said, “Why don’t we finish these and go to my place?”
“Your place?”
“I’ll whip something up for us to eat. If I didn’t go into law I was going to go to culinary school.”
“Things are moving pretty fast here.”
“This is L.A.,” she said. “If I wanted slow I’d be DA in South Dakota.”
43
KIMBERLY’S DOWNTOWN LOFT had a corner view, with the Disney Concert Hall on one side, and on the other the Music Center and Los Angeles Superior Court. Culture and clash, high art and high stakes, all within walking distance.
The interior of the loft was as perfect as Kimberly seemed to be. Nothing out of place. I looked for one errant pillow, a mislaid magazine. What I found was immaculate interior design—cool urban and tastefully eclectic.
Eye catching on the crème-colored walls were a series of framed black-and-white photographs of New York City.
Kimberly handed me a glass of white wine as I perused the photos.
“Looks like a 1950s theme,” I said.
She nodded. “I love New York in that period. You know, Madison Avenue, Plaza Hotel, Ayn Rand.”
“Ayn Rand? Atlas Shrugged?”
“Read it?”
“Got halfway through and decided life was too short.”
“I’ll let you borrow my copy.”
“Is it hardcover?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “It’d tip over my trailer.”
“Trailer?”
“Kind of a long story.”
“We’ve got nothing but time,” she said, then went to the kitchen. And proceeded to cook up something Thai as we chatted about law and trial work and our recent pasts.
I told her about Jacqueline and the sisters of St. Monica’s and my time away from the trajectory of the ambitious lawyer. She told me about Aaron, who she was going to marry only three years ago, a big-time litigator in San Diego. But he had cut it off, another woman it was, and she hadn’t been serious since. Work was work, easy to get lost in, but in some ways it made her who she was, and isn’t that like you, too, Ty? Isn’t that the rush that makes you feel alive, when you stand in front of a jury and hear them give you a guilty? And no, Kimberly, I like not guilty a whole lot better, let’s agree to disagree and this is about the best meal I’ve had in Los Angeles.
After dinner we sipped a brandy and sat on the sofa and listened to Charlie Parker.
Kimberly Pincus slipped her arm around my shoulder.
I don’t remember who made the first move. Maybe it was a tie. But a soft, warm kiss followed. Naturally, she did it well.
My body was a box of fireworks.
If I’d been the Ty Buchanan of college days, or law school, or the first heady years of high-stakes litigation at Gunther, McDonough—had I been that Buchanan, this would have been no contest. That Buchanan would have taken hammer and tongs and gone at Kimberly Pincus with the abandon they call reckless.
But I was not him. Not anymore. Not after Jacqueline. That’s just the way it was, not that I was some paragon of manly virtue. Old Buchanan was on the bench, yelling to get back in the game. Down, boy, down.
“What’s wrong?” Kimberly whispered, her breath caressing my lips.
“Too fast,” I said. “Even for L.A.”
“Stay.” She kissed me again. Sparklers started going off.
I pulled back. “If I was a jury, I’d give you the verdict.”
She smiled.
“I need more time to deliberate,” I said.
She brushed her lips over mine.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said. “About my past as a serial killer and game show host—”
“We can talk about that over breakfast.”
I stood. I was a roman candle. A spinner. A Tasmanian devil. “I don’t know any smooth way to do this.”
Kimberly stood. “Do what?”
“Slip out the door.”
“Did you enjoy tonight?”
“Oh yes.”
“It doesn’t have to end.” She draped her arms around my neck.
“Think of what we’ll have to look forward to.”
She kissed me again. Fireworks again. The whole box at once. I was overwhelmed by colors and the oohing and ahhing of the crowd. Last time anything close to this happened, it was with a reporter too soon after Jacqueline’s death. And it didn’t end well for either of us.
I came up for air and made my mouth say, “Good night, Kimberly.”
“Let’s do this again soon,” she said.
I managed to get to the elevator without passing out. As I got on, I thought about falling, as in somebody cutting the cable and down I’d go. And then I’d look up from the smashed wreckage, unable to move, and I’d see Kimberly Pincus way up on the top floor,