sat silent, then said with a doubtful voice, “Three Hail Marys and six Our Fathers?”
She held back her laugh, about to bust him by asking him to repeat what her problem was but stopped. She didn’t know where the need came from, but it was there. Sapphire cleared her throat. “I caught a killer today.”
Father O’Riley sat silent again. Sapphire could hear his thoughts working on how to begin his sentence, so she cut in.
“Is it true that anything you’re told is completely confidential? Otherwise you’ll go to church-jail or get excommunicated or something, I mean, if you spill the beans?”
“Worse,” he said. “I’ll burn in hell for eternity. So, yes, anything you tell me is in confidence and will never be spoken to another.”
“Sweet.”
That was how Sapphire ended up a few hours away from L.A. once every week or two—give or take. Sometimes she came for advice, other times to unburden herself.
“Did something happen, Sapphire?” Father O’Riley sounded worried.
“Is it cheating if you don’t necessarily care for the person you’re with?”
Father O’Riley coughed. “Yes, I’d assume so. Why? Did you cheat on somebody?”
“Well, technically, I guess. We aren’t really…I mean he’s this arrogant ass…”
“Who, your boyfriend, or the guy you cheated with?”
Sapphire let out a clear sigh, letting him know that he was annoying her.
“Can I ask why you are with this man if you don’t like him?” Father O’Riley asked.
“Because he’s who I’m supposed to be with—according to everyone else.”
Her life had been hell until she finally started “dating” John. Chrissy, Vivienne, along with everybody and their mother had tried to set her up. She had to go on so many dates, with so many sociably accepted men, that she finally just decided to pick the one with the tiniest brain. During her six months with John, she had cancelled one date every single week, by telling him she had the cramps. He bought it, every…single…week.
“Ah. And you don’t want people to believe you’re different because you are?” Father O’Riley said.
“Something like that.” Suddenly she felt herself lose the urge she’d had to go to Father O’Riley in the first place.
“I think you know the answer yourself. You’re here because you feel guilty; are you not? Most people come to me because they feel their souls might be in danger. Is that what you feel?”
“Why do you always have to make everything about my immortal soul? This religion thing is really a fixation of yours, isn’t it?”
“Well, I am a priest.”
“Can’t a girl just have a simple question about whether or not something is cheating? You really annoy me sometimes. I have to go. I’m supposed to meet my friend at the country club in an hour, so…” She stood and looked at her watch.
“I think you want to make sure you are not like your mother, correct?” Father O’Riley asked.
She sat back down. “You think I am?”
“Well, I’ve obviously never met your mother, but from what you tell me, she doesn’t really seem to care about the people in her life.”
“I care.”
“Your life is full of people whose only purpose for you is to use as an illusion. This boyfriend is part of that, is he not?”
Sapphire frowned; he was annoying her more than usual today. “I have to go.” She got up and grabbed the door.
“Sapphire.”
“Yes?”
“See you next week?”
“See you next week.”
Sapphire left the church feeling even guiltier, which had been the opposite of her plan. She wanted Father O’Riley to side with her instead of a selfish prick he had never met. Then again, deep down she knew he was pretty much right. It was just hard to admit. She didn’t care about John, but being anything like her mother was the last thing Sapphire wanted.
She got into her car wondering who Father O’Riley really was. He was particular about not talking about himself during their sessions. Like a psychotherapist, he directed everything she asked about him back to her. Before she’d actually seen him face-to-face, she’d asked him if he was a redhead, since he was Irish.
“Would you have a problem if I was a redhead?” he replied.
The fact that she knew nothing of the man who knew everything about her hadn’t bothered her until now. She spent the rest of her drive back to Beverly Hills trying to shake a feeling similar to the one she had in a dream where she suddenly realized she was naked in public.
Chapter 6
A jolt of adrenaline hit Aston when he hung up the phone. A case. A real case. He grabbed the suit jacket he didn’t need, considering it w
as 87 degrees outside, but knew the chief would hassle him. He’d already pulled Aston aside asking why his head detective never used the suits they had tailored for him.
“The pants ride up my ass,” Aston answered. The look on the chief’s face was not good.
“Look, it’s standard for detectives everywhere to suit up; it’s not what you like to call a Beverly Hills thing. Humor me. I’ve been fairly tolerant with your snide comments and constant sarcasm, given the fact that you’re still adjusting. But one thing I can’t stand is unprofessionalism.”
“How am I…”
“What were you wearing when you responded to Ms. Streisand’s call?”
“I don’t really remember, maybe…” Aston started.
“Washed out jeans and a T-shirt that said and I quote: ‘I don’t take shit, I don’t give shit, I’m not in the shit business.’”
Aston laughed at the memory of his own T-shirt and Chief Anderson’s face got harder. “I’m sure they’d never tolerate anything like that at the LAPD either.” Chief Anderson pointed at the door to his office, ending the conversation.
A few days earlier Aston realized, if he pushed the chief’s buttons enough, he might get the chief to back his transfer request with a recommendation, just to get rid of him.
On his way out of the station, he managed to convince Chief Anderson that he didn’t need a team and that he used to eat things like this for breakfast at his old station. The chief shrugged.
“Fine, but you’ll get Barry Harry.”
Barry Harry, the unfortunate bastard, popped up next to Aston with a smile. It was the pimply guy right out of the Academy.
After a long silent drive, Aston said his first words to Barry as they stopped at the country club’s valet.
“Get out of my car.”
Aston cringed. He was surrounded by the crème de la crème of rich. He watched with distaste as they played golf, rode their horses, and schmoozed with each other about the latest important event in their lives. One golf club alone could buy food for a whole village in Africa. Not that Aston was an especially giving person, but he was certain that if he had their money, he would be…most of the time. Well…at least during the holidays.
A butler-ish man with white gloves opened the doors to the dining room for them. Aston looked from the gloves to the butler.
“It’s eighty-seven degrees outside and you’re cold?”
The man looked at Aston, confused.
“I’m not cold, sir,” he said and motioned his arm toward the very back of the room where a crowd had gathered.
“Ah, warts.” Aston winked.
The butler stared at him in silence for a while. “She’s right over there, sir.”
Aston’s adrenaline jumped to a high. A real case. Thank God.
Then he saw her.
* * * * *
Sapphire went to the country club that afternoon, totally oblivious to what was about to go down. She was meeting Chrissy for a thirty-five dollar cup of coffee at their usual table. Sapphire had told Chrissy that she’d be running a little late, so Chrissy decided to show up even later. She explained, without a trace of humor, that she was the one who was supposed to be fashionably late, not Sapphire.
As Sapphire sat waiting, she listened to a message John had left on her cell. He had called her a total of four times that day, which was a lot, considering that they only talked or saw each other once or twice a week. Sometimes, if Sapphire got really lucky, even less.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said, assuming she’d know who it was. “There’s something we have to do tonight. I need to see you, so I got a table for us at Mastro’s Steakhouse at seven.”
Douche move number one; Sapphire was a vegetarian.
“Wear something nice. The paparazzi have been following me around all day.”
Douche move number two and three. He assumed Sapphire wouldn’t wear something nice unless asked to, and he believed the paparazzi were there for him. It had never dawned on John that he often went to hot spots that celebrities also preferred. Like a true douche, he’d shield his face or pull his designer jacket over his head to protect himself from the flashes of the cameras, when they were actually aimed at the latest reality star a few feet away.
“…All right, so call me later then.”
About to command her phone to delete the message, Sapphire caught the last of it.
“Oh, and don’t call me before two, I’ll be golfing.”
Crap!
As she reached for her purse, about to dart out and head straight for the parking lot, he appeared, looking more douchey than ever in his plaid golf wear and white hat. He saw her from across the room and waved, then turned around to say something to his fellow golfers, among them, two ex-presidents and Warren Beatty, and moved toward her. His look was peculiar and his walk not as douchey as it normally was. Sapphire’s brain completely froze. What was it that he wanted to talk to her about? Quickly, she scrolled to the worst-case scenario.
“Hi, sugar plum. You look beautiful.”
“And you look…” She mumbled the rest as she sipped her coffee.
He sat down, uninvited, and tapped his fingers on the table. “I’m glad you came to see me. But I’d rather do this tonight.”
“I didn’t—”
“But since you’re here, I guess it’s as good a time as any.
John dug in his pocket and Sapphire felt like throwing up; she knew what was going to happen. And it was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The last conversation John and Sapphire had was a week earlier, and John had gone on and on about marriage and how they weren’t getting any younger. Sapphire hadn’t put much weight on the conversation, since she knew she would not be marrying John.
Now he was going to do it. He was going to pull out a ring, get down on one knee, and ask her to jump on board as Mrs. John Vanderpilt III.
John’s hand slid out of his pocket, and he handed her an iPod. “You forgot this at the Stinkin’ Rose last week.”
Sapphire stared at the iPod, relieved. “Oh, thank God,” she blurted out. She grabbed the iPod and felt her whole body relax.
John took a deep breath and looked straight at her. There was more, apparently.
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work out.”
“What?” she asked, though she heard him very clearly.
“It’s just…I’m getting older, Sapphire, and I can’t dilly dally around with you forever.”
Sapphire took a deep breath, relieved.
As John stared at her, she realized she was probably supposed to be upset. Upset for real, not this-is-a-minor-inconvenience upset. It was probably what was expected of her, given the situation. She wondered if she could squeeze out a teardrop or two if she pinched herself really hard or jammed a fork into her leg. John shook his head, looking guilty.
“I’m sorry, muffin-drops.”
Sapphire silently gagged, while John kept shaking his head, pretending to have empathy for her. “It’s not you. It’s…your inheritance.”
Ah, yes, here comes the classic; It’s not you, it’s… Sapphire looked up at him just as she was about to reach for the fork. “What?”
John sighed impatiently, like it was a bother to even continue the conversation.
“I’m a Vanderpilt, Saph. A Van-der-pilt. And I’m worth, let’s face it, more than most people in this room. You’re only at what? Twenty-five? Thirty mil? I have responsibilities, you know. Things might have been different if you were at least…at least at six or seven hundred mil; then we could have talked marriage.”
Again, Sapphire counted her lucky stars, hoping she wasn’t smiling as much on the outside as she was on the inside.
“I love you, Sapphire. You know I do. But sometimes love just isn’t enough.”
“I understand,” Sapphire whimpered in a sad, pitiful voice.
“You’ll be all right, kid. You’ll be all right.”
“Oh, God,” Sapphire added and wiped her dry eyes with the Egyptian cott
on napkin. John looked at her and a thought seemed to enter his brain. Sapphire knew, because it didn’t happen very often with him, so when it did, it even took John by surprise.
“Would you prefer it if we had some breakup sex?”
“No, John. It would just be too…unmanageable,” she said being 100 percent honest for the first time during their relationship.
John nodded. “I understand. Goodbye, Sapphire.”
“Goodbye, John.”
Sapphire lowered her eyebrows and stared after John in the saddest possible way she knew. When he turned around to look at her, she blinked and looked up into the ceiling as if she were about to cry. John held a supporting fist up to her, saying be a trooper, then disappeared around the corner.
“And scene,” Sapphire said and took another sip of her café au lait.
She had a full three minutes to enjoy what had just happened. It hit her that she could probably ride that puppy for at least six months until everyone started setting her up again. Playing the dumped girlfriend, that was too hurt to even look at another man, was perfect.
“Ms. Dubois.” The waiter’s voice cut like a knife through the pleasant thoughts of never having to spend another second with John Olof Vanderpilt III.
“Yes?” Sapphire smiled at him. Mostly because she knew none of his other customers barely so much as looked him in the eyes.
“A package arrived for you.”
He held up a box, no bigger than a three-pack of microwave popcorn.
“Thank you.”
Sapphire took the neatly wrapped box as the waiter disappeared to refill someone’s afternoon glass of Dom Perignon.
Weird, Sapphire thought, wondering if her mother had decided to buy her something expensive and send it to the country club to flaunt in front of fellow trophy wives. Or was it Chrissy? Sapphire peered around and saw that her friend had just arrived and was busy flirting with Roger Moore’s married son by the bar’s lounge. That meant it wasn’t Chrissy; if it had been, she would have stood behind Sapphire at that moment so that she could hear the “ooohs” and “aaaahs” and feel like she did a good deed and everyone knew of her generosity.
