Mary, Mary

Smith, male or female.
    I didn’t appear in the small group on camera with Detective Jeanne Galletta, but I met up with her minutes afterward. She was getting attagirls all around, but she broke away to come over and see me.
    “Thanks for the help. The wise counsel,” she said. “So did I look like a fricking raccoon on national TV?”
    “No, you didn’t. Well, yeah, you did.” Then I smiled. “I remember you saying one time,
you have to eat, right?
You still interested?”
    Jeanne’s worried look returned suddenly. “Oh, Alex, not tonight.” Then she winked and grinned. “Gotcha. Yeah, we could eat, I guess. What are you in the mood for? Actually, I’m starving now. Italian sound good?”
    “Italian always sounds good to me.”
    Jeanne’s apartment was on the way to the restaurant, and she insisted we stop. “I need to check out my face in my own mirror, with lighting I trust and know,” she explained. “This will only take five minutes, maybe seven minutes tops. Come up. I won’t jump your bones, I promise.”
    I laughed and followed her into a redbrick building somewhere off of Santa Monica.
    “Maybe I
will
jump your bones,” she said as we walked up the stairs to her apartment.
    Which is exactly what happened as soon as she shut the door behind us. She spun around fast, grabbed me, kissed me, and then let me go again.
    “Hmmm. That was kind of nice. But I’m just messing with you,
Doctor
. Ten minutes, just like I promised.”
    “Seven.”
    And then Jeanne scooted down the hall to her bedroom and the lighting she could trust. I’d never seen her so loose and lively; it was almost as if she was a different person away from the job.
    It took her a little more than seven minutes, but the wait was worth it, the transformation kind of startling, actually. She’d always struck me as attractive, but she looked kind of tough at work, and definitely all-business. Now she wore a silk T-shirt with jeans and sandals, her hair was still wet from a quick shower, and Detective Jeanne Galletta seemed softer, another side of her revealed.
    “I know, I know, I look like hell,” she said, only we both knew different.
    She hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I forgot to offer you a drink. Oh, God, what is it with me?”
    “We only had five minutes,” I said.
    “Right. Good point. You always,
usually,
say just the right thing. Okay then, let’s go. The night awaits us.”
    The thing of it was, I could still feel the impression of Jeanne’s body against mine, and her lips. Also, I was unattached now, wasn’t I?
Was I?
To be honest, I was starting to get a little confused myself. But she was herding me out the door into the hallway—and then Jeanne whirled around on me again. This time I was ready for her and took her in my arms. We kissed, and it was longer and more satisfying than the first time. She smelled terrific, felt even better, and her brown eyes were beautiful up close like this.
    Jeanne took my hand, and she started to pull me back into her apartment.
    I stopped her. “You just got dressed to go out.”
    She shook her head. “No, I got dressed for you.”
    But then I gathered it together, got hold of my senses, and said, “Let’s go eat, Jeanne.”
    She smiled and said, “Okay, let’s eat,
Alex
.”

Chapter 67
    AT 4:00 IN THE MORNING, a twenty-two-year-old actress named Alicia Pitt left Las Vegas and headed for L.A. The open casting call started at 9:00, and she didn’t want to be blond chick number three hundred and five in line—the part would already be gone before she even got to read.
    Her parents’ Suburban, which the highly imaginative Pitts called Big Blue, was a gas-guzzler without a conscience. Other than that it was a free ride, so all in all, the price was close to being right. Once Alicia got some kind of real work, maybe she could afford to actually live in L.A. Meanwhile, it was this endless back-and-forth for auditions and callbacks.
    Alicia ran her lines as she drove west on I-10, trying not to glance too much at the dog-eared script on the seat next to her. The familiar ritual continued almost all the way to L.A.
    “‘Don’t talk to me about pride. I’ve heard everything I need to from you. You can just —’”
    Wait, that wasn’t it. She looked down at the script, and then up again at the road and passing traffic.
    “‘Don’t talk to me about pride. I’ve heard it all before from you. There’s nothing you can tell me now that I’ll