R Is for Ricochet

not a good sign.

Chapter 11
    Santa Teresa has never been noted for its club scene or its wild nightlife. Most restaurants close soon after the last of the dinner orders have been plated and served. The bars are open until 2:00 A.M., but most don't provide dance floors or live music. Jay's Cocktail Lounge, downtown, is one of the few spots to offer both. In addition, from 11:30 A.M. until 2:00 P.M., lunch is served to a limited clientele who prefer the privacy and quiet for low-key business meetings and discreet liaisons. The walls are padded in gray suede, with a thick gray carpet underfoot that makes you feel you're walking across a mattress. Even by day, the place is so dark, you have to pause at the entrance until your eyes adjust. The booths are commodious, padded in black leather, and any ambient noise is dampened to a hush. Cheney gave his name to the hostess – Phillips, party of three.
    He'd made reservations in advance.
    I said, "God, you're cocky. What made you so sure I'd say yes?"
    "I've never known you to turn down food, especially if someone else pays. Must feel like mothering."
    "Well, it is, isn't it?"
    "By the way, Vince called to say he's running late. He said to go ahead and order."
    We spent the first part of the meal dealing with matters unrelated to Reba Lafferty. We sipped iced tea and picked at our sandwiches, unusual for me where food is concerned. I'm accustomed to eating fast and moaning aloud, but Cheney seemed to enjoy taking his sweet time. We chatted about his career and mine, the police department budget cuts, and the effects thereof. We knew a few cops in common, one being Jonah Robb, the married man I "dated" during one of his frequent separations from his wife, Camilla.
    I said, "How's Jonah doing these days? Is the marriage off again or on?" I rattled the last of the ice cubes in my empty glass and, as if on cue, the busboy appeared to replenish my supply.
    Cheney said, "Off, from what I hear. They had a kid. I should say, Camilla did. According to the scuttlebutt, the boy wasn't his."
    "Yeah, but he's crazy about that baby all the same," I said. "I ran into him a couple of months ago and he was busting his buttons he was so proud of the kid."
    "What about the two daughters? No telling what effect this is having on them."
    "Camilla doesn't seem to care. I wish they'd just get back together and be done with it. How many times have they split?"
    Cheney shook his head.
    I studied him. "What about you? How's married life these days?"
    "That's over."
    "Over?"
    "You know the word 'over'? As in done with."
    "I'm sorry to hear that. When did this transpire?"
    "Middle of May. Embarrassing to admit, but we were only married five weeks, which is one week less than we'd known each other before we eloped."
    "Where is she now?"
    "She's moved back to L.A."
    "That was quick."
    "Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to get it over with."
    "Did you learn anything?"
    "I doubt it. I was tired of feeling dead. Work we do, we take chances in the real world but not so much in here," he said, tapping on his chest. "What's love about if not risk?"
    I studied my plate, which was littered with potato chip crumbs. I licked my index finger and captured a cluster that I laid on my tongue. "You're beyond my area of competence. These days, I seem to be surrounded by people who've got it wrong, Reba Lafferty being one."
    He leaned forward, elbows on the table, holding his glass by the rim. "So let's talk about her."
    "What's to talk about? She's fragile. It doesn't seem right to put the squeeze on her."
    A flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Fragile, my ass. She's the one who elected to get involved with him. Turns out, he's a sleazebag in more ways than one. She should know what's going on."
    "You're not doing this for her sake. You're doing it for yours."
    "What difference does that make? She needs to be told. Or do you disagree?"
    "What if the revelation pushes her over the edge?"
    "If she goes off the deep end, we'll handle it." His gaze shifted to a point just over my shoulder. I turned my head and caught a glimpse of a man I assumed was Vince Turner approaching to my left. Cheney slid out of the booth and the two of them shook hands.
    Vince Turner was a hefty man in his forties, round-faced, balding, wearing a tan raincoat. The wire stems on his frameless glasses had been bent at an angle that left them slightly askew. He toted a brown leather school bag that in sixth grade would have labeled him as