important. Playing with my fingers, laughing at my jokes, tossing her hair so that the light caught her earrings.
At that point in time I was God's gift to Sharon Ransom. It felt better than anything else I could recall.
Without all that, her looks might have snagged me. Even in that raucous place teeming with lush young bodies and heartbreaking faces, her beauty was a magnet. It seemed obvious that every passing man was stopping and caressing her visually, the women appraising her with fierce acuity. She was unaware of it, remained zeroed in on me.
I heard myself open up, talk about things I hadn't thought of in years.
Whatever problems she might have, she'd clean up as a therapist.
From the beginning I wanted her physically with an intensity that shook me. But something about her—a fragility that I sensed or imagined—held me back.
For half a dozen dates it remained chaste: hand-holds and goodnight pecks, a noseful of that light, fresh perfume. I'd drive home swollen but oddly content, subsisting on recollections.
As we headed toward the dorm after our seventh evening together, she said, "Don't drop me off yet, Alex. Drive around the corner."
She directed me to a dark, shaded side street, adjacent to one of the athletic fields. I parked. She leaned over, turned off the ignition, removed her shoes, and climbed over the seat and into the back of the Rambler.
"Come," she said.
I followed her over, glad I'd washed the car. Sat beside her, took her in my arms, kissed her lips, her eyes, the sweet spot under her neck. She shivered, squirmed. I touched her breast. Felt her heart pounding. We kissed some more, deeper, longer. I put my hand on her knee. She shivered, gave me a look that I thought was fear. I lifted my hand. She put it back, between her knees, wedged me in a soft, hot vice. Then she spread her legs. I went exploring, up columns of white marble. She was splayed, had thrown her head back, had her eyes closed, was breathing through her mouth. No underwear. I rolled her skirt up, saw a generous delta soft and black as sable fur.
"Oh, God," I said and started to pleasure her.
She held me back with one hand, reached for my zipper with the other. In a second I was free, pointing skyward.
"Come to me," she said.
I obeyed.
WITH MlLO out of town, my only other police contact was Delano Hardy, a dapper black detective who sometimes worked as Milo's partner. A few years ago he'd saved my life. I'd Page 52
bought him a guitar, a classic Fender Stratocaster that Robin had restored. It was clear who owed whom, but I called him anyway.
The desk man at West L.A. told me Detective Hardy wouldn't be in until the following morning.
I debated trying him at home but knew he was a family man, always trying to scrounge more time for his kids, and left a message for him to call me.
I thought of someone who wouldn't mind being called at home. Ned Biondi was one of those journalists who lived for the story. He'd been a metro writer-reporter when I met him, had since progressed to associate editor but managed to squeeze in a story now and then.
Ned owed me. I'd helped reverse his daughter's descent to near-death from anorexia. He'd taken a year and a half to pay me, then added to his personal debt by profiting from a couple of big stories that I'd steered his way.
Just after 9:00 P.M. I reached him at his home in Woodland Hills.
"Doc. I was going to call you."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, just got back from Boston. Anne-Marie sends her love."
"How's she doing?"
"Still skinnier than we'd like, but otherwise great. She started social work school this fall, got a part-time job, and found a new boyfriend to replace the bastard who dumped her."
"Give her my best."
"Will do. What's up?"
"I wanted to ask you about a story in today's final. Suicide of a psychologist, page—"
"Twenty. What about it?"
"I knew the woman, Ned."
"Oh, jeez. That's lousy."
"Is there anything more to it than what you printed?"
"No reason for there to be.
At that point in time I was God's gift to Sharon Ransom. It felt better than anything else I could recall.
Without all that, her looks might have snagged me. Even in that raucous place teeming with lush young bodies and heartbreaking faces, her beauty was a magnet. It seemed obvious that every passing man was stopping and caressing her visually, the women appraising her with fierce acuity. She was unaware of it, remained zeroed in on me.
I heard myself open up, talk about things I hadn't thought of in years.
Whatever problems she might have, she'd clean up as a therapist.
From the beginning I wanted her physically with an intensity that shook me. But something about her—a fragility that I sensed or imagined—held me back.
For half a dozen dates it remained chaste: hand-holds and goodnight pecks, a noseful of that light, fresh perfume. I'd drive home swollen but oddly content, subsisting on recollections.
As we headed toward the dorm after our seventh evening together, she said, "Don't drop me off yet, Alex. Drive around the corner."
She directed me to a dark, shaded side street, adjacent to one of the athletic fields. I parked. She leaned over, turned off the ignition, removed her shoes, and climbed over the seat and into the back of the Rambler.
"Come," she said.
I followed her over, glad I'd washed the car. Sat beside her, took her in my arms, kissed her lips, her eyes, the sweet spot under her neck. She shivered, squirmed. I touched her breast. Felt her heart pounding. We kissed some more, deeper, longer. I put my hand on her knee. She shivered, gave me a look that I thought was fear. I lifted my hand. She put it back, between her knees, wedged me in a soft, hot vice. Then she spread her legs. I went exploring, up columns of white marble. She was splayed, had thrown her head back, had her eyes closed, was breathing through her mouth. No underwear. I rolled her skirt up, saw a generous delta soft and black as sable fur.
"Oh, God," I said and started to pleasure her.
She held me back with one hand, reached for my zipper with the other. In a second I was free, pointing skyward.
"Come to me," she said.
I obeyed.
WITH MlLO out of town, my only other police contact was Delano Hardy, a dapper black detective who sometimes worked as Milo's partner. A few years ago he'd saved my life. I'd Page 52
bought him a guitar, a classic Fender Stratocaster that Robin had restored. It was clear who owed whom, but I called him anyway.
The desk man at West L.A. told me Detective Hardy wouldn't be in until the following morning.
I debated trying him at home but knew he was a family man, always trying to scrounge more time for his kids, and left a message for him to call me.
I thought of someone who wouldn't mind being called at home. Ned Biondi was one of those journalists who lived for the story. He'd been a metro writer-reporter when I met him, had since progressed to associate editor but managed to squeeze in a story now and then.
Ned owed me. I'd helped reverse his daughter's descent to near-death from anorexia. He'd taken a year and a half to pay me, then added to his personal debt by profiting from a couple of big stories that I'd steered his way.
Just after 9:00 P.M. I reached him at his home in Woodland Hills.
"Doc. I was going to call you."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, just got back from Boston. Anne-Marie sends her love."
"How's she doing?"
"Still skinnier than we'd like, but otherwise great. She started social work school this fall, got a part-time job, and found a new boyfriend to replace the bastard who dumped her."
"Give her my best."
"Will do. What's up?"
"I wanted to ask you about a story in today's final. Suicide of a psychologist, page—"
"Twenty. What about it?"
"I knew the woman, Ned."
"Oh, jeez. That's lousy."
"Is there anything more to it than what you printed?"
"No reason for there to be.
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