Page 21 of Rest In Pink

“You know how that bookcase at the head of your bed has three sections?”

“Yes,” I said, not adding that since I’d built it, of course I knew how many sections it had.

“I think you should drill holes through the wood on both sides of the bottom middle shelf. About one inch I think.”

“No.”

“Don’t say no yet, you haven’t heard my idea.”

“No.”

“Because I was thinking the last time you had me on my back there, that that’s about where my wrists would go if you tied me up there. And if there were holes, we could put this cotton rope Anemone was telling me about through the holes, so no chafing. And I had some other thoughts, but they also would require those holes in your bookcase.” She paused and when I didn’t say anything, said, “Vince?”

“I’m trying to remember where I put my drill.”

Her laugh came over the phone and made me smile.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I said and hung up.

“That your girl?” Brandon Bartlett, the new detective, said, tilting back in Marvin’s chair. “She pretty well runs you, huh?”

“Not my girl,” I said, thinking about cotton rope. “None of your business. Get back to those statistics.”

He grinned at me, all blond curls and big teeth, tilting back farther in that chair. “You’re not my boss, man.”

“I outrank you, so yes, I am your boss. Work.”

“And what happens if I don’t?” He rocked a little in the chair, tilting back farther, and I began to count down the seconds while thinking that Peri Blue had better comebacks than this idiot.

“I’ll call your uncle and tell him you’re a slacker, and he’ll ignore me because he wants you here to spy on the department.”

He threw his head back to laugh at that, and the ancient springs gave way—Marvin used to bitch about them—and he went over backwards, as expected.

“Fucking hell,” he said from the floor as George came out of his office.

“Bartlett, you’re in a public government office. Clean up your damn mouth or you’ll be out of here, no matter what your uncle says.”

Bartlett looked from him to me.

I was not smiling. I was positively dour.

He looked back at George, calculating how much he could get away with.

George looked back at him, blood in his eye.

Bartlett stood up and righted the chair. “Of course, Chief. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

I stood up, too, and grabbed my jacket. “I’m meeting Will Porter at the garage,” I told George. “Looking into that thing we were talking about. Detective work.”

George nodded, but Bartlett was alert, his ears pricked like a chihuahua. “What thing?”

I pointed at the papers on his desk. “That thing is your thing.”

“I should know about your thing,” he began, but I was already leaving for the Porters.

On the way, I called Jill with the plans and she told me I’d have to get the tenderloins, buns, pickles, mustard, frozen fries and several more things—I had to pull over and write it all down—and drop them off beforehand.

Somehow, I had the feeling I’d been bamboozled. But there was also the possibility of cotton rope in my future.

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