Could I ask less of myself?
When I arrived at the Indian restaurant, I threw the car into Park and turned off the ignition. I was not in my jurisdiction, but I didn’t think that would matter much. I took a look out the car window, thought again about that skeleton and called Loren Muse. When she answered I identified myself and said, “I may have a small problem.”
“What’s that?” Muse asked.
“Jenrette’s father is coming after me.”
“How?”
“He’s digging into my past.”
“Will he find anything?”
“You dig into anybody’s past,” I said, “you find something.”
“Not mine,” she said.
“Really? How about those dead bodies in Reno?”
“Cleared of all charges.”
“Great, terrific.”
“I’m just playing with you, Cope. Making a funny.”
“You’re hilarious, Muse. Your comic timing. It’s pro-like.”
“Okay, cut to the chase then. What do you need from me?”
“You’re friends with some of the local private eyes, right?”
“Right.”
“Call around. See if you can find out who’s on me.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“Muse?”
“What?”
“This isn’t a priority. If the manpower isn’t there, don’t worry about it.”
“It’s there, Cope. Like I said, I’m on it.”
“How do you think we did today?”
“It was a good day for the good guys,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“But probably not good enough.”
“Cal and Jim?”
“I’m in the mood to gun down every man with those names.”
“Get on it,” I said and hung up.
In terms of interior decorating, Indian restaurants seem to break down into two categories—very dark and very bright. This one was bright and colorful in the pseudostyle of a Hindu temple, albeit a really cheesy one. There were faux-mosaic and lit-up statues of Ganesh and other deities with which I am wholly unfamiliar. The waitresses were costumed in belly-revealing aqua; the outfits reminded me of what the evil sister wore on I Dream of Jeannie.
We all hold on to our stereotypes, but the whole scene looked as if a Bollywood musical number were about to break out. I try to have an appreciation for various foreign cultures, but no matter how hard I try, I detest the music they play in Indian restaurants. Right now it sounded like a sitar was torturing a cat.
The hostess frowned when I entered. “How many?” she asked.
“I’m not here to eat,” I said.
She just waited.
“Is Raya Singh here?”
“Who?”
I repeated the name.
“I don’t…oh, wait, she’s the new girl.” She folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.
“Is she here?” I said.
“Who wants to know?”
I did the eyebrow arch. I wasn’t good with it. I was going for rakish but it always came out more like constipation. “The President of the United States.”
“Huh?”
I handed her a business card. She read it and then surprised me by shouting out, “Raya! Raya Singh!”
Raya Singh stepped forward and I stepped back. She was younger than I’d expected, early twenties, and absolutely stunning. The first thing you noticed—couldn’t help but notice in that aqua getup—was that Raya Singh had more curves than seemed anatomically possible. She stood still but it looked as though she were moving. Her hair was tousled and black and begged to be touched. Her skin was more gold than brown and she had almond eyes that a man could slip into and never find his way back out.
“Raya Singh?” I said.
“Yes.”
“My name is Paul Copeland. I’m the prosecutor for Essex County in New Jersey. Could we talk a moment?”
“Is this about the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Then of course.”
Her voice was polished with a hint of a New England–boarding-school accent that shouted refinement over geographical locale. I was trying not to stare. She saw that and smiled a little. I don’t want to sound like some kind of pervert because it wasn’t like that. Female beauty gets to me. I don’t think I’m alone in that. It gets to me like a work of art gets to me. It gets to me like a Rembrandt or Michelangelo. It gets to me like night views of Paris or when the sun rises on the Grand Canyon or sets in the turquoise of an Arizona sky. My thoughts were not illicit. They were, I self-rationalized, rather artistic.
She led me outside onto the street, where it was quieter. She wrapped her arms around herself as though she were cold. The move, like pretty much every move she made, was nearly a double entendre. Probably couldn’t help it. Everything about her made you think about moonlit skies and four-poster beds—and that, I guess, shoots down my “rather artistic” reasoning. I was tempted to offer her my coat or something, but it wasn’t cold at all. Oh, and I wasn’t wearing a coat.
“Do you know a man named Manolo Santiago?” I asked.
“He was murdered,” she said.
Her voice had a strange lilt to it, as if she were reading for a part.
“But you knew him?”
“I did, yes.”
“You were lovers?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Our relationship,” she said, “was platonic.”
My eyes moved to the pavement and then across the street. Better. I didn’t really care so much about the murder or who had committed it. I cared about finding out about Manolo Santiago.
“Do you know where Mr. Santiago lived?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“How did you two meet?”
“He approached me on the street.”
“Just like that? He just walked up to you on the street?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And then?”
“He asked me if I would like to grab a cup of coffee.”
“And you did?”
“Yes.”
I risked another look at her. Beautiful. That aqua against the dark skin…total killer. “Do you always do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Meet a stranger and accept his invitation to grab coffee with him?”
That seemed to amuse her. “Do I need to justify my behavior to you, Mr. Copeland?”