Perpetual Motion (17 page)

J.T. nodded.

Cynical knocked and, a few seconds later,
Desmond answered the door, taking a long moment to assess Cynical’s
new friend.

“Hello Desmond,” Cynical said. “Do you mind
if we come in?”

Stepping aside, Desmond let the two men enter
the apartment, all the while openly staring at the body guard.
Meanwhile, J.T. began appraising the big sliding glass door that
led out to the balcony, and not liking it one bit.

Karen came out of the bedroom and stopped
with a start. “Oh, I didn’t know we were having company.”

“This is J.T.,” Cynical said. “He’s going to
fill in for me tonight.”

“Hey,” J.T. said, stepping forward. “You mind
if I close those blinds?”

Karen looked a little nervous. “Is all this
necessary?”

“It’s just a precaution,” Cynical said,
trying a little too hard to make it sound casual.

Desmond was still gawking at the big man. “Do
you have a gun?”

J.T. turned to look at Desmond dead on.
“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

“You don’t want to see it,” J.T. said in a
low growl, putting an end to any more requests.

“Well,” Cynical said, stepping back to
address everyone. “Everyone has my numbers. If anything comes up,
call me immediately, no matter what time.”

“Where are you going?” Desmond asked.

The question caught Cynical off guard and he
suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for his dalliance with Amanda later
that night. “I’m going home to rest; maybe get something to eat,”
he stammered. It wasn’t exactly a lie; he was just leaving out his
dinner plans. “I’ll see you all in the morning,” he added as he
eased out the door.

“Bye,” Karen said, looking nervous as her
protector beat a hasty retreat.

Tito’s was an unpretentious Italian
restaurant that served authentic fare in an understated ambiance; a
stark contrast to most over-priced and over-hyped LA eateries.
Below an oil painting of the canals of Venice, the couple sat on
either side of a tomato sauce stained tablecloth; a candle
flickering in a glass hurricane holder between them.

Cynical had showered and shaved and put on
pressed pants, a button-down shirt, and a blue blazer that was ten
years old, but holding up well for its age. Despite his attempt to
put his best face forward, he was no match for the woman who sat
across from him.

Amanda had showed up in a sleeveless cocktail
dress, perhaps a bit over-dressed for Tito’s, but no one was
complaining. She looked better than Cynical remembered. This time,
she had left her spectacles behind and worn her hair down, letting
it fall past her bare shoulders.

The wine only enhanced the intoxicating
effect Amanda seemed to have on him. As he had on the plane ride
from Vegas, he talked about his life, sharing intimate details he
hadn’t told anyone in years.

With a little prompting, he told her about
growing up on the Latin gang controlled streets around Pico-Union.
How being picked on was a daily occurrence until he couldn’t take
it anymore and began to fight back. While he usually lost, he lost
most of his fear too. And he told her how an older man in the
neighborhood happened to witness one of his many scrapes.

“It was ‘Packy’ who got me into boxing,”
Cynical recounted with fondness. With a half-smile, he added, “I
think he was just trying to get me into the gym, so when I got beat
up, at least it was supervised and with padded gloves.”

“Oh, I bet you were good.”

“I got better,” Cynical admitted. “Pack
helped me get my anger under control, or maybe I just punched it
all out. He was the closest thing I ever had to a real dad.”

“Is Packy still around?”

“No,” Cynical said with a shake of his head.
“He passed on a few years ago.”

“I bet he was proud of you.”

“Yeah, he thought it was the greatest thing
when I became a cop. He told me I was in a position to make a real
difference.”

“I’m sure you did,” Amanda added as she
reached out and touched his hand.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Cynical said,
liking the feel of her hand, but uncomfortable with divulging so
much. “Enough about me. What’s your story?”

“What do you want to know?” she asked,
pulling her hand back and opening her arms as if her chest was an
open book ready to be read.

Diverting his eyes back to her hand, he said,
“Well, you’re not wearing a wedding ring, so I’ve been operating
under the assumption you’re not married.”

“My, you are a good detective.”

“Divorced?”

“Nope, just a single working girl,” she said,
wistfully glancing at her naked ring finger that was now resting
next to her empty wine glass. “I guess I’m just one of those career
girls – work, work, work.” Thinking about it, she seemed at peace
with her answer and her life. “What else can I tell you? I live in
Baltimore with a yippy little dog.”

“What’s the dog’s name?”

She smiled for a moment before saying,
“Samson.”

Cynical split the last of the wine in the
bottle, giving her glass the lion’s share.

“So, how long before you head back to
Maryland?”

“I’ll wrap things up tomorrow morning,”
Amanda said. “Then I go back home for a couple of days until my
next assignment. Sometimes I feel like I live my life out of a
suitcase.” She picked up her wine glass by the stem, reflecting on
the rich red light. “It makes relationships tough, especially when
I meet someone interesting.”

It was flattering, although being a private
eye sounded a lot more exciting than it actually was. His current
case might be the exception. Thinking of Karen and Desmond and
Michael, he glanced at his cell phone.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”
Amanda asked with a sly smile.

“Sorry,” he said, looking up. “I guess my job
is tough on relationships too.”

“Do you need to go?”

“No,” he said emphatically. The kids were in
good hands with J.T., he reassured himself. He smiled
apologetically to his date. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I take my job seriously too.
People keep telling me, ‘It’s just a job, Amanda.’ But I think of
every assignment as a personal challenge. My reputation is on the
line and, if I don’t get it right, then it eats at me.”

Cynical found the intense, slightly buzzed,
insurance adjuster cute.

“Most of the time, my job is pretty boring
too,” he admitted. “Cheating spouses, disability claims, providing
protection for big shots who don’t really need it. But, sometimes
you get someone who is really counting on you - and you don’t want
to let them down.”

“Do you have a case like that now?”

“Yeah,” he said. Amanda leaned forward,
seemingly interested.

As tempting as it was to tell the story of
the search for the supposed inventor of a perpetual motion machine,
he didn’t want to go into it just for the entertainment value.
Besides, there was the confidentiality agreement to consider. So,
he left it there.

Sitting back and swirling her wine, Amanda
evaluated her date with a wry smile. “You know, I don’t think
you’re nearly as cynical as you like to think you are.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say
anything. Their conversation had hit a lull as they both sipped
their wine in the silence.

“This was fun,” Amanda suddenly stated. “Are
you ready to go?”

“Sure,” Cynical said, disappointed; he’d
obviously bored her to death. Maybe it wasn’t too late to divulge
some details of his case – or make something up.

“Well, where are we going?” she asked.

“Oh,” he said, suddenly realizing the night
wasn’t over yet. “There’s a place near here that has decent jazz.”
He waited for a response, which was slow in coming. “Or, we could
just get some coffee.” That elicited a disinterred nod. “I don’t
live too far from here,” Cynical ventured. “We could have a drink
there?”

“That sounds good,” she said, perking up.

Cynical waved down the waiter.

J.T. seemed a bit miffed when Cynical showed
up late the next morning, and J.T. was not someone you wanted
miffed at you. Fortunately, the bodyguard’s irritation had been
somewhat quelled by Karen’s hospitality. Having served him hot
coffee, warm croissants, and fresh fruit for breakfast, he wasn’t
all that anxious to leave.

“Sorry J.T.,” Cynical said, checking his
watch as he rolled in. It was twenty past nine. “Sorry
everyone.”

“It’s all right,” J.T. said, before adding,
“This time.”

“You have a big night?” Desmond asked, barely
glancing up from his laptop.

Cynical ignored the innuendo, especially
since it was on target. Thinking of the corporate insurance
adjuster gone wild, he quickly killed his smile away before it
became too noticeable.

“See you tonight?” J.T. asked as he moved
toward the door.

“Yeah,” Cynical confirmed.

When the door shut behind J.T., Cynical went
over to the kitchen where Karen was loading up the dishwasher. He
couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t offered him any coffee or
breakfast.

“Here you go,” he said, pulling out the
photograph of Michael and her from his jacket. “Sorry it’s
broken.”

She stared down at the fractured photo with
several layers of Scotch tape over the crack.

“It’s just the glass that’s broken,” he
pointed out. There was no response and she seemed lost in thought.
“I’ll get the glass replaced when we have more time.”

Still without speaking, she carefully propped
the photo on the kitchen counter and turned back to the sink.

“What’s the matter?” Cynical asked. “Are you
mad I broke the picture or that I’m late?”

“None of that is helping,” she said. “But
that’s not really it.”

“Well, what’s the problem?”

Placing her hands on her hips, she faced him.
“How long are you planning on keeping this arrangement up?”

“I don’t know,” he said defensively. “We just
started.”

“It’s just - I don’t know if I can live this
way – with bodyguards – and people that are trying to listen in –
and do who knows what to us.” She glanced over at Desmond who was
nodding in agreement, although he didn’t seem particularly
distressed.

“I can’t afford to keep this up very long
either,” Cynical said, trying to tamp down the desperation creeping
into his voice. “Let’s at least give Michael a couple of more days
to call.”

As if on cue, the phone rang, startling each
of them and, for a moment, they were both thinking of the same
person. Then Cynical realized the sound was coming from his own
pocket.

Taking his phone out, he answered,
“Cynical.”

“The Feds know you were the one that found
that body in Long Beach.” It was the no-nonsense voice of his
friend and mentee, Detective Cynthia Trudent.

“Well, hello detective” Cynical answered,
glancing at Karen and Desmond, both of whom were closely watching
him. “Yeah, I’m aware of that.”

“Why are the Feds involved in this?” she
demanded.

Taking a few steps across the apartment, he
went out into the hall, leaving Karen and Desmond to their
dishwasher and computer screen. With the door shut behind him, he
walked a few more feet away for a little extra privacy.

“The kid they found in Long Beach was working
on something with Michael. Whatever it was, it got the attention of
a lot of people, including the government.”

“What were these kids working on?”

“I can’t say,” Cynical said with a sigh. “My
client made me sign a confidentiality agreement – and, believe me,
he’d nail me to the wall if he found out I talked.”

There was a frustrated pause, before Cynthia
said, “Well, the Fed took over the murder scene. And, from what I
hear, it was spotless. No prints, no hard-drives, no nothing.”

“I told you it looked professional.”

“And you don’t have any idea who could be
behind this?”

“I don’t know, but I had Michael Dexter in my
custody in Vegas until these guys showed up and tried to grab him.
I’m pretty sure they weren’t Feds.”

“That’s disturbing,” she commented. Taking a
moment to think it through, she asked, “So how do the Feds know you
were the one to find the body?”

It was a question that had been nagging him
since McCobb and O’Riley had paid him a visit yesterday. “I guess
they could have had Fernando’s house under surveillance, or else
they followed me down there,” he said sheepishly.

“You’re losing your touch,” Cynthia said with
a light laugh. Then, in a voice that had softened since the start
of the conversation, she added, “Be careful.”

“I will,” Cynical said. “Thanks.”

As they hung up, his smile faded. It was nice
she was concerned, but it left him wondering if he was really
losing his touch. There was something about working in the police
department that kept your edges sharp. When the bodies never
stopped coming, you learned how to close cases fast. A private
detective didn’t have the same kind of pressure, and maybe it was
making him a little slower, a little duller.

He shook the thought away; he still had
it
, or at least,
some of it
.

Then, how had McCobb and O’Riley known about
the dead body? They didn’t even seem to know how Fernando fit into
the picture until he had told him. So, if they weren’t watching the
house in Long Beach, they must have been following him.

He knew they had Desmond’s apartment under
surveillance, so they could have picked him up when he first
visited. From there, the Feds could have followed them over to
Karen’s apartment. And, in between, they must have tailed him all
the way to Long Beach… So, why hadn’t he spotted the Lincoln on
that long, early morning stretch? That car should have stuck out
like a white whale.