Zipper Fall (37 page)

“So, what’s next?” Reyna asked. “You’ll go over and—what? Eat his dinner?”

I nodded. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine but drink very little. He’s cooking Italian.” Some of my excitement at Italian food must have shown, because Jack’s thigh tensed under me. “My goal is to find where he lives, see how he lives, talk to him about climbing… you know, a fishing expedition. Um… I’m aware it’s not the safest thing to do, so I figured I could leave my phone on in my pocket, on speakerphone.”

“Your battery will run down,” Chico said. “Here, I have something better. I can’t tell you where I got this, but we’ll be able to follow your every word.” He reached into his designer leather satchel and pulled out a Ziploc bag full of police-grade spy gear. “Come over here, Wyatt, so I can wire you for sound.”

The die was cast.

I was really going in.

I
HAD
been equipped by Chico; the tiny microphone with its wire antenna was taped to my solar plexus. Except I didn’t like it there. Here I was, the gay Mata Hari of the climbing world, out to make a murderer confess by my cunning alone, and if he as little as skimmed his fingers across by my abs, he’d most likely feel the wire through my shirt. I could wear a sweater over it, disguising the slight bump under my shirt—but that would muffle the sound pickup.

I looked through my clothes again, carding through the outfits hanging in my closet at Jack’s place. Risby had enjoyed looking at me as I hung on the line, being belayed down; that was an asset to exploit. I glanced over my button-down shirts; too prim. There was the rugby shirt—too loose.

Then, enter the Purple Menace.

My friends had teased me because its tight knit clashed with almost everything I owned; its V-neck was cut low for a guy shirt, offering a glimpse of my clavicles. It set off my blond hair in a good way, though, and its slinky cut skimmed my defined torso, leaving very little to the imagination. That, my tight gray jeans, a silver-studded belt, and my black, lace-up combat boots—I was ready for action.

I ripped the wire off. It was white, and its microphone looked much like my iPod ear bud. Electronic junk. After some consideration, I took my white iPod earphones and cut one half off, replacing it with the wire with its microphone; just stripping the insulation and twisting the wire together did the job. I covered it with a bit of black electrician’s tape. The whole mess was loosely coiled and housed in my armband iPod holder, the kind people wear when they’re out jogging. I zipped up my black fleece jacket over it and entered Jack’s living room. “Okay, I’m ready, guys!”

The whole gang was there, sitting on the leather sectional sofa and staying away from the beer. We had to be sharp. Jack handed me a bottle of red wine. “It’s a cheap blend, but it’s drinkable. That asshole doesn’t deserve anything better.”

“Uh… thanks.”

“What are you wearing under that hoodie, Wyatt?” Chico inquired, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Uh… a shirt.”

Reyna gave me a sideways look. “You’re not wearing the Purple Menace, are you?”

I didn’t answer.

“You are!” Reyna cried, and Chico laughed his pretty laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What’s the Purple Menace?” Jack growled.

“Oh, nothing…. It’s just an old, athletic knit shirt the fashion police thinks clashes with my hair.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack grinned. “Lemme see!”

I wanted to refuse, I really did, but I knew he’d find out eventually. “It’s just an old rag, Jack,” I prevaricated, stalling for time.

His eyes narrowed. “Wyatt.”

Slowly, I unzipped my plain, black hoodie and let it slip off my shoulders.

May as well go for the kill.

Suppressing an evil grin, I jutted one hip out and turned slowly while the thick, black fleece slipped down the slick microfiber of the Purple Menace. My muscles tensed just a bit for the definition in my arms and lats to show; I tossed my head back and let the tip of my tongue wet my lips.

“Woo-hoo, you’ve got something good there, Jack!” Carlos hooted, clapping his big hands.

Chico squealed at my unabashed display, then allowed a mild frown. “Really, Wyatt, that purple is so
out there
with that vibrant hair of yours.” He waved his hand. “But the belt brings it all together. It makes you just too over the top to care.”

Reyna just grinned as Tim sighed in resignation at my subtle, somewhat slutty look.

“No.” Jack’s voice was cold enough to cut ice. “You’re not wearing that, Wyatt.”

I turned to face him, my eyes sultry from underneath my lashes. “Yeah, babe, I am. But don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I’m working undercover, not ‘under covers.’”

My pun did little to mollify him. “Where’s your wire?”

I showed him. Chico nodded and tested it. “We’ll be in the car outside, listening in and recording, okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice came out scratchy and dry, and suddenly I wanted to swallow. There was no spit. My eyes met the arctic ice in Jack’s expression. I was scared. I wanted a hug—just a quick little gesture of reassurance. And, since I was busy acting tough, it wasn’t okay to ask.

Next thing I knew, the detached frost was melting away and his arms were around me. “You’ll be okay, Wyatt. I got your back. We all do.”

There was nothing better than Jack’s strong arms around my shoulders and his moist whisper in my hair. He squeezed me tight as I leaned in and buried my face against his chest.

“Aww, Jack, let go. I’ll be okay.” I put on a good front for everybody’s sake. Especially mine. Swiftly I rose up and kissed the corner of his mouth, and then, like a cloudburst, the somber mood broke and we were on our way, pushing out the door, jostling elbows and calling out friendly expletives.

Showtime.

J
ACK
drove in silence. We were all packed into his Santa Fe crossover. Chico sat in the front passenger seat, setting up his equipment. Reyna, Carlos, and I sat in the back, squeezed onto the bench and foregoing seatbelts. If we crashed, we’d be okay since we were packed sardine-tight. Tim, as much as he was a dear friend to all of us, wasn’t enough of a buddy to snuggle on our laps and was all too glad for the contact-free privacy of the open trunk space. He had more space than any of us, and for just a moment, I felt jealous of the little-kid fun he was having back there, watching the passing traffic from any angle he chose.

Jack stopped the car. “This is it, Wyatt. Apartment 503. If anything happens, holler. You have 911 on speed dial, right?”

“No… I have Detective Lupine on speed dial.”

Jack’s blue eyes looked colorized in the sodium streetlights, and his chestnut hair picked up red overtones. For a moment he reminded me of a comic book super hero. His strong, chiseled features matched the image well. “You told him?”

I thought I heard a hint of relief in his voice. “Seemed prudent.” There was that dry feeling again.

“Okay, bail then. Go for it.”

I forced a grin as he punched the top of my arm with a soft fist, leaning back over Reyna from the front seat to do so.

“Hey, you’re screwing up his audio setup,” Chico snarled, fiddling with buttons, his ears covered by full-size earphones.

I leaned forward and punched Jack back. Then I got out of the car with the bottle of wine in my hand.

There was no lobby and no doorman in Risby’s apartment building, but there was an elevator. It was gouged, dented, and tagged with graffiti, and even though it didn’t inspire confidence, it got me to the fifth floor all too fast. Forcing my feet one in front of the other, I took a turn and found apartment 503 almost right away. Disembodied, I watched my right hand rise and knock on the gray door.

I heard some music, then footsteps, then the sound of locks tumbling open, and it occurred to me that all three were cheap and easy to pick. The door creaked open, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe in lazy repose.

“Hi, Wyatt. Come on in.” He didn’t quite leer, but I felt his eyes burn holes through that loose hoodie of mine.

“H-hi.” I followed him in.

“Wanna hang that up? Oh, wine. Thank you.” He took the bottle and inspected the label. “All right, this’ll go well with what we’re having tonight.”

I felt his arm over my shoulders, propelling me ahead, and I stiffened enough for him to feel my discomfort.

His arm slipped off and his unapologetic grin slid back to me. “Right this way.” I followed him to a small kitchen corner where he had nothing but a two-burner electrical stove, a college refrigerator, and a sink built into a miniscule countertop, with a wall-mounted cabinet over it all. There was a pot of water boiling on the stove and several little cups and bowls of ingredients chopped to the right size and ready for use.

Risby opened a cabinet and pulled out two stemmed wine glasses. The cork popped as he opened the bottle, and he poured us some. We toasted, our glasses meeting with a clinking sound, and suddenly I had a bad feeling, drinking with someone only to take them down later. It felt unclean. I barely wet my lips, letting my eyes pass over his pocket-sized kitchen in appreciation.

“Wow. And here I thought we’d be having takeout food.”

He laughed, his head thrown back, his voice rich with mirth, and it occurred to me Chico wouldn’t hear much if I kept my hoodie on. I unzipped, trying to be as casual as I could, and slid the too-warm layer off my shoulders. His laughter was cut short, and I felt his eyes on me.

“Wow, Wyatt. That’s some… purple… you’ve got on.”

Not sure whether I imagined the trace of excitement in his voice, I shrugged. “My friends give me flack over this shirt because it clashes with the rest of me. I like it, though.”

“Yeah… so do I.” He stepped away from the kitchen counter and into the little room. There was a sofa in the middle and no television, but an old boom box played a Pink Floyd CD. The walls were lined with books, and climbing equipment was hanging off the pegs where others would have displayed pictures on the wall. There was a small desk against the single, large window with a clunky laptop on it, a black-and-white laser printer, and some plastic file boxes full of paperwork.

I wondered what was in there. Doormen didn’t work out of the house. Bills and personal paperwork should have taken just a fraction of that space.

There was no table and chairs and no doors led elsewhere, aside from the bathroom visible through the open doorway. “Your little kingdom?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’m not as well-off as your buddy Azurri.”

I shrugged. “Most people need very little, when it comes down to it.” I let my eyes scan his bookshelves. “What are you reading now?”

“Pliny the Elder.” My woeful ignorance must have shown on my face, because Risby sighed as he dumped the linguine into the boiling water. He gave it one stir. “Did you go to school?”

“Yeah.”

“A good school?”

“Yes.” I felt my jaw tighten. College had not been cheap.

“So how come you don’t know who Pliny the Elder was?” His tone bordered on mocking, just this side of judgmental.

“I was a premed. Then I switched my major to business and had some catching up to do.”

“You still have some catching up to do. In fact, we all do.” He stalked over to his bookshelf and pondered the worn spines of his books. Then he pulled out a modest hardcover volume with a picture of an old, stone head on the front. “Here, read this. I think you’ll like it, considering your adventurous nature.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. “What makes you think I’m adventurous?”

“You went climbing because you got a discount coupon, right? And now you’re here. Need I say more?”

I shrugged, checking the book out while he poured some oil into a pan and started tossing in the ingredients. Soon, his little, one-room apartment smelled like a first-class restaurant. I took my wine and settled in the corner of the sofa, cracking the book open. He loaned me a book called
The Conquest of Gaul
, written by Julius Caesar.

I
N
LESS
than an hour, his loaner book was on top of my crumpled hoodie, and my focus was redirected to the food. We sat on the sofa, legs crossed and facing one another, trying not to spill the linguine in fresh tomato sauce into our laps. It was fragrant and balanced, the garlic bringing out the shrimp and the diced vegetables providing a contrast in texture. I bit into something I’ve never had before. “What are these?”

“Pinola nuts. Essentially, seeds from pine cones.”

“Seriously?” I chased another oblong pine nut down with my fork and ate it, focusing on its resinous, slightly sweet flavor.

He watched me, a lazy grin spreading on his face. “You like it?”

“Love it.” My mouth was full and I was in heaven.

Which is why I almost choked when he said, “Celia taught me how to make this.”

My coughing fit didn’t go unnoticed. His gaze sharpened as he reached a long arm down, handing me my glass of water. “Thanks,” I said. “You knew her? The chick in the display case at the gym?”

“Yeah….” Pain and regret darkened his gaze.