Page 3 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

Bobby made her give him the gun.

Indira didn’t object. She didn’t argue or fight or complain. She was sopping wet, her hair flattened against her scalp, her clothes pasted to her body, and the whole effect made her look smaller.

The stark brightness of the kitchen after the rainy darkness in the alley was unreal. Flushed, frightened faces stared at us.

“I need a towel,” I said.

Several seconds passed before the woman in chef’s whites shouted, “Someone give him a towel.”

The world sprang into motion again. I helped Indira dry off as best we could. Part of my brain—the part that couldn’t help being a mystery writer—wondered if I was destroying evidence. And the rest of me thought I was a traitor for even considering the possibility, but…there it was.

I was distantly aware of murmurs spreading through the kitchen, and then a sharp cry. When I glanced over, the woman in chef’s whites was sagging against a stainless-steel counter, her face bloodless, while members of the kitchen staff plucked at her arms and led her out of the room.

Indira didn’t say anything. She let me help her, and then, when she’d had enough, she caught my hand and stopped me.

One of the sous-chefs (or God, whatever they’re called) carried over two folding chairs, and we sat and waited for the sheriff to arrive.

Around us, the kitchen moved with broken rhythm—spurts of movement, sudden halts, wary gazes turned our way.

Bobby didn’t come back inside; he wouldn’t leave the scene until someone else could secure it.

Sheriff Acosta didn’t take long to get there. She entered through the alley door, wearing a transparent poncho beaded with rain. Her hat was dark with water, and the tip of her ponytail looked damp too. She took one look at us and said, “Is either of you hurt?”

I shook my head. Indira didn’t respond.

“Dash, go back to the dining room.” The sheriff scanned the kitchen. “Who’s in charge here?”

The sous-chef who had brought the chairs raised her hand.

“I’m going to need somewhere to work,” the sheriff said. “And—Dash, right now.”

I squeezed Indira’s hand, but she didn’t respond to that either. Then I left.

The dining room was cool in comparison with the kitchen’s heat.

Cool and swallowed up by shadows and much, much too quiet.

Whispers moved through the crowd like ripples in a pond.

Deputy Winegar, pouch-eyed and grim, stood at the door, and to judge by the mixture of interest and unhappiness, the diners knew they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Every eye in the room followed me as I made my way toward my friends.

Millie was pale. Fox was twisting their cardigan.

Keme’s breathing was shallow, and if anything, his grip on Millie had only tightened while I’d been gone.

I realized, in one of those ultra-clear moments that sometimes came in the midst of disaster, that the only thing worse for Keme than not being able to protect someone was having to choose who to protect.

“She’s okay,” I said. “Indira’s okay.”

Keme sagged, and he let Millie pull him into a hug. Fox released their cardigan and rubbed their hands on their knees.

“It’s pretty bad, though—” I said. And then tears stung my eyes.

The worst part was, I didn’t even know why I was crying. I hadn’t been in danger. Indira wasn’t hurt. I hadn’t even seen the body up close, for heaven’s sake. But my throat prickled like I had the flu, and it took me several long seconds to fight back a genuine sob.

“Come on,” Fox said gently as they rose. Patting my back, they turned me toward the fireplace. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

It wasn’t until then that I noticed I was soaked too.

Soaked, and frozen to the bone. Fox got me seated on the hearth, and the heat of the flames made me melt.

Millie held my hand, which I hadn’t realized until then was exactly what I needed.

And Keme used a series of napkins to dry my hair (he’s nothing if not resourceful).

He also got weirdly aggressive with the rubbing at the end, yanking my head back and forth, which I figured was his psycho teenage boy way of working out his own complicated emotions.

It actually made me feel better—I know, it makes zero sense.

“I’m going to get you a drink,” Fox said. “Millie, Keme, why don’t you find Nalini and let her know Indira’s okay?”

Keme nodded, and in true boy fashion, he apparently still had no idea how much trouble he was in; I didn’t actually see Millie’s claws come out, but she did have a certain look that made me wonder if Nalini had medical insurance.

After they left, I sat there, absorbing the heat from the fireplace, my muscles slowly relaxing.

Yes, people were still staring at me, but it wasn’t as bad now.

I was caught up in a contemplation of my current state—dry clothes were quickly becoming a priority, and my Mexico 66s were caked with some sort of grime from the alley—when someone sat down next to me.

It was the woman from the bar, the one with the earth-toned makeup and the hair dyed a shade too dark. She was carrying two glasses, and she held one out to me.

“You need this more than I do,” she said with something on her face that wasn’t quite a smile.

When I’d first seen this woman, the makeup and hair had taken most of my attention.

I gave her a closer look now. Her face had a slightly blocky look to it, and something about it—in spite of what I assumed were expensive cosmetics and possibly a touch of surgical intervention—suggested a bulldog.

Her clothes were definitely expensive—a silk blouse, high-waisted trousers, and the kind of heels that require professional certification to walk in.

“It must have been awful,” she said, pushing the drink toward me. And then, without even pretending to wait a beat: “What happened out there?”

Anything I said felt like it might have been too much, or confirmation, so I settled for shaking my head.

“I know, I know,” she said. She must have given up on the drink because she set it on the hearth. She even patted my shoulder robotically. “I’m sure it was terrible.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I think I’d like to be alone—”

“Sparkie Sanchez,” she said. “God, you were so brave, the way you ran out there after those gunshots.” She did something with her eyelashes and leaned in. “I love a bold man.”

It took about five seconds longer than it should have.

I blame it on the fact that I was still—to use a medical term—discombobulated.

Then it hit. Someone must have thrown a few dozen logs on the (gas) fire because I started sweating, and I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“Why,” Sparkie said, “you’re practically a hero, and I don’t even know your name.”

She did something again with her eyelashes, and let me tell you: pit stains were only the beginning of my problems. We’re talking buckets of sweat.

I glanced around for Fox—now would be an ideal time for them to come back with my drink—but they weren’t at the bar, and I couldn’t spot them anywhere in the dining room.

“Uh, Dash Dane,” I said. And then, because I will forever be Dashiell Dawson Dane, somehow I heard myself say, “Practicing homosexual.”

Sparkie stared at me. Her grip on her drink loosened, and for an instant, I thought she might actually drop it. And then she tittered a laugh.

I laughed too. The way you might laugh, eyes rolling, while edging toward the closest exit. In my case, though, there wasn’t anywhere to go, and so Sparkie kept laughing, and I kept laughing, and I wondered if maybe I should have that drink after all.

“God, how embarrassing,” Sparkie said, her voice a trace brisker now, with a kind of self-deprecating amusement. “I’m sorry; it works on straight men most of the time, I promise. Can we start over, and I’ll act like a human being?” She held out her hand. “Sparkie Sanchez.”

Something about the shift in tone, the slight hint of self-mockery, made me take her hand. “Dash Dane.”

“You can’t blame me for trying,” she said. “A gal’s got to do whatever she can. The restaurant industry is an old boys’ club; you wouldn’t believe how hard it is for a woman.”

“I didn’t know that. The chef here is a woman, isn’t she?”

Sparkie nodded and sipped her drink. “But Talmage is useless in a crisis, which is why the restaurant is at a standstill.”

I tried to think of a response to that, and then I realized something important was happening. Something useful.

“Talmage?” I asked.

“The chef.” Sparkie tilted an unpleasant smile into the middle distance. “The one who came out here and gave Mal a new bunghole.”

(I mean, kind of—she did use the word hole at least.)

“Yeah,” I said, “what was that all about?”

Sparkie shrugged. “The usual, I suspect. Mal’s never been able to hang on to a wife.”

“Talmage is his wife?” Before she could answer, though, something about the way she’d said it struck me, and I said, “Hold on, you were married to him too?”

“I told you: a gal’s got to do whatever she can.”

Several questions came to mind—as well as the fact that Sparkie, as an ex-wife, might make an excellent suspect.

“Why does everyone call him Mal?” I asked. “I thought his name was Thomas.”

“Just a nickname. He’s had it for years. His last name is Malick, and somebody shortened it.” She studied me over her glass. “Someone shot Mal, didn’t they? Don’t look so surprised; we all heard the shots, and he hasn’t come back.”

For several seconds, I didn’t say anything. And then I decided to gamble.

“You followed him into the kitchen,” I said.

Sparkie gave me a more considering look.

Finally, she said, “I did. And I followed him out into that filthy alley and ruined a pair of heels.” She displayed the shoes, which were stained with the same filth as my Mexico 66s.

“But I didn’t shoot him.” A little pause, and then slightly too casually: “I don’t suppose you saw anything while you were out there? ”

I chose to ignore that question. “Why did you follow him?”