Backfire
Page 49
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As they walked away from Boozer’s apartment, Savich stopped by their rental car, pulled Sherlock against him, and kissed her. “Yep, pepperoni.”
“I got to eat all yours, too. Poor Mrs. Howell, she was mortified that she hadn’t brought a vegetarian pizza, just in case. Do you think our shooter really won that butt-ugly religious ring in a poker game?”
Hyde Street, Russian Hill
Sunday
After four long knocks, Eve opened her door to Harry Christoff.
“I had this feeling it was you, but I was sort of hoping I was wrong.”
“Why? You wanted maybe the postman? It’s Sunday, no delivery on Sunday.”
A laugh spurted out of her. “No, I’m not really up to acting all social and civilized. I’m sorry I missed the meeting this morning; you’ll tell me everything?”
“I will, but you have to invite me in first. I figured you’d be in pretty bad shape, so I came bearing gifts.” He held out a bakery bag and a covered go-cup that sent the aroma of dark roast coffee wafting to her nose.
Eve took the bag first, looked upward, and said “Thank you,” then, “You’re amazing, Harry, and you even brought coffee. No, you’re more than amazing, you’re a prince, Agent Christoff. Are there any glazed?”
He looked down at her scrubbed face, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders over a faded red robe, her bare feet. “You look like the homecoming queen on a reality show. I’m glad you slept in this morning. How’s your back?”
She forced herself to stand up straight. “I’ll be good to go after three donuts and this wonderful coffee. Come in, let’s go to the kitchen. Are there maybe more than one glazed?”
“There are three, but I was hoping for one myself,” he said, as he followed her into her kitchen. He still couldn’t get over how streamlined and cool it looked, with pale green granite counters shot with black, and hanging copper pots over a small center island. He said, “My kitchen’s right out of the forties.”
“As long as everything’s clean and works, who cares what decade it comes from? It’s all about the food and the person making it, right? You want milk in your coffee? You don’t want a glazed donut, do you? You somehow knew it was my favorite?”
“Nah, give me a chocolate with sprinkles. I’m a real man.”
“How many donuts?”
“Six.”
She set everything out on the small kitchen table, and they started in on the donuts and coffee, neither saying much of anything until only one donut, not glazed, was left on the paper plate between them. Eve wiped the sticky glaze off her mouth and her fingers, laughed, and leaned forward to flick a red sprinkle off his chin. She sat back and sighed, contented. “Thank you. Before you came, I’d just gotten out of the shower and wondered what I was going to make for breakfast. Nothing appealed, then you showed up.”
She toasted him with her coffee cup.
He asked, “How’d you sleep last night?”
“In the arms of the angels, with the help of two aspirin and a sleeping-pill chaser. I’m trying to stay away from the codeine.” She stretched, froze, then began, very slowly, to stretch again.
Harry stood up. “Let me see how bad the bruising is today.”
She stared up at him. “You mean you want me to drop my bathrobe?”
“Well, yeah, but don’t feel like you have to put on a show for me, even though I did let you eat all three of the glazed donuts. No, just show me your back. You know, if you can’t think of me as your doctor, you can pretend you’re an artist’s model draped with a towel. Come on, Barbieri, I’m not going to jump you. You’re safe. I’m not desperate enough, and, fact is, you’re too pathetic-looking right now.”
She stood up, turned her back to him, and let her robe drop to her waist. Harry pushed her hair out of the way, even though he didn’t need to, and studied the shades of her green, black, and yellow back. “You got a modern art painter living with you?”
She tried to look back over her shoulder. “That bad?”
He lightly touched his fingertips to one bruise. She didn’t flinch. “Do you have some muscle cream?”
She pulled her robe back up. “Yeah, I do, for all the good it did me. I can’t reach the bad areas.”
“Get it. I’ll do it for you.”
She gave him a look, then left him in the kitchen to finish his coffee and stare out at her small back garden with its six-foot stone walls and single cypress tree. Everything looked dormant now, but he imagined there’d be lots of color in the summer.
“I got to eat all yours, too. Poor Mrs. Howell, she was mortified that she hadn’t brought a vegetarian pizza, just in case. Do you think our shooter really won that butt-ugly religious ring in a poker game?”
Hyde Street, Russian Hill
Sunday
After four long knocks, Eve opened her door to Harry Christoff.
“I had this feeling it was you, but I was sort of hoping I was wrong.”
“Why? You wanted maybe the postman? It’s Sunday, no delivery on Sunday.”
A laugh spurted out of her. “No, I’m not really up to acting all social and civilized. I’m sorry I missed the meeting this morning; you’ll tell me everything?”
“I will, but you have to invite me in first. I figured you’d be in pretty bad shape, so I came bearing gifts.” He held out a bakery bag and a covered go-cup that sent the aroma of dark roast coffee wafting to her nose.
Eve took the bag first, looked upward, and said “Thank you,” then, “You’re amazing, Harry, and you even brought coffee. No, you’re more than amazing, you’re a prince, Agent Christoff. Are there any glazed?”
He looked down at her scrubbed face, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders over a faded red robe, her bare feet. “You look like the homecoming queen on a reality show. I’m glad you slept in this morning. How’s your back?”
She forced herself to stand up straight. “I’ll be good to go after three donuts and this wonderful coffee. Come in, let’s go to the kitchen. Are there maybe more than one glazed?”
“There are three, but I was hoping for one myself,” he said, as he followed her into her kitchen. He still couldn’t get over how streamlined and cool it looked, with pale green granite counters shot with black, and hanging copper pots over a small center island. He said, “My kitchen’s right out of the forties.”
“As long as everything’s clean and works, who cares what decade it comes from? It’s all about the food and the person making it, right? You want milk in your coffee? You don’t want a glazed donut, do you? You somehow knew it was my favorite?”
“Nah, give me a chocolate with sprinkles. I’m a real man.”
“How many donuts?”
“Six.”
She set everything out on the small kitchen table, and they started in on the donuts and coffee, neither saying much of anything until only one donut, not glazed, was left on the paper plate between them. Eve wiped the sticky glaze off her mouth and her fingers, laughed, and leaned forward to flick a red sprinkle off his chin. She sat back and sighed, contented. “Thank you. Before you came, I’d just gotten out of the shower and wondered what I was going to make for breakfast. Nothing appealed, then you showed up.”
She toasted him with her coffee cup.
He asked, “How’d you sleep last night?”
“In the arms of the angels, with the help of two aspirin and a sleeping-pill chaser. I’m trying to stay away from the codeine.” She stretched, froze, then began, very slowly, to stretch again.
Harry stood up. “Let me see how bad the bruising is today.”
She stared up at him. “You mean you want me to drop my bathrobe?”
“Well, yeah, but don’t feel like you have to put on a show for me, even though I did let you eat all three of the glazed donuts. No, just show me your back. You know, if you can’t think of me as your doctor, you can pretend you’re an artist’s model draped with a towel. Come on, Barbieri, I’m not going to jump you. You’re safe. I’m not desperate enough, and, fact is, you’re too pathetic-looking right now.”
She stood up, turned her back to him, and let her robe drop to her waist. Harry pushed her hair out of the way, even though he didn’t need to, and studied the shades of her green, black, and yellow back. “You got a modern art painter living with you?”
She tried to look back over her shoulder. “That bad?”
He lightly touched his fingertips to one bruise. She didn’t flinch. “Do you have some muscle cream?”
She pulled her robe back up. “Yeah, I do, for all the good it did me. I can’t reach the bad areas.”
“Get it. I’ll do it for you.”
She gave him a look, then left him in the kitchen to finish his coffee and stare out at her small back garden with its six-foot stone walls and single cypress tree. Everything looked dormant now, but he imagined there’d be lots of color in the summer.
