Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [40]
As I opened the door to let Peters back into the room, he signaled everything was okay. “You’ll keep us posted on how to get in touch with you once you get home?” Peters asked.
“Sure thing,” Carstogi said agreeably. He seemed to be in good spirits, all things considered; We left him to his own devices. His close encounter with Michael Brodie’s fist had pretty much taken the wind out of his sails.
Peters drove off in his Datsun. I hurried to my apartment and put on a clean shirt; then I caught the free bus back up to the Four Seasons. I didn’t tell Peters I was going to meet Anne Corley. I was afraid he’d want to tag along.
Chapter 11
Walking into the Four Seasons was like walking into a foreign country. Each marbled floor, gleaming chandelier, polished brass rail, and overstuffed chair belonged to another time and place. It all spelled money. The best Italian marble. The best Irish wool for the carpet. “Anne must be quite at home here,” I said to myself.
I wandered through the spacious lobby into the Garden Court. The tables were occupied either by takers of tea in the English tradition or drinkers of booze in the American tradition. Some tables included both. Late-afternoon sun had breached the cloud cover and sparkled through an expanse of arched windows that formed one entire wall of the massive room. Anne Corley was seated at a tiny table in a far corner, her face framed by a halo of sunlight shining through her hair.
Her eyes met mine as I entered the room. I declined the services of the maître d‘ and made my way to the table. So what if she only wanted to pump me for information? I was willing to trade information for the chance to be with Anne Corley. On the table before her sat two glasses, one with white wine and ice and the other with MacNaughton’s and water. Pump away.
“Been here long?” I asked, taking a seat.
She shook her head. The room was crowded. There was a line of people waiting to be seated. “Did you have reservations here too?”
She smiled and nodded. “Reservations make things simpler.” She examined my face. “Have you cooled off?”
“I guess. I’m here.”
She laughed. “You don’t look too happy about it.”
I sipped my drink, disturbingly aware of her eyes studying my face. I had the strange sensation that she was burrowing into my mind and decoding the romantic delusions I had manufactured around her. It was at once both pleasant and uncomfortable.
“You didn’t bring Peters,” she observed.
“No, I decided I could handle the assignment on my own. I’m a big boy now.”
“What does a girl have to do to show you that she’s interested? Hit you over the head? I find you very attractive, Detective J. P. Beaumont. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Look,” I said impatiently. “I told you this afternoon, I don’t play games. I’ll talk to you about the case as long as what I tell you in no way jeopardizes the investigation. You don’t have to pretend I’m some latter-day heart-throb to do it.”
She smiled again. “Actually, you sound like a maiden aunt who has just been invited up to see some nonexistent etchings. Let me assure you, my intentions are entirely honorable.”
I didn’t mean to sound quite so self-righteous. I laughed. “That bad, eh?”
She nodded. The waitress came by with offers of fresh drinks, but Anne waved her away. “I’ve thought about you all day,” she said quietly. “You’re really quite pleasant to be with. I realized that after I dropped you off last night.”
I could feel a flush creeping up the back of my neck. “That was a compliment,” she added. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. For a time we sat without