“I’ll take a rain check. I’m too grumpy to be good company. I’ll unpack and shower and then get in my comfies, which is bound to help.”
I could see my use of the word “shower” had set off a mental alarm. Henry was probably calculating the water I’d already used this week. “I’ll keep it short, I swear.”
“One would hope.”
I unlocked my door and let myself in. Ed was there like a shot, sliding through the open door. As usual, he strolled around my studio and made himself at home. He hopped up on the kitchen counter and settled like a bolster pillow, with his front feet tucked under him. I wasn’t sure if Henry realized where he was, so I opened the door again and stuck my head out. “Ed’s in here if you’re looking for him.”
“Thanks. Bring him over if he turns into a pest.”
“Will do.”
I closed and locked the door. I set my overnight case at the bottom of the spiral stairs and turned on the living room lamps. I noticed the message light blinking on my answering machine. I crossed to the desk and pressed Play.
“Kinsey. Spencer Nash here. I’m back in town and curious what you learned about Hallie Bettancourt. When you have a minute, would you give me a call? It’s Saturday, one o’clock, and I should be here until four. If you miss me, leave a message and I’ll call you back first chance I get.”
He recited his number and I made a note of it. I didn’t want to call him or anybody else. I needed time to myself.
I trotted up the spiral stairs and set my overnight case on the bed. Behind me, Ed jumped down from the kitchen counter and followed. He had a look around, sniffed at the baseboards in hopes of mice, and finally sprawled on my bed, watching with interest while I unloaded my overnight bag, leaving the permanently packed items where they were. That done, I stripped off my clothes and shoved them in the hamper.
I had a two-minute shower and a quick shampoo. Once I pulled on my oversize sleeping T-shirt and sweats, I felt better. I holed up for the evening, tucked in bed, where I finished my book with a boy-cat stretched out along my hip. I thought he’d ask to go out, but he seemed happy where he was. Nothing wrong with being single when you can do as you please without objection or complaint. The presence of the fur ball was icing on the cake.
• • •
It wasn’t until Monday morning that I caught up with Nash—or, to be more accurate, when he caught up with me. We’d played phone tag all day Sunday and I’d finally decided not to sweat it. My report wasn’t pressing, and he was entitled to his weekend without business intruding. I’d try another call when I reached the office.
Meanwhile, I woke at the usual hour, pulled on my running duds, did a perfunctory stretch, and headed the two blocks to the bike path that paralleled the beach. I could jog in my sleep if it came right down to it. There was a time when I wore headphones plugged into an AM/FM radio and spent most of the run trying to find a station I liked. The music was seldom to my taste and the news programs depressed me. My fallback position was a drive-time talk show, which usually consisted of two guys blabbing about nothing in particular, their “hilarious” banter more amusing to them than it was to anyone else. Eventually, I’d abandoned the idea of listening to anything. Silence allowed me time for reflection and helped to quiet the chatter in my head.
It was now March 20 and the morning skies were clear. Despite the unrelenting sunshine, there was still a chill in the air and I was happy to be wearing my red fleece sweatpants and hoodie, which always felt good when I was starting out. By the middle of the run, I’d be stripped down to my T-shirt, my hoodie off and tied around my waist by the sleeves like someone hugging me from behind. By the time the run was over and I’d slowed to a walk, my long pants would feel like damp towels and I’d be eager to peel them off.
I was nearing the turnaround point a mile and a half down the beach when I found my attention focused on a fellow jogging toward me at a good clip. He was in loose shorts and a mismatched tank top. Like me, he had a long-sleeved shirt tied around his waist. While he was a good six feet tall, he didn’t show much in the way of upper-body development. His legs were sturdy and his feet were huge. There was nothing about him that signaled danger, but I made a quick assessment of the situation. It was, after all, barely light, and there was no one else in the area except for a homeless person zipped into a sleeping bag at the base of a palm tree. I avoided eye contact as the guy ran past.
“Kinsey?”
The voice was familiar, and I turned to see Spencer Nash as he was slowing to a stop.