R Is for Ricochet

"I believe she stole money from me when she was in the office that night."
    "Ah. Got it. That's a serious accusation."
    "Yes, it is."
    "Why not turn the matter over to the cops?"
    "I can't prove she did it."
    I shook my head. "Doesn't sound right to me. I was with her when we toured the office and she never touched a thing. Me neither, for that matter. I hope you don't think I'm involved, because I swear I'm not."
    "It's not you I'm worried about. It's her."
    "You're worried?"
    "I think she's in trouble. I'd hate to see her hurt."
    "Why didn't you just say so up front?"
    "You're right. I'm sorry. I went about this all wrong and I apologize. Truce?"
    "We don't need a truce. I'm worried about her, too. She's back to smoking a pack a day and god knows what else. This morning, she was talking about booze and poker parlors. Scared the crap out of me."
    "I didn't realize you'd seen her."
    "Oh sure. I thought I mentioned that."
    "You didn't, but that's good. I haven't heard a word from her since I got back. She's usually on the phone first thing, tugging at my sleeve. You know Reeb. She tends to cling."
    "I'll say. Look, she talked about us having lunch tomorrow. Why don't I tell her to give you a call?"
    He smiled tentatively, wanting to believe me. At the same time, I could sense his scrutiny, testing my comments for any false notes. Happily, since I'm a thoroughly accomplished liar, I could pass a polygraph, disavowing murder with blood still dripping from my fingers. He reached out and tapped my hand, something I'd seen him do with her. I wondered what the gesture meant, a sort of tag… you're it. "I hope I wasn't out of line. You're a good egg," he said.
    "Thanks. You are, too." I reached out and tapped his hand in return.
    He pushed up from the booth. "Better to let you go. I've taken up enough of your time as it is. Sorry if I was rude. I didn't mean to grill you."
    "Hey, I understand. Stay and have another drink if you like."
    "Nah, I gotta hit the road. Just tell Reba I'm looking for her."
    "What's your schedule like tomorrow? Are you at the office all day?"
    "You bet. I'll be waiting for her call."
    Good luck, I thought. I watched him crossing the room, trying to see him as I had at first. I'd thought he was sexy and good-looking, but those qualities had vanished. Now I saw him for what he was, a guy accustomed to having his own way. The world centered on him and others were simply there to service his whims. I wondered if he were capable of killing. Possible, I thought. Maybe not with his own hands, but he could have it done. Belatedly, a warm drop of sweat trickled down the middle of my back. I allowed myself a deep breath, and by the time Cheney showed up, I was feeling calm again and slightly bemused.
    He slid in next to me and pushed a folded slip of paper in my direction. "Don't say I never did you one. Address is a rental. Misty's been in residence the past thirteen months."
    "Thanks." I glanced at the address and put the paper into my pocket.
    He said, "What's the smile about? You're looking pleased with yourself."
    "How long have I known you? A couple of years, right?"
    "More or less. You haven't
really
known me until this past week."
    "Know what I realized? I've never lied to you."
    "I should hope not."
    "I'm serious. I'm a natural-born liar, but so far I haven't lied to you. That puts you in a category all by yourself… well, except for Henry. I can't remember ever lying to him. About anything important."
    "Good news. I love the part where you say 'so far.' You're the only person I know who could say something like that and think it was a compliment."
    Rosie reappeared and when she caught sight of Cheney, she shot me a quizzical look. She seldom saw me with one man, let alone two on the same night. Cheney ordered a beer. Once she was gone, I rested my chin on my fist so I could look at him. His face was smooth and there was the faintest web of lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Dark suede sport coat the color of coffee grounds. Beige shirt, brown silk tie hanging slightly askew. I reached out and straightened it. He caught my hand and kissed my index finger.
    I smiled. "Have you ever dated an older woman?"
    "Talking about yourself? I got news for you, kiddo. I'm older than you."
    "You are
not."
    "I'm thirty-nine. April 1948." He took out his wallet, flipped it open, removed his driver's license, and held it up.
    "Get serious. You were born in 1948?"
    "How old did you think I was?"
    "Somebody told