Blood Wine by John Moss

now.
    He doesn’t know how he looks , she thought. Maybe nobody does . For the most part he was stone-faced, displaying only the subtlest nuances of character, like all the great screen actors. Some people thought he was cold. Others thought he was cool.
    He was only forty-two, but she never thought of him in terms of young actors like Ewan McGregor or Brad Pitt. They had not yet done enough in their lives to transcend the roles they played. And never like Al Pacino, De Niro, or Hoffman, who were inseparable from their roles.
    The phone kept ringing in a monotonous jangle, like a giant insect blindly searching its prey.
    Morgan was childish, sometimes, but only with her. He would recite bits of nursery rhymes or schoolyard jingles, sometimes delightfully, absurdly obscene, always inappropriate, although he almost never swore. You can take the boy out of the schoolyard, she thought, but …
    Time passed, and she could hear voices and a key rattling in her door.
    Then Morgan was beside her. The building caretaker who let him in had gone back to bed. Morgan touched her, and she touched the blond woman’s cheek.
    â€œHello, Morgan,” she said.
    â€œMy goodness, it stinks in here,” said Morgan.
    â€œI’m okay,” she said. “You were going to ask if I’m okay. I’m okay. This is my friend, she’s okay.”
    â€œYou’re not,” said Morgan. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
    Suddenly, as if she had been slapped in the face or jarred with defibrillators, Miranda returned to herself.
    â€œMorgan! No ambulance, no cops.” She placed her hand around the back of his neck and drew herself upward as he rose to his feet.
    â€œMy God,” she said. “I’m stiff.”
    â€œAnd who is this?” said Morgan. “You’re both filthy.”
    â€œI’m okay, Morgan. I’m okay. Let’s get cleaned up here.”
    Morgan turned on the shower and in a surreal, almost balletic sequence of movements, he and Miranda got the young woman into the streaming water, where Miranda, still in her pajamas, stripped off the woman’s soiled clothes and handed them out to Morgan, who tossed them in the tub and then went for a bathrobe, which they wrapped around the young woman, who appeared conscious of what they were doing but did nothing to assist. He took her into the bedroom and spread her out on top of the sheets, noticing there was still residue around her wrists, possibly from duct tape, then he returned to assist Miranda, who was tangled trying to get out of her drenched moose-grazing flannel pajamas. He helped her into and out of the shower then towelled her off before wrapping her in a clean white beach towel and leading her into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed beside her erstwhile companion.
    â€œWhy are you here?” said Miranda ingenuously, implying it was a pleasant thing to have him drop in, but a bit of an intrusion.
    â€œI wanted to talk about wine. When I called, there was no answer — who is this? She obviously needs help? So do you —”
    â€œAnd you’re here, Morgan. She came to me, I’m the help she was looking for. We’ll help each other, Morgan. How can I help you? You want to know about wine? You’re the expert, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
    â€œMiranda …”
    â€œShe came to me, Morgan, because she needs me. Philip sent her.”
    â€œPhilip!”
    â€œI know he’s dead. I’m not confused. But she’s a link between him and the man who killed us, killed him.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œStatistics. Logic. How often does a discombobulated blond turn up at your door, how often does a corpse turn up in your bed? Both extremely unlikely. The chances of these two events happening in the same week to the same person, astronomically unlikely. Ergo, it’s magic, or there’s a causal connection.”
    â€œWe’ve got