man’s Rolex turned into a couple’s vacation. It was the weirdest thing to happen so far that week.
Things got weirder, fast.
5.
Something in Caitlin’s smile always threw me off my step. Something more than her graceful strength, more than her confidence. She had the eyes of a woman who gazed out over the entire world and liked what she saw. An air of perpetual, quiet amusement. Her clothes were casual chic today, her scarlet hair done up in a long, twisting braid, and she rolled a white leather Prada carry-on as she crossed the concourse to meet me.
I leaned in for a quick kiss that left me wanting more, and glanced down at the pale curve of her hand. “Ahem.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. I nodded downward, to the streak of rusty crimson splashed along her wrist.
“Oh.” She blinked and looked for the nearest washroom. “Missed a spot. Watch my luggage? I’ll be right back.”
So I watched her luggage.
“You know,” I said as we checked in at an electronic kiosk—and she promptly upgraded both of our tickets to first class, “you really don’t have to do this.”
“
Have
to? Who said anything about ‘have to’? Is it so hard to fathom that I might find your work interesting?”
“Kind of.” I shrugged. “It’s a little mundane compared to what
you
do.”
She laughed. “Daniel, ninety-nine percent of my career is paperwork, red tape, and bureaucracy. Sure, sometimes I get to spice things up with an invigorating bout of…corrective discipline, but it’s really not that different from any other corporate job. I make rules for a living and ensure they are upheld. You
break
rules for a living. It’s an intriguing notion.”
“Oh, I get it now.” I raised my chin, squinted my eyes, and did my best Clint Eastwood impression. “I’m a renegade. An outsider who lives by his own code. An American outlaw.”
She paused, looking me up and down.
“What?”
“I was just trying to imagine how you’d look on a motorcycle.” She shook her head. “Don’t buy a motorcycle. Not a good look for you.”
I didn’t do much flying, and when I did, it was generally coach seating. I had to admit, I could get used to a first-class lifestyle. Steaming-hot hand towels and a nice glass of red to make the flight go smoothly—it sure beat the hell out of stale peanuts. We touched down at LAX right around two, soaring in from a hazy yellow sky. Smog warnings were in full effect, but I didn’t need the signs posted at the airport doors to tell me: I felt it the second we stepped out into the hot, muggy afternoon air, like a splash of quick-set concrete drying in my lungs.
“So what’s our first stop?” Caitlin asked me, slipping on a pair of designer shades.
“Curtis Rake looks like my best bet. That lawsuit alleged all kinds of nastiness at Monty’s label, and they paid him to stay quiet before he could spill all the details. If I can get him to open up, it might tell me who had a genuine motive to take Monty out. Lots of possibilities out there, but there’s a big difference between hating somebody and hating ’em enough to commit murder.”
Caitlin wrinkled her nose. “‘Big Rig’ Rake? Ugh. I’ve heard his music. Dire twaddle. I’ll go take care of some local business of my own. Call me when you’re done and we’ll meet up for dinner.”
“Not a hip-hop fan?”
“Of course I am. From the eighties. When it was good.”
I tilted my head at her as we stepped into the cab line. “Somehow I can’t picture you getting down to Public Enemy.”
She adjusted her sunglasses, replying in a somber deadpan, “I
am
an old-school player.”
“I stand corrected.”
“Yes, well, you’d best recognize. See you tonight, pet.”
She had a point. Curtis’s big single, “Booty Thumpin’,” might have been burning up the charts, but the tune was as disposable as Styrofoam padding. What he lacked in deathless poetry, he made up for with sales acumen. Tracking him down was easier than I