Sex, Murder And A Double Latte

“Uh-huh.” He tapped the face of his faux Cartier. “You need to close those little Mac-painted lips of yours and get in the car.”

I grumbled some unflattering remarks and took my seat. I slipped my finger under the strap of my super-hip new platforms and caressed the forming blister. We would have to walk four city blocks at least—if we were lucky to even find parking.

When we finally did reach the gallery I was ready for a painkiller. Six blistering blocks. I peered through the crowd and eyed the little makeshift bar set up in the corner. Vodka always made a good pain reliever. Much more fun than ibuprofen.

Marcus shoved his wrist in front of my face. “See! I timed this perfectly. We are now officially fashionably late.”

“Just like the artist.” We turned to acknowledge a short little balding man who was standing close enough to eavesdrop. “Can you believe that this guy actually had the nerve to show up ten minutes late to his own opening? I know he’s all the rage right now, but he still needs to show us collectors a little respect. Don’t you agree?”

Marcus just stared at him blankly. Neither he nor I was a collector. We just wanted to pick up the artist. In the interest of furthering that goal, I asked the all-important question. “So which one is Balardi, anyway?”

I looked in the general direction of where the man was pointing. I put my hand on my chest and tried to keep from hyperventilating. “Marcus, do you see that?”

“Uh-huh, nobody could miss that, girlfriend.”

The disgruntled stranger took his cue and slunk away to complain to someone else, as Marcus and I watched, slack jawed, as Donato Balardi worked the room. His black wavy hair grazed his shoulders, Antonio Banderas–Zorro style. He was slender, but the well-defined pecs visible beneath his silk shirt prevented him from looking slight in any way. His dark Latin eyes surveyed the room until they finally focused on us.

“Oh my God, he’s coming this way!” Marcus dug his fingers into my arm. “I know he’s gay, I can just feel it.”

“No way,” I protested. “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive the women of the world of something that beautiful.”

He was upon us. If I reached my hand out I could actually touch those pecs. I summoned up my last bit of willpower and moved my gaze upward to his face. Sensual smiling lips, tanned skin and brown searching eyes looking at…

Marcus.

“Welcome, I am Donato Balardi.”

Their handshake lasted way too long to be innocent.

Well, shit. Here it was, an enchanted evening: I had seen a stranger across a crowded room, he had walked to my side, and I was all set to make him my own—and instead he was coming on to my male hairstylist.

Sometimes I hated San Francisco.

Marcus and Donato (God, even their names sounded good together) were now fully engaged in some pseudo-conversation while they actively undressed each other with their eyes. I excused myself and headed for the bar—not that either of my two gentleman companions noticed. A friendly, relatively cute bartender (probably gay) greeted me.

“What can I get you this evening?”

“What cocktail has the highest alcohol content—?”

“Is this what you drink when you’re not consuming coffee milk shakes?”

I spun around. There, smiling down at me, was the sexy Frappuccino-bashing Neanderthal from Starbucks.

CHAPTER 3

“She looked down at the shards of glass on the kitchen floor. Someone had been in the house.”

—Sex, Drugs and Murder

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Are you following me?”

The Neanderthal let out a deep, rich, surprisingly Homo sapiens–sounding laugh. “Well I’m glad to see your ego’s intact. No, I’m a friend of the gallery owner, Gary Sussman. We shared an apartment back in New York.”

“Well how special for you.” I turned my attention back to the bartender. “Vodka martini straight up.” I refocused on my nemesis. “Well, you probably want to go reminisce with your friend. Don’t let me stop you.”

He extended his hand. Say what you like about his taste in coffee, you couldn’t knock the man’s hands.

“I’m Anatoly Darinsky.”

“That’s funny. I don’t remember asking for your name.”

“And yet I gave it.” His hand remained suspended in the air.

What the hell. “Sophie Katz.” I placed my palm against his with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity. Yep, strong handshake. Maybe it was time to upgrade his status from Neanderthal to Cro-Magnon.

“Katz…your father’s Jewish?” Anatoly asked as he signaled the bartender to make him a duplicate of my drink.

“He converted for my mom.”

“But Katz…”

“His last name was Christianson and my mother said she would rather choke on a hairball than be Mrs. Christianson so my father got inspired and they both changed their names to Katz.”

Anatoly searched my face, undoubtedly looking for some hint of jest. “That’s…interesting,” he said.

I shrugged; personally, I still hadn’t decided if the reasons behind my parents’ name change were the result of creative thinking or indicative of a shared psychosis.

Anatoly tactfully let the subject drop. “So what do you think of Balardi?”

“He’s magnificent,” I said, stealing a glance at Donato, who was vigorously flirting with Marcus.

“Really? You’re a big fan of spilled paint?”

“Spilled paint? What are you talking about—? Oh, you’re talking about his art.”

Anatoly made a little noise of disgust, which, in turn, perked me right up. It was always good to be able to annoy the people who annoy you, even if you had to embarrass yourself to do it. I examined the paintings on the wall for the first time and felt a little spark of shock bring me out of my haze of sexual disappointment.

“Oh God,” I whispered. “It’s awful.”

I was surrounded by numerous canvases that Donato had apparently thrown a bucket of paint at. I squinted in an attempt to make the pictures more appealing. Who, exactly, decided that this was art? I could throw paint. In fact I was really good at throwing things.

I took a step closer to one of the pieces in an earnest effort to find some redeeming qualities. It was a big green splash mark. I checked the title. Verdi.

“Ah, this one is my favorite.”

I nearly spilled my drink down my dress. I hadn’t realized that Donato was behind me with Marcus, of course, right behind him.

“I love your use of color,” Marcus cooed.

I shot him a withering look, but he wasn’t making eye contact.

Donato, on the other hand, was watching me attentively. He obviously expected me to say something.

I took a long sip of my drink. Think, think, think. “Um, yes, well, it’s very…it’s very…green.”

“Yes, exactly!” Donato grabbed my free hand and placed it against his heart. “You understand. It’s green.”

Now even Marcus looked a little embarrassed. I peeked over at Anatoly who, still standing at the bar, was just within earshot. He was having a ball. Hell, he probably hadn’t been so amused since the time I made a fool of myself at Starbucks. Donato, who still hadn’t let go of my hand, was eagerly waiting for my next artistic insight. But I couldn’t continue this conversation, not without saying something that would get me thrown out. This called for desperate measures.

“Have you met my friend Anatoly?”

For a nanosecond Anatoly’s mouth hung open in a somewhat unbecoming fashion. Then he pulled it together enough to slam the rest of his drink. Oh, this could be fun after all. “Donato, Marcus, this is Anatoly. He recently moved here from New York. Anatoly, this is my friend Marcus, and of course this is Donato, the man we’ve all come to admire.”

“His work,” Anatoly corrected.

“What?” I had become distracted again by Donato’s pecs.

“We’ve come to admire his work, not him, his work. We went over this, remember?”

I did a quick visual survey of the table being used as a bar. It wasn’t quite big enough for me to crawl under. Fortunately Donato seemed oblivious to my humiliation.

“The two are interchangeable,” he said. “To admire my work is to admire me and to admire me, is to admire my work.”

“Yeah, you’re a piece of work all right,” Anatoly replied.

This time it was Marcus’s turn to redirect the conversation. “So, Anatoly, how did you and Sophie meet?”

“We met at Starbucks. I let her read my New York Times.”

I felt my right hand involuntarily clench but I managed to keep a smile plastered on. Anatoly’s eyes traveled down to my fist.

“She’ll have another martini,” he informed the bartender. “Mr. Balardi—am I pronouncing that right?”

“Donato.”

“Donato, I’m curious about the blank canvas over there.” Anatoly gestured to an empty canvas proudly displayed behind us.

“I’m so glad you asked this. That is my tribute to minimalism.”

“Your tribute to minimalism.” Anatoly spoke the words slowly.

“Yes, it is simplicity in all its purity.”

“Uh-huh.” Anatoly crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me, Donato, do our tax dollars fund any of this?”

“Sooo, Anatoly, what part of San Francisco did you move to?” Marcus asked.

“I found an apartment in Russian Hill,” Anatoly said.

“What?” My drink sloshed over onto my platforms. “But I live in Russian Hill.”

“Well, this works out perfectly!” Marcus clapped his hands gleefully. “With you two living so close, I’m sure Anatoly wouldn’t mind giving you a lift home.”

“I thought you were giving me a lift home, Marcus.”

“Oh, I am, or at least I was. It’s just that…” Marcus transferred his jacket from arm to arm. “Well, you know I only have the two seats, and Donato is going to need a ride too….” Marcus’ voice then dropped to a low mumble.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

Marcus sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Donato took the bus here.”

“I enjoy taking public transportation on occasion,” Donato said. “It gives me a feel for the people who make up a city, the people I do not usually have opportunity to meet.”

I was glaring at Marcus. He was engrossed in Donato’s tribute to minimalism.

Anatoly shrugged. “I didn’t drive here either, but I’d be happy to share a cab, Sophie—my treat.”

“Really, that’s not necessary.”

“No, I insist. It wouldn’t be right to force the artist to take the bus twice in one night. After all, there is a limit to how much time one can spend amongst the proletariat. And those people are known for their inability to appreciate spilt paint.”

Well, so much for Marcus’s attempts to avoid an explosion. But instead of taking offense, Donato just cocked his head to the side and smiled. “It is the rare individual who expresses his opinion when it is not popular to do so. I wonder if you would be willing to defend your views as vigorously as you attack others’.”

“I wasn’t attacking your views,” Anatoly said. “I just don’t like your art. Fortunately for you, there seem to be a lot of people here who disagree with me.”

Donato laughed, and Marcus exhaled. “Yes, there certainly is a wide range of opinion in this country in terms of what is acceptable in the art world and what is not. Pity we do not see eye to eye, but I do appreciate your candor.”

Anatoly nodded, but didn’t smile. I was beginning to think that the appropriate place for my drink was not down my throat but on his face.

Another patron approached Donato to question him about the source of his inspiration. He excused himself to give the woman a tour of his more complex pieces—those would be the ones with two colors.

Marcus took in Anatoly’s brown shoes and black pants, and then surveyed the room for men more likely to swing his way. There was one man that stuck out more than the rest. Not because he was especially gorgeous but because he so obviously didn’t belong there. He was no more than an inch taller than me and he wore his naturally highlighted brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail, which served to accentuate his goatee, groomed into a point like Lucifer’s. He was wearing a studded biker’s jacket and a pair of black velvet pants. I had to check the latest GQ, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the new men’s look.

He strode over to Verdi and leaned in close enough that I felt the urge to remind him that this was a look-but-don’t-touch kind of event. He leaned back again and shook his head with a deliberate slowness. “This is shit.”

Anatoly took a large step forward. “I’m glad there are other people here who agree with me.”

“Where’s the social commentary?” the guy asked. “Where’s the controversy? This isn’t art, this is navel lint. A crucifix dipped in cow’s dung, a black-and-white photograph of a man sticking his fist up another guy’s A-hole. That’s art. That’s the kind of stuff that will make people stop and really think about their contrived Middle American sensibilities.”

Anatoly stepped back again. So much for bonding with Velvet Pants. Disappointed, the stranger’s head swiveled to Marcus in hopes of finding someone else sympathetic to his grievance.

Marcus made a little talk-to-the-hand gesture. “Don’t look at me, honey—I draw the line at gerbils.” He angled himself next to me in a manner that excluded Velvet Pants from our social circle. “How’s your drink?”

I looked down at my glass. It was only half full now, but I seemed to be having a hard time keeping it from spilling. “I think I’m finished.”

“Do you want to stay a while longer and get a better look at the train wreck, or shall we hail a cab now?” Anatoly asked.

“This isn’t New York,” I said. “You don’t hail cabs here, you call them.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have a cell phone. Marcus, it was very nice to meet you.”

I leaned forward to give Marcus a kiss on the cheek. “You owe me big-time.”

“Free cut and style for the next three visits.”

“I’m not hanging out, either,” the goatee guy announced in case one of us cared. “See you later, Sophie.”

My fingers tightened around the stemware. How many drinks had I had? But Marcus’s expression assured me that he’d caught it too. The night was getting way too bizarre for my taste.

Donato came up to us again. “Ah, now I must show you the rest of my collection.”

“Sorry, but your paintings reminded me that I need to pick up some stain remover to clean up the red wine that I spilled on my carpet,” Anatoly said. “Although maybe it would be more profitable to pull up the soiled fibers and mount them on a canvas—for those art collectors who prefer texture.”

That one left even Donato speechless. I definitely should have thrown my drink at Anatoly when I still had the ability to aim. As it was, it seemed the best course of action was to make a speedy exit.

“Thank you, Donato, your art is beautiful.” I gave Marcus’s hand a little squeeze before walking out into the cold.

Anatoly was close at my heels, so much so that when I whirled around to berate him for his latest impudence, he barely managed to stop in time to avoid a collision. The result was the two of us standing all of an inch away from each other. Old Spice. God, I love that scent. Without breaking eye contact, I became increasingly aware of his other body parts. If I took a deep breath, my breasts would press against his chest, and all he had to do was bring his hands slightly up and forward and they could secure my hips. His eyes finally left mine and lowered themselves to my lips.

He couldn’t possibly be thinking of kissing me. He didn’t even know me. And I hated him. He wasn’t even fully evolved. I needed to turn away. Yep, that’s what I’d do, turn away…in a minute.

Anatoly’s mouth formed into a little half smile, and he leaned forward a bit more. Half an inch. “You were going to say something?”

I could feel his breath. Say something, right. I had turned around in order to say something. What was it? Take me now, my Russian warrior? No, that wasn’t it. Make me your love slave? No, that was off the mark too.

“Well?” he said.

Anatoly still wasn’t touching me, but damn if every inch of me wasn’t responding to him.

Strength. Strength and resolve. I scrunched my eyes shut. “I’m having a hard time thinking. You’re in my space.”

Anatoly’s smile broadened as he took a step back. “Is that better?”

No. “Yes.” I dug my nails into my palm. “You really are a jerk, you know that?”

“As I explained on the day we met, if you’re going to insult me you’re going to have to be a little more creative than that.”

“All right, how about this? You’re an egotistical, arrogant piece of Soviet trash. You know, I didn’t like the paintings in there either, but I didn’t feel the need to criticize and belittle Donato in front of Marcus. The fact that you did just shows what a pathetic and scummy little prick you are.”

Anatoly leaned back onto his heels. “That’s definitely better.”

For a minute or so we just stood there while he turned over what I had said and I tried to find a stable focal point.

“I’m not sure anyone can qualify as a piece of Soviet trash anymore, but you were right on all your other points.”

Okay, I hadn’t been expecting that.

“Donato rubbed me the wrong way as did that stuff he’s trying to pass off as art, but that didn’t give me the right to be cruel. I can be overly judgmental, it’s a character flaw. I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m wrong.”

So now he’d gone and screwed up my first impression. I hated it when people did that. Plus, it was a lot easier to resist him when I thought he was a Cro-Magnon/Neanderthal. Now he was moving into the Homo sapiens category, which meant we just might be sexually compatible, and, considering how long it had been since I’d had sex, if I had to share a cab home with an extremely attractive, heterosexual specimen of Homo sapiens, with a slight Russian accent, no less… Well, I might do something unforgivable like knock him over the head with a club and drag him up to my apartment by his hair.

“If you’ll still share a cab with me, I promise to be nice.” The streetlight caused the shadows of a tree to play against his shirt.

Well, what kind of life would it be if you didn’t take a few risks? “You’d better call a taxi now if we’re going to get one within the next half hour.”

Anatoly raised two fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle that left me temporarily hearing impaired. “I told you, you can’t hail a cab here.”

But I was once again destined to look like an idiot because a cab pulled up right in front of us.

“This never happens.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t.” Anatoly held the door and climbed in next to me as I gave the driver my address.

He seemed distracted now. I felt pretty focused. Granted, the things I was focused on were Anatoly’s hands, but I was focused nonetheless.

“That man in the gallery, the one wearing the biker jacket, you knew him?”

“Thank God for small favors, no.”

“How do you think he knew your name?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he read one of my books. My picture’s on the back cover.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yep…murder mysteries.”

“Really?” He repositioned himself so that he had a better view of me. “And the art lover back there, he’s your target market?”

“Very funny.” I pulled on a stray thread hanging from my hemline. “I don’t know. I guess my target would be pretty much anyone who likes a good novel with a lot of action, suspense and sex.”

There was a brief silence as Anatoly thought about that. “I like action, suspense and sex.”

The driver must have turned the heat on because suddenly it had gotten very warm.

We were getting close to my apartment when the cab had to pull to the right of the narrow lane to make way for a police car. I visually followed the flashing red lights until it pulled to a stop next to two other police cars and an ambulance just a block and a half away from where I lived. “Something pretty major must be going on.”

“I’ll say.” But Anatoly wasn’t looking at the police cars.

When the taxi finally slowed to a stop, I literally threw some money at the driver and leaped out of the car with such velocity that I needed to grab hold of a lamppost to steady myself. Unfortunately Anatoly followed me out. The driver screeched away. He probably wanted as much distance from me as possible before I could think twice about giving him a twenty for an eleven-dollar fare. In truth the extra nine dollars would have been money well spent if Anatoly had just stayed in the car. I have never been very good with willpower. Recently I had resolved to limit my chocolate intake to one piece per week. It took me exactly a half-hour to break that resolution. And Anatoly was looking a lot tastier than your average chocolate bar.

“Shouldn’t you have stayed in the cab until he got to your place?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask to come up.”

Damn.

“I just live two and a half blocks up, so I figured I’d walk. However, I was going to ask you what you’re doing this Saturday night.”

Uh-oh, he wanted to go on a date. It was one thing to fantasize about sleeping with him, it was a whole other thing to plan to spend several hours talking to him. “I have a prior engagement.”

“Saturday afternoon, then. I’ve been here for a little over three months but I’m still not all that familiar with the city. You could give me a tour. Show me where all the good coffee shops are.”

“That’s a pretty long tour.”

“Well then, just show me the Starbucks.”

“That doesn’t shorten it much.”

He moved in a little. “I don’t bite.”

A little biting might not be such a bad thing. I took one more look at his hands. “Saturday at noon. You can pick me up here.” I dug into my purse and wrote my number on an old business card. “Good night, Anatoly.”

“Good night, Sophie.” He slipped the card into his back pocket and proceeded up the street.

I watched until he had turned the corner. “Wow, he’s even got a cute butt,” I murmured aloud. I looked to my right where there were still rescue vehicles congregated. The excitement seemed to be around a little garage located on the first floor of an Edwardian apartment building. The dark and the distance made it impossible to see much. The paramedics were loading someone into the back of the ambulance. Was it a body bag? I instantly felt the alcohol I’d drunk begin to lose its grip. I was aching to get a closer look, but it was doubtful that the police would view my credentials as a novelist as enough to let me dig around a crime scene. I wrinkled my nose and went up to my apartment.

“Hey, Mr. Katz, you haven’t been killing the neighbors again, have you?” Mr. Katz didn’t make an immediate appearance. That was odd. He usually liked to greet me in hopes of obtaining a late-night snack. I spotted him hiding under a chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked, and tried to coax him out. The only time Mr. Katz acted like this was when strangers were around or when he had done something he knew I would be unhappy about. A horrible thought entered my mind. “You did use your litter box tonight, didn’t you?” Mr. Katz wasn’t owning up to anything, but he also wasn’t coming out from under the chair. Maybe Friskies would be more persuasive.

I got up and noticed my cell phone on the coffee table. Well, at least that mystery was solved. I stepped into the narrow kitchen and immediately saw the source of Mr. Katz’s agitation. One of the glasses I had left by the sink lay shattered on the floor.

“Is that all?” I bent down to collect the pieces. “How the hell did you knock it so far off the counter anyway…ouch! Damn it!” I sucked the blood that was dribbling down my finger. For someone who had virtually built a reputation on writing graphic violence, I really was a major wimp. I put my finger under the faucet and watched as the pink water flowed down the drain. Something was off. Why was I having a déjà vu feeling? I shivered a little as a cold wind blew in from the window in front of me. It was half open. Had I left it like that?