"You can explain that to the police. Six o'clock, Graham. Better pack fast."
As I drive, I grip the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking. I haven't threatened Graham with that file before because it's 50 percent bullshit. When Diana left Graham, one of the reasons was that she suspected he'd fooled around with Britnee. I'd contacted Britnee ... who'd told me to go to hell. If I did take the case to the police, she'd deny everything.
When my phone rings, I look down to see Private Caller, and I'm sure it's Graham calling my bluff. I steel myself and hit Answer on my Bluetooth.
"Detective Duncan? It's Stefan." A pause. "Stefan Ricci?" His voice rises, as if he's uncertain of his own name.
"Yes?"
"I want to talk more about the, uh, victim interview. You brought her right around, and I..." A strained chuckle. "I have no idea how to do that. I mentioned drinks earlier, and I didn't get a chance to ask again, so I'm asking now. I just finished my shift. Can I take you out? To talk about, uh, your interview techniques."
I stifle a sigh. You seem like a sweet kid, Ricci. Really you do. And I'd be more than happy to discuss interview techniques with you. But that's not what you're asking, is it?
"I need to meet a friend for dinner," I say, which is technically true.
"Oh, okay. Maybe after? Or--"
"How about coffee tomorrow? At the Grounds."
It's the shop right beside the station, which means this will be business only, and his voice drops as he says, "Uh, I guess so?"
"Totally up to you. If you want to, just pop by my desk."
I sign off and turn on CBC, hoping to distract myself. It's midway through a story about one woman's hike across Alaska, and as I listen, I imagine myself doing that, and I'm swept away by a feeling that is so normal for others and so rare for me--that little thing called daydreaming.
I pull into the station's underground lot and park my Honda. It's the first car I bought, almost a decade ago, and it was well used when I got it. The guys in the department prod me to buy something newer, safer, with air bags and ABS brakes. It's not like I can't afford it. My parents left me with a seven-figure bank account. But the car r
uns. When it doesn't, I'll replace it.
I get about five steps when I realize someone's watching me from the shadows. I don't see him. Don't even hear him. I just know he's there.
I stop mid-stride and take a long, slow survey of my surroundings. On the return sweep, I spot an arm poking from behind a van. Then, slowly, the arm withdraws, the figure vanishing entirely.
I walk toward the van until I can see him through the window. The image is blurry, but I can tell it's a guy. Late twenties. Short, curly dark hair. Looks Italian. Also looks familiar.
"Ricci?" I say.
He drops from sight as if ducking.
"Hey!" I say. "If that's you, Ricci, this really isn't the way to get my--"
I hear a scuffle and realize, three seconds too late, that he didn't just duck--he bolted. I jog after him, but when I get to the exit, there's no sign of anyone. I shake my head and continue up to the station.
FIVE
At seven, I call Graham's hotel, and I'm told he checked out early. That's a good sign, but I still don't dare spend the night with Kurt. I really need a break, though, and Diana's going stir-crazy enough in my apartment that she agrees to a drink at Kurt's bar.
Kurt doesn't seem happy to see me. The looks he keeps shooting me suggest he has something to say and I realize what's coming. The point of having a regular hookup is the "regular" part, and I've been too busy to hold up my end and as nice a guy as he is, he's decided it's time to move on.
"Just a sec," I say to Diana, who's on her second lemon drop. "I'm going to talk to Kurt."
She drains her glass and wordlessly hands it to me. I take it to Kurt.
"Everything okay?" I whisper as I slide onto a bar stool.
He shrugs and makes the lemon drop. Then he says, "If I knew you were coming by, I'd have told you not to."
I force myself to say, "Okay," as casually as I can. "So would you like me to just ... stop coming by, then?"