Skies of Ash

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “For how long?”

  “Just that month. You think that means anything?”

  He had just become a father for the second time—Chloe had been born that July. Two kids, a wife, and one income—if anything made you anxious…

  “Could mean something,” I said to Dixie. “Could mean nothing.”

  Colin dropped me at home and I tossed him a “see you soon” while racing up the walkway to the front door. I had forty minutes before Greg turned into a fully realized asshole, brimming with barbed words and moody glances.

  I showered for ten minutes, took another five to flat-iron my hair, spent a minute on makeup and several seconds wrangling my never-been-worn, block-print Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.

  The dress fit, glory, glory.

  My hair obeyed.

  My toes still shone with toreador-red nail polish.

  Power without a Glock.

  In the Porsche, I zoomed through the slick streets of Culver City, heart pounding in my chest as my phone vibrated with passive-aggressive texts from my husband.

  If you have something better to do…

  I could be at work right now.

  U there? R U busy?

  I didn’t respond. Against the law to text and drive.

  Five minutes after eight o’clock, I pulled in front of the new French bistro and left the car keys with the valet.

  Greg, dressed in a cashmere sweater and jeans, stood in the lit-bead-draped bar. He was chatting with a leather-clad, beauty-shop blonde (he never chatted with men, not ever). Seeing me enter, Greg said something to the blonde, laughed as she laughed, then sauntered over to meet me. “Wow,” he said, looking at his wristwatch. “Only six minutes late.”

  My smile froze as I stared at him. “And you look very handsome as well.”

  “I get to be pissed off,” he growled.

  “I wasn’t in Vegas for the buffets,” I whispered as pressure pushed behind my eyes. “You know I’m working a case. And that case took me out of town for a moment.”

  “Out of town with Colin Taggert.”

  “Absolutely. He’s also a homicide detective assigned to this case that required travel.”

  “Sounds good on paper,” he snarked.

  Panic whirled through me. “I apologize for being six minutes late. Won’t happen again. And we don’t have to do this”—I waved to the restaurant—“if you’re not feeling it.”

  He clenched his jaw, then forced himself to smile. “Hell, we’re here now.” He glanced down at my dress and lifted an eyebrow. “You look incredible. But you know that, don’t you?”

  “Always nice to hear.”

  He touched the small of my back, then dropped his hand to my ass.

  The ice around my heart cracked and started to thaw.

  The restaurant’s front-desk host, a man as thin as a Communion wafer and just as pale, led us to a table with a view of the restaurant’s small lavender and herb garden.

  Greg’s whiskey-colored eyes skirted over the menu, then found my cleavage. His gaze narrowed and lingered there for a moment until he’d had enough and focused again on the food.

  My skin tingled under his attention. I wanted to move my shoe up and down his calf, but something kept that foot tied to the ground.

  Over glasses of Napa Cabernet, he told me that he didn’t feel like talking about the zombie game. “The stupid mistakes I’m finding… None of it makes sense, and I’m startin’ to think somebody’s trying to sabotage me. There was an article on IGN’s Web site today, all about my failure being imminent, that I haven’t fucked up yet but odds are that I will, and that schadenfreude bullshit. If I have to program this son of a bitch myself and do all the voices and sell it from the back of a U-Haul, I’ll do it.”

  “Sounds like you’re never coming home,” I said.

  He refilled his wineglass. “If that’s what it’s gonna take.”

  But me being six minutes late because I’d been trying to solve the murder of three, real-life human beings? Oh, the horror!

  The waitress slipped the tomato tarte tatin between us while Greg showed me on his phone a new sketch of my video-game doppelgänger now dressed in a tight, low-cut police uniform. “I see that I got the boobs right,” he said, his eyes flitting back to my dress.

  I jerked as though a knife had jabbed my spine. Had his ogling my breasts happened for simply artistic reasons and not because he wanted to free them from La Perla and cover them with millions of kisses?

  Over steak au poivre for him and poulet roti for me, I told him about the Chatmans’ weird medical shenanigans. And as I told him about the Valium prescription, he picked at his potato gratin and haricot vert. As I talked about Melissa Kemper, he glanced at his watch. When I brought up the visit to Christopher Chatman’s commodities firm, he yawned, then peeked at the striking brunette with extreme eyelashes sitting two tables away.

  Dessert came: chocolate fondant with homemade vanilla crème glacée.

  The brunette and her eyelashes left the table and headed for the restroom.

  I counted in my head. One… two… three…

  Greg wiped his mouth with a napkin, then said, “I need to make a call.”

  Five seconds.

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  He left the table.

  My mouth, full of melting chocolate, mixed with unfallen, salty tears.

  Alone now, my mind raced, and thoughts tumbled as my eyes searched the moonlit garden for answers.

  Stay.

  Go.

  He’s making a call.

  No, he’s not.

  Finish the fondant first.

  Finally, the strongest thought wound through the fray and reached my mind’s door.

  I pushed away from the table, my feet numb but my legs strong, and stomped in the direction my husband and the woman had taken.

  This isn’t happening… This isn’t happening…

  I held my breath and peeked around the corner into the corridor…

  Ah.

  Okay.

  There he was. There she was. Talking. Together. Her hand on his shoulder. His smile, the brightest I’ve seen since…

  Trembling and sweaty, I thanked the ghost-faced host as I strode out of the restaurant. With a shaky hand, I gave ten dollars and the parking ticket for my car to the valet. Weak-kneed, I slipped behind the wheel of my “please, baby, please” Porsche and sped away from the clatter of plates and the chatter of laughter.

  At the first stoplight, I nearly rammed into the back of a Miata.

  Pinballs clanged from my purse.

  Greg was calling.

  And the phone kept clanging as I pulled into the parking lot between the HoneyBaked Store and the Secret Pole Dance Studio, a squat concrete building that looked more like a sewing-machine shop than a place where women learned to writhe around a silver stick. I parked and sat, aware that right over there, down the block, was the storage facility where Chatman’s boxes had been stolen.

  Shit. Another failure.

  The rumble started in my toes, twisted past my intestines, and burned my throat. The tears came, and I wept, unable to stop, unable to breathe, helpless against my body’s spasms.

  In ten minutes, I was all cried out. My head fell back against the headrest as control draped over me. There was a heaviness in my limbs, but it was not a sinking kind of heaviness; instead, it was being tethered to something that would not let me float away into the lonely, vast universe.

  The next time the pinballs clanged, I answered. “Yes?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Greg shouted.

  “Nothing’s wrong with me,” I said, calm and over it. “Did you ever go to the doctor?”

  He paused. “What?”

  “The doctor. Back on Tuesday, you told me you’d go. Did you go yet?”

  “I haven’t had a chance… I don’t wanna talk to you on a phone. Where are you?”

  And as he shouted questions at me, I sat there, tethered to whatever w
as holding me.

  After he had run out of breath and had apologized for the obvious and tried to explain that he knew the brunette from college, he fell silent. “Lou,” he whispered, “say something.”

  No tangled thoughts. No fear. I heard his breathing. I pictured his hand over his eyes. I felt his anxiety pulse through the phone. And all of me went clammy and cold.

  “Lou. Baby, say something.”

  And so, I did.

  “I want a divorce.”

  44

  MAYBE GREG HAD BEEN TELLING THE TRUTH. MAYBE HE DID KNOW THE PRETTY brunette from college. At this point in our marriage, though, at this point in my life, my mind’s fingers had grown raw from sifting lies from the truth. “That’s it. I’m done.” I shifted in the Porsche’s seat and watched people gather near the entrance to the pole-dancing studio.

  Syeeda sat beside me, her doe eyes wide with worry. She took my hand and squeezed. “Are you sure? Maybe you should sleep on it. You can crash at my house again, if you want. Stay as long as you need. We’ll make s’mores.”

  “I’m sure that we’re over,” I said. “So over that I’m calling Lena’s divorce attorney on Monday morning. Really: why keep going? It’s not like we have kids. We don’t have to stay married for anyone other than ourselves, and I don’t wanna do that anymore.” I shook my head. “And he’s the one staying away, but thanks for the offer of shelter and s’mores.”

  She ruffled my hair.

  I took her hand. “Forgot to tell you that the article today… really good. Very touching.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Just doin’ my job, Detective.”

  Colin’s red Dodge Charger roared into the parking lot.

  Syeeda checked her makeup in the visor. “Lena is determined to sleep with that man by the end of the year.” She glanced at me. “Is Colin interested?”

  My partner left his car, and as he walked, he tugged at his black V-neck sweater.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure what he wants.”

  At the entrance, Colin’s gaze started at my face, then drifted down to my cleavage and exposed feet before buoying back up to my boobs.

  I rolled my eyes. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

  He blushed. “I forget sometimes that you’re a girl.”

  I smirked. “I forget sometimes what that even means.”

  “Where’s your hubby?”

  I shrugged, then took a deep breath and tried to smile.

  Colin tapped my arm. “What do you sistas say about doing bad by yourself?”

  Syeeda laughed. “Did he just say ‘sistas’?”

  I shook my head and chuckled. “Shut up, Colin.”

  Half of the studio was walled with mirrors, and all of it had been decorated with rhinestones and velvet cutout silhouettes of women in different pole positions. The aromas of baby powder and vanilla wafted from candles and sticks of burning incense. Friends and family sat in a semicircle of white folding chairs around a silver pole reflecting light from a spinning disco ball. Silver light flecked our faces as we all drank sweet, pink libations laced with vodka.

  Against my will, I nodded to the beat of Lil’ Kim and 50 Cent bragging about magic sticks and magic… boxes.

  Colin gaped at me as I grooved and rapped with Syeeda. And his eyes bugged as I shouted the X-rated lyrics.

  “Really?” he said. “Is this the cop who always wears the white hat now rapping about head?”

  I waved one hand in the air and used the other to chug from my cup. Tonight, I didn’t give a shit, a fuck, or even a rat’s ass—it had been a helluva week.

  The first three student “pieces” involved feather boas, a leather whip, and a giant lollipop. Makin’ it rain, droppin’ it low, and shakin’ it fast. In between each set, a studio staff member wiped down the pole with enough alcohol to sanitize a hepatitis ward.

  A break gave us all time to refresh our cups of Pink Panties. As we waited, Lil’ Kim returned, raunchier than ever.

  “Do you know all the lyrics to her songs?” Colin asked, his eyes on my wriggling hips.

  I nodded, snapped my fingers, and bumped him with my hip.

  The lights dimmed—Diamond Heavenlick’s turn. She wore a blue-and-green-plaid naughty schoolgirl’s uniform with patent-leather platform Mary Janes. She writhed before us as R. Kelly explained that he saw nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.

  In six minutes, Lena did the Cleopatra, the Dark Pixie, and reverse-grabs, all of which required athleticism and a bikini wax unlike any other. Not since college had I seen Lena do more than a wiggle here and a shimmy there. But tonight she was flying around a pole with her short legs nearly horizontal.

  “Damn,” Colin said, wide-eyed. “She’s better than a lot of strippers I’ve seen. And she don’t have any bullet wounds or scars and shit.”

  As a finale, Lena leapt up to the top of the pole and spun down until she landed into the splits.

  We all stood and clapped as Lil Wayne bragged that his girl licked him like a lollipop.

  Twenty minutes later, we stumbled out to the parking lot, which smelled of fried dough and confectioners’ sugar. Lena and Colin lingered near the entrance while Syeeda wandered over to the donut shop.

  My phone rang. Not pinballs—not Greg.

  “Detective Norton, good evening,” the man said. “It’s Ben Oliver.”

  I stopped in my step—his voice sounded like the chocolate fondant I had abandoned earlier at the French bistro. “Ben. Hello. What a surprise.”

  “A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

  “Depends on why you’re calling. And on a Friday night, it better be intriguing.” The pink drinks had boosted my swagger.

  He chuckled. “I just ended a meeting, and it went really well for my client and me. Also, it’s a beautiful, crisp night out and I’m in a great mood. So I wanna buy you a fancy drink in a fancy bar somewhere in this fancy town.”

  The asphalt shook beneath my feet, moved past my calves, and drilled into my stomach. Was he trying to play me? Did he know that I was trying to play him? Was I one hundred percent certain that I was trying to play him, because if I was, why—?

  “Hello?” he said. “You there?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “I like fancy drinks in fancy bars. But if I agree, I’ll need to ask a few work-related questions.”

  “Ask me whatever you want. How about the bar at the Ritz-Carlton, Marina del Rey?”

  I agreed, then ended the call.

  Colin was ambling toward me.

  “What happened?” I called out to him. “No lust connection between you and Lena?”

  He shrugged, then glanced back at Lena standing at the studio doors with Syeeda. “She’s cute and rich and everything but…”

  “But her ego is bigger than yours.”

  “Remarkable, right? Heading home?”

  I grimaced and shook my head.

  “So tell me what happened. Y’all fight?”

  “Oh, it’s far worse than that.”

  Colin crossed his arms. He thought to himself for a moment, then took a step closer to me. “I know I’m supposed to say that I’m sorry because of black love and whatnot…”

  “Oh, quiet, you.”

  He stroked my cheek with his forefinger.

  “You did not just do that,” I said, squinting at him.

  He smiled. The pink drinks had boosted his swagger, too.

  “You’re my kinda friend, Colin,” I said, not flinching from his touch. “More importantly, you’re my partner. And I’m your senior.”

  “I’m not askin’ you to marry me, Lou. We’re off duty, and it’s obvious that we’re attracted to each other.”

  “Obvious?” I asked. “To whom?”

  He smiled. “C’mon. Everybody’s doin’ it. Vernell and Kent in the Gang Unit hook up all the time. And Montez and Felicia in Robbery…”

  “And if everybody blah-blah-blahed, would you do that, too?”

  “Hell yeah, I would. Twice. Three times if
I worked out that day.” His finger slid to the dip between my clavicles and rested lightly on my pulse point.

  My breathing quickened—I hadn’t had sex in six months, and that was really starting to piss me off.

  And Colin was a big, brave man who wrestled murderers and blasted shotguns and gushed testosterone like the Titanic had gushed seawater. Right now, though, he didn’t have to do much to take me over the rainbow.

  “You’re thinkin’ about it,” he said. “Anything I can do to persuade you?”

  Heat rippled off of me and off of him. Every inch of skin on my body waxed toward him, all of me wanting so badly to be touched and kissed. Biology. But I took a step back. “We have a long day tomorrow, partner.”

  His face flushed and his hand dropped to his side. “Yep.”

  “And we’ll forget this happened, yes?”

  “Yep.”

  Colin and I stood there, in the Secret Pole Dance Studio parking lot, still contemplating it, knowing that it happened all the time between men and women on the police force, knowing that sex changed everything—for good but most times for bad, but, damn, in times like these…

  He started toward his car. But then he stopped and turned back. “You think too damned much about things. Sometimes, humans just… fuck. That’s what we do. Lollipops just bein’ lollipops.” He sighed, then saluted me. “Have a good one.”

  45

  THE RITZ-CARLTON OVERLOOKED THE MARINA, A FLOATING PARKING LOT FOR catamarans, sailboats, and small yachts. People gathered around the circular bar, leaned against the railing, or squeezed onto white divans separated by small, tabletop fire pits. The driving bass line of an old Lady Gaga song made the wooden floor planks vibrate.

  Ben Oliver was still dressed in a suit but wore no tie. He had snagged a divan farthest from the crowd. It was loud, and we sat close, mouth to ear, to shout above the noise. Hello, I’m fine, you look great, you look great, too. I ordered sangria and he ordered single-malt Scotch. I warmed beneath his appreciative gaze but quickly launched into the cop act. “Let’s get business out of the way,” I said, tapping his knee. “And then we can find more interesting topics to discuss. Religion and politics, for example.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Or which is better: Alien or Aliens?”