Intimate Relations, Rebecca Forster [best ereader for manga .txt] 📗

did you?" Emi asked. "They could send us back if you did that."

Enver shook his head. "I can't tell what I don't know."

Emi stopped asking questions. Her husband was right. They knew nothing about the Asian man and his business. As for the woman, they had been truthful. They had no idea she was in the house. In retrospect it made sense that the man asked her to come, but it had been a mistake. It had been a mistake from the first.

"Shall I help you get out of those clothes?"

Emi didn't look at him. She hated to see him in the clothes of a criminal. His own, she knew, would be tested to find evidence that Enver was a murderer. In their country a small person had no chance against the police. In America it was different. The police must be positive. Judges did not take bribes. Lawyers told stories and the best story won. She, Emi, would find a good storyteller, but now she would make things better the only way she could.

"Enver. Come."

The artist lifted his eyes and blinked. He shook his big head; he had used up his words talking to the police. Emi was questioned, too, but for the most part she sat alone in a room. The blonde detective accepted that Emi did not know the people at the party. She believed Emi when she said she did not know the name of the dead woman. She was the wife, after all. Only the wife.

"Enver, I need all the truth. I don't care if the truth and what you told them are not the same thing. Please. Please. I need to know."

She moved her hand so her fingers touched his. For a long while he didn't move and then his own fingers twitched. A moment later he held his wife's hand, but it was clear there was no intent to comfort her. When he took a deep breath, his torso tilted one way and his head went the other.

"Why would I hurt that woman?" he said.

"I know you did not hurt her," Emi said. "But..."

His eyes moved to his wife, his head barely moved.

"I called her Cami like he did. I watched her like he did, that's all. I didn't speak with her, but he did. You know that."

"Yes, I believe you." Emi moved her hand so that their fingers laced. "But the other thing..."

"No. I did not tell them. There was no need," Enver said.

For the first time in a long while, Enver looked at his wife.  He smiled like a child wanting reassurance that the needle would not hurt.

"I didn't hurt her," he said. "I didn't."

"I know. Shhh. All right," Emi cooed. "And the man? Where did he..."

"He was gone like always. How would I know?" There was the spark of his rage again, but it was short lived. "If he comes back, I will kill him. Him I would kill."

Enver let go of her hand and walked away. Emi knew where he was going. Her anger flared and then fell away.  How could she deny him? It was all he had left now, and soon even that would be gone if she had her way.

Emi took a last look at the tape across the room, she let her eyes linger where the bed had been. That woman dying wasn't the worst thing that had gone on in here. She would have it cleaned out; she would have all of it taken away.

Emi left the room without giving the door on the second landing a look. She knew it was closed. She knew it was locked again. She went down to the kitchen. There she cleaned up the broken glass on the floor, and poured herself a drink. When she had many drinks, she went to the shower. She took the scarf from her head and the smock from her body. For a long while, she stood looking at herself in the mirror. Finally, she got into the shower. She washed her hair twice. She scrubbed her body. And Emi Cuca cried.

8

"You be gettin' me up too early in de mornin', O'Brien."

Geoffrey Baptist's admonition was accompanied by the clatter of plates as he served Cori and Finn. Bacon and eggs for Finn, salted cod and steamed cabbage for Geoffrey, coffee and a smile for Cori. Napkins were put on laps. Silverware was picked up.  Cori reached for the sweetener, and Geoffrey sat his skinny self on a chair in between the two detectives.

"You're always here early on Wednesday, Geoffrey. That's when the beer is put in, so I don't think we've kept you from your beauty sleep," Finn said. "But we appreciate you making us breakfast. We've been up since two, and we were needing something to fill our stomachs."

"So it be bad business or good keepin' you awake all dis night?" Geoffrey's impressive dreads swung across his shoulders and swayed down his back as he looked between them.

"It wasn't good business, that's for darn sure." Cori raised her cup and blew on the hot coffee.

"Good business be a woman in da bed, a drink in de hand. Now dat be good business no matter if you be in Trinidad, no matter in L.A., no matter where."

Geoffrey threw back his head and laughed large, the sound of it filling Mick's Irish Pub. It would have spilled out onto the street had the door not been closed to everyone but Finn and Cori. Originally from Trinidad, Geoffrey had bought the pub a few years back, brightening up the place without changing a thing but the proprietorship. The heavy, rough-hewn beams were original. The neon O'Doul's sign in the window still fritzed when the weather turned wet. The Guinness neon never did. An impressive collection of liquor and beers stocked the bar. Corned beef and cabbage was still served on St. Patrick's Day. The dartboard still hung where it had been placed on opening day in the fifties. It was Geoffrey who was new and