Me, Myself and Why? Read online

  I just about shrieked. Oh my God! I’d left the table and Adrienne had shown up? And thrown a pitcher of syrup on him? And—well, okay, to be fair, that wasn’t as bad as it could have been. But still. So embarrassing. I was pretty sure Patrick’s first visit to Minneapolis was also going to be his last.

  “You—you saw all of us?”

  “If ‘all’ means three, then yeppers.”

  I glanced at my watch. I’d been gone for just under five minutes. We were still in the booth. Adrienne hadn’t done any real damage. Neither had Shiro.

  Outside of therapy sessions, and the occasional late night with Cathie, I couldn’t remember a time when someone had dealt with the three of us in fewer than five minutes. Certainly not a layman, like the baker.

  I had no idea what to say to Patrick.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to. He did the talking. And before I knew it, I had a date for later.

  Which made me wonder: which of us, exactly, was clinically insane?

  Chapter Thirty-four

  By the time Patrick picked me up (in a different suit, this time with no tie and a bit of chest hair peeking out), I came to a conclusion: I was the insane one. Or more insane, anyway. Why did I think this date was going to work? Jeepers, who puts a guy in danger and then exposes him again less than twenty-four hours later?

  It didn’t matter whether the guy liked Baskin-Robbins or not. I wasn’t an ice-cream chain (though Adrienne, I strongly suspected after waking up one morning with my butt covered in melted mint chocolate chip, frequented them). I was a trained federal agent who could barely restrain herself from causing severe personal injury!

  “Date’s off,” I told him, slamming the door in his face.

  He stuck his foot out in time—nice shoes!—and jammed the door open. “Which one of the three of you has cold feet?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You probably shouldn’t force yourself into the house; the next sister who shows up will probably go beyond syrup in wrecking your ass. And you’ve already had one suit ruined.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay out here in my super-duper SUV. But I’m going to be honking the entire evening.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? It’ll make a fantastic noise throughout the neighborhood, which’ll embarrass Cadence. Shiro will be freshly annoyed and agree to anything to make it stop. And yet, none of the three of you will be in any real danger . . . so I don’t think I’ll be seeing Adrienne at all. See you in the car.” And with that, he closed the door on me.

  On me!

  “Darn it all to hippy-skip!” I checked myself in the foyer mirror. I had gotten dressed and fixed my hair before resolving to end the date, so the blond-locks-on-straps-of-short-black-dress thing was already working for me. But I had no makeup on.

  The horn started blaring. It was a fierce tenor

  Three Tenors

  that made me jump and grit my teeth.

  MENH. MENH. MENH. MENNNNNNNNH.

  “Okay, I’m—”

  MENH-MENH-MENNH. MENNNNH. MENH. MENH.

  “I’m—”

  MEAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNH.

  I whipped the door open and screamed, “Holy buckets on a Popsicle stick, will you let me get a makeup bag and my shoes!?”

  He leaned and grinned through the passenger-side window. His hands stayed on the wheel.

  MENH.

  Within thirty seconds, I was barefoot in the passenger seat, slipping my feet into strappy black heels while trying not to drop the finger-poppin’ makeup bag.

  “You’d better have a vanity mirror in this chariot, fella.”

  He flipped the visor down and another flap up. “With lights. We’ve got plenty of time before we—”

  I slapped him. Not too hard.

  Surprised, he bit his lip. “Okay. Sorry. Honking was obnoxious.”

  “Buster, let me share a lesson in dating with you: you don’t rush a girl. Ever. When she’s doing her best to look good, you just let her work. You’re serious about this date?”

  “Very serious.”

  “Take your eyes off my chest and say that again.”

  He did.

  “Well then, you shouldn’t have nearly ruined everything by being an ashtray about it.”

  “But you said you didn’t even want to—”

  “Have you ever dated? Like, anyone?”

  He gestured to the suit and the car. What do you think?

  “Fine. Somewhere along the way, you must have met a girl who said something she didn’t mean.”

  “One or two.”

  “Well, now you’ve met three. At once. Drive, monkey-flapper.”

  He turned the key in the ignition, paused, and turned to me. “So you’ve never sworn even once . . . ?”

  I didn’t look away from the mirror as I flipped open my compact. “Not once. But, buster, you keep talking and I’ll bet I get there.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Located along Grand Avenue in St. Paul, Ottavio’s was the sort of mysterious upscale place I’d drive past on my way to worse neighborhoods (not very far away, to be sure) when solving a crime. It was a refurbished mansion with a hand-painted black-and-gold sign. When Patrick turned into the tiny parking lot, I forgave him a little bit.

  “You been here before?” he asked.

  “Yeah, don’t ya know, all us federal-agent girls like to hang out here after work. Get drunk like fish and score with the men.”

  “I thought Shiro was the sarcastic one.”

  “Shiro didn’t have to apply her own makeup in a moving vehicle on Interstate 94.”

  “Hey, okay.” The ignition turned off, and he put both hands on me. Fortunately for him, he chose my shoulders. “I am really sorry. If you want me to take you home and leave you alone, I’ll do that right now. But I hope you’ll tell me you’d still like to have dinner with me. I really want you to have a good time tonight.”

  My eyes rolled up and took in the moonroof. “Well. I’d hate to cancel a reservation here. Good restaurants can be hard to come by in the Twin Cities. I hear this one’s struggling with the recession and all, and it could probably use the business.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek as he grinned. “For poor Ottavio’s sake, then.”

  “For Ottavio.”

  Dinner was delightful. I learned how to pronounce “gnocchi” and discovered that “Super Tuscans” were not a group of Italian crime-fighting crusaders with genetically modified powers. I also picked up a few baking tips from my date, made him laugh a few times with my tales of Cathie and me at MIMH, and felt his foot slide up my calf more than once.

  When I felt it without a shoe, I knew we had to talk.

  “So anyhow,” I told him as I reached under, grabbed his sock, yanked it off his startled foot, and threw it across the table at him, “I’m a virgin.”

  “That’s a hell of a pickup line. Can I have my foot back?”

  I let go. “I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m trying to finish my crème brûlée. After we’re done, you’re going to pick up the check and drive me home. I’m going to repay you with a chaste kiss on the cheek. And you’re going to drive home and take a cold shower.”

  “I really blew it with the honking, didn’t I?”

  “Not at all. That was always your best scenario. I’m saving myself for true love.”

  “What if you’ve found it?”

  “You mean, what if it’s found me and can’t wait longer than twenty-four hours? Then it’s probably a reckless, thoughtless, horn-honking asteroid that ought to go flip itself over.”

  “For someone who doesn’t ever swear, you sure have a suspiciously ready supply of insults.”

  “Put your sock back on and ask for the bill.”

  “As the lady commands.”

  Don’t judge me! I’m a girl with high standards in a man. Besides, this isn’t why I’m telling you this part of the story.

  On the way out of the restaurant, we noticed three husky teenagers
prowling the parking lot. They were huddled near a Cadillac about three spaces away from Patrick’s SUV. One of them hid something shiny when they saw us.

  My plan was to get in the car quietly and drive off, but Patrick . . . darn it all . . .

  “You boys drop something in the parking lot?”

  The largest one bit his lower lip and tilted his head. “No, man. In fact we just got here. Got a reservation and everything.”

  “Enjoy your dinner,” I said hurriedly, and then to Patrick: “Let’s go.”

  “Because it looks to me like you’re trying to break into that car.”

  This was true, but I didn’t see how antagonizing them was going to stop them. In fact, the one with the shiny metal object—skinnier than the first but with a crazy-looking dirty blond mullet—raised it like a weapon. Why, in fact, it was a weapon: a crowbar. Super.

  “You the police, big man?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Then you better call for backup,” the largest one said. “And while you wait, we may show your girlfriend a good time.”

  “You should know that she’s a virgin—”

  “Patrick!”

  He grinned at me. Clearly he wasn’t worried. He hadn’t seen much of my sisters, to be sure—but was he being intentionally provocative?

  I had very little time to think about that. Mullet with Crowbar was rounding the SUV’s hood and coming at Patrick, and the other two were headed for me, trapping me on the passenger side between the SUV and the next car. Somebody would have to do some—

  Chapter Thirty-six

  —Thing NOW.

  A spinning back roundhouse kick is mostly for show in martial arts movies and stuff like The Matrix. It often does not work in real life because most criminals we deal with are either trained in martial arts themselves, or are hopped up on so many drugs that a kick like that tickles. For those it does work on—aka the nerds—a simple punch will do.

  But to escape two opponents coming from either side, slide over the hood of an SUV, and launch yourself at a tall guy coming at your date with a crowbar—that is a good time for a spinning back roundhouse kick.

  He spit blood as he fell, spraying it all over the businessman’s suit. (Served Mr. Provocative right.) The crowbar clattered to the pavement. I motioned to the other two.

  “Come pick it up.”

  The grisly looking one with the mullet took a step back. “Look, lady, we didn’t mean nothin’. You’re a virgin. Got it. We’ll just go now.”

  “Actually, I have been in several consecutive committed relationships, and am not a virgin at all.” I picked up the crowbar.

  They ran. So I let the crowbar drop again.

  “Wow, that was—”

  “Shut up and get in the car. No, the passenger side. I will take those keys.”

  As I got into the car, I checked myself reflexively in the rearview mirror. My dark, straight bob had barely moved out of place. Not that I normally cared about such things, but it was nice to know that this had been an easy fight. Good training, I supposed.

  Which did not excuse his behavior.

  “You manipulated them.” I shot the SUV backward before he even got to close his door, startling him into slamming it shut. He was still clawing for the seat belt when I gunned the vehicle forward out of the parking lot and onto Grand Avenue. “You manipulated my sister.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You knew she would hide. You knew I would come out. Why did you want me out there?”

  When he did not answer, my mood darkened. “Please do not tell me you were switching girls, hoping for action.”

  “Not action. Just variety. I told you: I like it when things change.”

  “So you endangered yourself and your date—”

  “Looks like we’re both fine.”

  “—to satisfy your impatience and immaturity. You know, I think I can find you a sister who will give you exactly what you are looking for. . . .”

  “What do you . . . oh . . . you mean . . .”

  I could feel her coming, as if she knew it was her time. She was never very far

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  awaaaay we go

  oh yea I’m driving and it’s a good car a fast car

  make it go faster

  wheels on the bus go round and

  make it go faster

  wheels go round and round and round and

  HEY here’s Pillsbury and he looks a little scared

  Looks a little scared

  Syrup in your hair!

  And the wheels on the bus go round and

  WHOOPS almost missed the turn

  Hey Pillsbury looks good kinda cute kinda scared

  Kinda not scared

  Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

  ANOTHER TURN WHOOOOOOOO

  That’s it. I want him.

  (He definitely. Wants. Me.)

  Put your hand there, Pillsbury

  Don’t

  Be

  Scared!

  We’re getting on the highway and the wheels go round

  Wheels go round

  (Up and down, that’s right)

  And the cars whoosh by, or is that us?

  Oh stop yelling, Pillsbury, we didn’t even hit that truck and besides, you were doing so good before you took your hand away

  PUT YOUR HAND BACK BETWEEN MY LEGS, YOU FUCKING MAN

  The wheels go

  SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH

  We’re stopped. Why

  Did we stop?

  WHOOSH the cars go past on the left,

  On the right.

  Honk honk!

  Honk back!

  HONK HONK!

  This is boring. He’s just shouting at me. If he won’t fuck me, and my sister likes him so much

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Are you nuts?”

  I shook my head, trying to figure out where I—

  WhaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaah

  “Cripes, we’re in the middle of the highway!”

  “No shit! Drive!”

  I gunned the engine. The SUV leapt forward.

  The vehicle didn’t do less than sixty the entire way home, counting side roads. I was scared, and bewildered, and furious, and worst of all the hem of my dress was around my waist and the front of my underwear had been pulled aside. No doubt courtesy of my sister . . . and Patrick!

  “Did you get all the action you wanted?” I hissed, screeching to a halt in front of my place.

  “Cadence, I—”

  “Don’t even answer. What even happened to those guys in the parking lot? Did my sister kill them and then jump your bones? Is that what you were after—an exciting time with the freak show? Is that all I am to you?”

  “Of course not—”

  “I said don’t answer.” Tears were threatening my cheeks, and I wiped my nose with the hem of my dress—what the frick, it was up far enough anyway. “It’s not fair. They think I’m weak. You think I’m weak. So I do all the investigation and all the paperwork and when it comes time to do something fun like break a nose or impress some guy, my sisters get to come out and then they go too far and by the time I’m back, I’m in my boss’s office or stopped dead in the middle of frayber-hoppin’ Interstate 94. Then I have to solve everything again. It’s not fair!”

  I leapt over the gearshift and landed on his crotch. He groaned, and I reached down to press him with my fist. My other hand clawed at his neck as I kissed him roughly on the mouth. Before he had a chance to enjoy any of it, I took my fist off his crotch, reared back, and slugged him across the jaw.

  Wow! He’s unconscious!

  I was heaving with adrenaline, biting my tongue with unfulfilled desire . . . and quite impressed with how much swing radius the passenger compartment of a Lexus SUV afforded an assailant straddling her adversary.

  So that’s what it feels like! No wonder my sisters keep this all to themselves!

  Goose bumps rising, I opened the passenger door, made sure th
e ignition key was safely in his pocket, locked the doors, and closed him inside. Then I walked up the path to my door, wondering if that vibrator Adrienne had left was still anywhere around inside.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The next morning, I woke up and looked out the bedroom window. Patrick and the SUV had left (presumably together), so my mind turned right away to work. I had one assignment, and I didn’t even need to go into the office to carry it out.

  Tracy Carr, our precious surviving victim of the ThreeFer Killer, was propped up in her bed at St. Olaf’s Metropolitan Hospital, the sheets and blankets pulled all the way to her chin. She was clutching the bedclothes so tightly that all her knuckles were white. All the shades were drawn, but every light was blazing. Yerrgh, fluorescent light. Why not just set a crow free to gouge out your eyeballs? It’ll feel the same, and have the same end effect.

  “Well, hi there!”

  “Hi, Agent Jones.”

  “You mind . . . ?” I gestured to the empty chair on the left side of the bed.

  “No,” she said, which I figured was a rather large lie. It was a phenomenon I’d seen before. Female victims, no matter how upset or scared or nervous or tired, inevitably chose courtesy over their own wants, even their own needs. She didn’t want me to sit down. She didn’t want me to be in the same building.

  And who could blame her? I didn’t want to be in the same building, either. If Shiro had been there, she’d have yaked ad nauseam about the weakness of the modern woman, yak-yak, and if Adrienne

  (please God not again anytime soon, cut me some slack, okay, God?)

  but I just felt sorry for someone who’d let herself be unhappy to avoid the appearance of rudeness.

  “I hear they’re kicking you loose after lunch.”

  She nodded. They’d kept her overnight for observation, standard op per St. Olaf’s Hospital. I was to try another interrogation, go away, come back to drive her to the safe house on Lake Street, try to get even more info, then go away and discover a clue and solve the case. Sure. And after that I’d find a cure for AIDS, flip the switch in the ancient temple that kept men thinking like pigs, and clean out my fridge.