R Is for Ricochet

into the loop? His single admonition – to which I'd agreed – was to keep him informed of any backsliding on her part. This hadn't happened yet (as far as I knew), but if I told her about Beck and Onni, what would she do? She was going to crash and burn. And if I
didn't
tell her and she somehow got wind of it – which was not out of the question in a town this size- – much crashing and burning would ensue anyway. She'd begged me not to tell her father about Beck, but Reba wasn't the one who was paying my bills. Witness this check.
    I tried to think of an overriding principle that might apply – some moral code that would guide my decision. I couldn't think
of one.
Then I wondered if I had morals or principles of
any
kind, and that made me feel worse.
    The phone rang. I picked it up and said, "What." rather more rudely than I'd intended.
    Cheney laughed. "You sound stressed."
    "Well, I
am.
Do you have any idea the bind you've put me in?"
    "I'm sorry. I know it's tough. Would it help if we talked?"
    "What's to talk about? Betraying that poor girl? Giving her the news about his screwing around?"
    "I told you he's a bad man."
    "But isn't it just as bad to go after her like that?"
    "You have any other suggestions? Because we're open to just about anything. God knows, we don't want to pull out the big guns unless we have to. The girl's freaky enough."
    "That's for sure. I notice you're using the term 'we,' so I assume you've thrown in your lot with the IRS."
    "This is a law-enforcement issue. I'm a cop."
    "Well, I'm not."
    "Would you at least have a chat with my IRS pal?"
    "So he can pile his bullshit on top of yours? That's a happy proposition. I feel like I'm going under as it is."
    "Look, I'm just around the corner, you want to have lunch? He's on his way up from L.A. and said he'd join us. No hard sell. I promise. Just listen to him."
    "To what end?"
    "You know a place called Jay's? Hot pastrami sandwiches and the best martinis in town."
    "I don't want to
drink
at lunch."
    "Me neither, but we can eat together, yes?"
    I said, "Hang on. There's someone at my door. I'm going to put you on hold. I'll be back in a second."
    "Good deal. I'll wait."
    I pushed the Hold button and laid the receiver on my desk. I got up and paced from the inner office to the outer one. What was wrong with me? Because I did want to see him. And it didn't have anything to do with Reba Lafferty. That subject was just a cover for another form of confusion I was wrestling with. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, noting that 1 looked like shit. This was ridiculous. I went back to the phone and pushed Hold, activating the line. "Give me ten minutes and I'll meet you there."
    "Don't be silly. I can swing by. No point in taking two cars when we can make do with one. It's better for the environment."
    "Oh, please."
    I locked up the office and waited for him out on the street. There was no point worrying about my grubby jeans or my ratty tennis shoes. My hands smelled like bleach and my turtleneck was stretched out of shape. I needed a complete makeover, but I didn't think I could manage one in the next three to four minutes. Oh, to hell with it. This was business. What difference did it make if I were fresh as a daisy, wearing heels and panty hose? The more immediate problem was Cheney's IRS contact. 1 was already experiencing a low-level dread at the idea of meeting him. No hard sell, my ass. The man would grind me underfoot.
    Cheney came around the corner in a sporty little red Mercedes convertible. He pulled in at the curb, leaned over, and opened the passenger-side door. I slid in. "I thought you drove a Mazda," I said, sounding faintly accusative.
    "I left that at home. I also have a six-year-old Ford pickup that I use for surveillance. I took delivery on this baby in Los Angeles last week."
    "Slick."
    He turned right at the corner and headed across town. I liked his driving style. No speeding, no showing off, and no reckless moves. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the matte finish on his red silk windbreaker – nothing shiny or vulgar – white dress shirt, the chinos, snappy Italian shoes that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Even in an open car, his aftershave smelled like spices, the scent of tiny blossoms on some night-blooming shrub. This was pitiful. I wanted to lean over and sniff deeply at the side of his face. He glanced at me, smiling, as though he knew what was going on in my head. This was