Desert Run by Betty Webb

had to care for so many people, one of them a foul-mouthed U-boat captain.
    Irritable enough to commit murder?
    ***
    At five, I pronounced Desert Investigations closed for the day. After a few final taps on his keyboard, Jimmy headed out to spend the evening with his fiancée, leaving me to lock up. This accomplished, I clenched my teeth and climbed the stairs to my apartment.
    â€œNo problem, no problem,” I muttered, as with my snub-nosed .38 drawn and ready, I unlocked my triple-locks, let myself in, triple-locked the door behind me, and began my routine search for an intruder. So much for therapy. But as Dr. Gomez had so astutely pointed out, a few months of court-ordered anger management couldn’t erase a childhood filled with abuse. And they did nothing to soften the memory of the foster father who had hidden himself in my bedroom closet, the better to rape me when I arrived home from school.
    I’d been nine years old at the time.
    My search revealed no rapist in any of the closets. No rapist under the bed. No rapist hiding in the bathroom or the kitchen cupboards. Relieved, I put my .38 down on the clothes hamper, stripped, and showered. Thirty minutes later, after scrubbing my skin raw, I still felt dirty.
    Warren arrived promptly at seven, not the least taken aback that I eyed him for a long time through the peephole before beginning the complicated unlocking process.
    â€œYou look beautiful,” he said, stepping into the apartment. “I’ve never seen you in a dress before.”
    Although I’d purchased my all-purpose black dress off the sale rack at Robinson’s-May, Warren’s Armani suit had a loftier pedigree and his aftershave probably cost more than the dress. “You look beautiful, too.”
    He glanced around the living room. “Did you just move in?”
    â€œAbout four years ago, but I’m not much on decorating.” An understatement if there ever was one. The room was basic, since the only items I had added after leasing it fully furnished were a Kachina doll, a Navajo rug, a couple of toss pillows, and an oil painting done by an Apache artist. Seeing the apartment through Warren’s eyes—and remembering Jimmy’s colorful trailer—I realized my home sweet home had the personality of a motel room.
    Outside in the rapidly cooling spring air—did I smell magnolia blossoms, already?—Warren helped me into the passenger seat of his leased Land Rover as though I were some frail creature who couldn’t manage the climb, and I didn’t know whether to be charmed or insulted. I decided on charmed. “Where are we going?” Someplace dark, I hoped, where no one I knew would see us in case dinner ended badly.
    He pulled away from the curb and headed off into the night. “How about that three-star restaurant at the Phoenician?”
    The chance of my not being recognized at one of the city’s premiere resorts was slim. Not only was I on a first-name basis with the maître d’ because I’d once helped him find his runaway daughter, but I would probably also know half the diners, too. In these litigious days, private detectives get around. But Warren was trying to make an impression, so I tried not to let my disappointment show. “That’s nice.”
    Stopping at a crosswalk, where a gaggle of Bermuda shorts-wearing tourists were crossing, he gave me a look. “Too public? Then you recommend a place.”
    He could read moods, a good sign. A man who paid attention to people. Relieved, I directed him to Pasta Brioni, a nice little Italian restaurant tucked discreetly into a shopping center. The place was quiet, dimly lit, and the owner/chef served original dishes rivaling the Phoenician’s. Best of all, the clientele didn’t blab.
    The evening wasn’t as uncomfortable as I had feared. Not at first, anyway. It was refreshing to sit in a romantic restaurant with a handsome man again, pleasant