give a receipt.”
She wasn’t wearing perfume today, he noted. Just soap and skin. Odd how erotic that simplicity could be. “In a hurry?”
“Clock’s ticking.”
He strolled into an adjoining room. After a small internal battle, Ally walked over to the doorway. It was a small bedroom. Small, she noted, because it was two-thirds bed. A black pool of bed, unframed and on a raised platform.
Curious, she looked up and was mildly disappointed there wasn’t a mirror on the ceiling.
“It would be too obvious,” Jonah told her when her gaze skimmed back to his.
“The bed’s already a statement. An obvious one.”
“But not vain.”
“Hmm.” To amuse herself she poked around the room. On the walls were a number of framed black-and-white photographs. Arty, interesting and all stark or shadowy night scenes.
She recognized a couple of the artists, pursed her lips. So the man had a good eye for art, and decent taste, she admitted.
“I’ve got this print.” She tapped a finger against a study of an ancient man in a ragged straw hat sleeping on a cracked concrete stoop, a paper bag still clutched in his hand. “Shade Colby. I like his work.”
“So do I. And his wife’s. Bryan Mitchell. That’s one of hers beside it. The old couple holding hands on the bench at the bus stop.”
“Quite a contrast, despair and hope.”
“Life’s full of both.”
“Apparently.”
She wandered. There was a closet, closed, an exit door, securely locked, and what she assumed was a bath or washroom just beyond. She thought of the sex vibes Lydia Carson had referred to. Oh, yeah, this room had plenty of them. It all but smoked with them.
“So, what’s through there?” She jerked a thumb at another door. Instead of answering he gestured, inviting her to see for herself.
She opened the door, let out a long sigh of pleasure. “Now we’re talking.” The fully equipped gym was a great deal more appealing to her than a lake-size bed.
He watched as she trailed her fingers over machines, picked up free weights, doing a few absent curls as she roamed. Very telling, he thought, that she’d given the bed a sneer and was all but dewy-eyed over his Nautilus.
“You got a sauna?” Envy curled inside her as she pressed her nose to a little window in a wooden door and peered into the room beyond.
“Want to try it out?”
She turned her head enough to slide her gaze in his direction. And the sneer was back. “This is pretty elaborate when you could be at a full-service health club in two minutes.”
“Health clubs have members—that’s the first strike. They also have regular hours. Strike two. And I don’t like using someone else’s equipment.”
“Strike three. You’re a very particular man, Blackhawk.”
“That’s right.” He took a bottle of water out of a clear-fronted bar fridge. “Want one?”
“No.” She replaced the free weight, moved back to the doorway. “Well, thanks for the tour. Now, the tapes, Blackhawk.”
“Yeah, clock’s ticking.” He unscrewed the top of the bottle, took a casual sip. “You know what I like about night work, Detective Fletcher?”
She looked deliberately toward the bed, then back at him. “Oh, I think I can figure it out.”
“Well, there’s that, but what I really like about night work is that it’s always whatever time you want it to be. My favorite’s the three o’clock hour. For most people, that’s the hard time. If they don’t sleep through it, that’s the time the mind wakes up and starts worrying about what they did or didn’t do that day, or what they’ll do or not do the next. And the next, and right up until life’s over.”
“And you don’t worry about yesterday or tomorrow.”
“You miss a lot of the now doing that. There’s only so much now to go around.”
“I don’t have a lot of the now to stand around philosophizing with you.”
“Take a minute.” He crossed to her, leaning on one jamb as she leaned on the other. “A lot of
She wasn’t wearing perfume today, he noted. Just soap and skin. Odd how erotic that simplicity could be. “In a hurry?”
“Clock’s ticking.”
He strolled into an adjoining room. After a small internal battle, Ally walked over to the doorway. It was a small bedroom. Small, she noted, because it was two-thirds bed. A black pool of bed, unframed and on a raised platform.
Curious, she looked up and was mildly disappointed there wasn’t a mirror on the ceiling.
“It would be too obvious,” Jonah told her when her gaze skimmed back to his.
“The bed’s already a statement. An obvious one.”
“But not vain.”
“Hmm.” To amuse herself she poked around the room. On the walls were a number of framed black-and-white photographs. Arty, interesting and all stark or shadowy night scenes.
She recognized a couple of the artists, pursed her lips. So the man had a good eye for art, and decent taste, she admitted.
“I’ve got this print.” She tapped a finger against a study of an ancient man in a ragged straw hat sleeping on a cracked concrete stoop, a paper bag still clutched in his hand. “Shade Colby. I like his work.”
“So do I. And his wife’s. Bryan Mitchell. That’s one of hers beside it. The old couple holding hands on the bench at the bus stop.”
“Quite a contrast, despair and hope.”
“Life’s full of both.”
“Apparently.”
She wandered. There was a closet, closed, an exit door, securely locked, and what she assumed was a bath or washroom just beyond. She thought of the sex vibes Lydia Carson had referred to. Oh, yeah, this room had plenty of them. It all but smoked with them.
“So, what’s through there?” She jerked a thumb at another door. Instead of answering he gestured, inviting her to see for herself.
She opened the door, let out a long sigh of pleasure. “Now we’re talking.” The fully equipped gym was a great deal more appealing to her than a lake-size bed.
He watched as she trailed her fingers over machines, picked up free weights, doing a few absent curls as she roamed. Very telling, he thought, that she’d given the bed a sneer and was all but dewy-eyed over his Nautilus.
“You got a sauna?” Envy curled inside her as she pressed her nose to a little window in a wooden door and peered into the room beyond.
“Want to try it out?”
She turned her head enough to slide her gaze in his direction. And the sneer was back. “This is pretty elaborate when you could be at a full-service health club in two minutes.”
“Health clubs have members—that’s the first strike. They also have regular hours. Strike two. And I don’t like using someone else’s equipment.”
“Strike three. You’re a very particular man, Blackhawk.”
“That’s right.” He took a bottle of water out of a clear-fronted bar fridge. “Want one?”
“No.” She replaced the free weight, moved back to the doorway. “Well, thanks for the tour. Now, the tapes, Blackhawk.”
“Yeah, clock’s ticking.” He unscrewed the top of the bottle, took a casual sip. “You know what I like about night work, Detective Fletcher?”
She looked deliberately toward the bed, then back at him. “Oh, I think I can figure it out.”
“Well, there’s that, but what I really like about night work is that it’s always whatever time you want it to be. My favorite’s the three o’clock hour. For most people, that’s the hard time. If they don’t sleep through it, that’s the time the mind wakes up and starts worrying about what they did or didn’t do that day, or what they’ll do or not do the next. And the next, and right up until life’s over.”
“And you don’t worry about yesterday or tomorrow.”
“You miss a lot of the now doing that. There’s only so much now to go around.”
“I don’t have a lot of the now to stand around philosophizing with you.”
“Take a minute.” He crossed to her, leaning on one jamb as she leaned on the other. “A lot of
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