Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle. David Russell W.Читать онлайн книгу.
in hand to hand combat drilling. No one, not even the gym monkeys with bodies that looked like someone stuck an air compressor hose up their bums, could outdo Andy in physical health. It’s entirely possible that most men were afraid to date her because they worried if they ever broke up, she’d kick the shit out of them.
Andrea wasn’t officially working Tricia’s murder. But I knew she would be in the loop, given her seniority and highly respected status among her colleagues. Despite the fact that many of her cop friends knew me, no one would keep Andy in the dark. No one would dare. She met me at the Thai Palace restaurant on Burrard Street, which served Vancouver’s best heart attack inducing, spicy Thai food. It was also a good place to talk without fear of being overheard by the patrons, most of whom patiently waited their turn at the karaoke machine. Andy was already in “our” booth when I arrived.
“How well do you know this guy?” she started as I slunk onto the faux velvet bench.
“Fine thanks, how are you?” I replied. We had the kind of relationship where opening pleasantries were optional and most often ignored.
“Don’t get pissy on me, Win. I thought we could cut to the chase.” Andy was the only person I allowed to call me “Winnie.” What could I do? She could kick my ass too.
“How do you know I invited you out to talk about legal matters? Why do you think I might not have something else to talk about?”
“Because nothing exciting happens in your life,” she reminded me. “You have no other news.”
“Sandi’s pregnant,” I blurted out. I have so few opportunities to scoop Andy on anything. Somehow, she would have found out within a few days, and I wasn’t about to let this rare moment pass.
“The she-beast is preggo?” she exclaimed. “Holy shit. I would have thought her yoghurt expired a long time ago.”
“She’s only two years older than us.”
“Still.” She paused and took a sip of her Corona beer straight from the bottle. She looked across the table as she gulped half the lemon-yellow liquid. “Have you two been at it again?”
“No! Shame on you for even thinking that. You have a dirty mind.”
“And a healthy soul. They go together,” she told me. “She come and tell you?”
“Yeah,” I told her. “Last night. She dropped by to share her happy news.”
“Why’d she tell you? She want something from ya?”
That gave me pause. My mind had been so focused on Carl and Tricia that I really hadn’t given enough thought to just why Sandi had made the trek to my place to inform me. Why the hell did I need that info?
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I pissed her off, and she left before she could tell me.”
“Typical. You always piss her off good.”
“Well. I piss her off well.”
“Don’t start.” The waitress arrived with appetizers. Despite my inherited propensity for bland British food, I could also get hot and messy with spicy food. The difference between Andy and me was that I would pay dearly for it later with heartburn and indigestion. She always tried to convince me to order separately so I could get food with less spice, but it seemed like a test of my manhood so I always refused. I hated it when her manhood was stronger than mine. Andy dove into the finger foods.
“So are you in a funk about this?” she continued, hot sauce poking out from the corner of her delicate mouth.
“About Sandi?” I asked. “Hardly. I really hadn’t given it much thought.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“I thought you might want to know,” I told her.
“In case my biological clock went into jealousy overdrive?”
“It’s not beyond the scope of possibility. You’re not getting any younger.”
Andrea considered that for a moment. That was not a good sign, because it usually meant she was preparing a verbal assault. She cocked her head slightly to the left, peering with curiosity at the top of my head. Finally, she said, “Your hair’s thinning.”
“Okay. You win,” I conceded. “You’re starting to hit below the belt.”
She smiled coquettishly. “I wasn’t talking about hair below the belt.”
“And I wish you wouldn’t. This is a family restaurant.”
The waitress arrived again to take our orders as we were winding down on the fiery hot appetizers Andy had ordered prior to my arrival. Over her shoulder, a young couple cheerfully sang a duet of Britney Spears’ bubblegum hit “Oops I Did it Again” in Cantonese. It didn’t sound any better in Chinese. It also didn’t sound any worse. Andy ordered a Thai chicken dish that showed three red hot peppers beside it on the menu. Not to be outdone, I said I would have the same.
“Are you insane?” she said. “You can’t handle those types of spices.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I countered.
“Someone has to mother you. You don’t listen to the natural one, and you divorced the second one to come along.”
“Please. You’re killing my appetite.”
“You’re too skinny. We should have gone out for cheeseburgers. You’re starting to look like a camp survivor.”
“My mother’s Catholic guilt, not Jewish guilt.”
“Seriously, I think you need to eat more. This teaching thing is making you waste away.”
“No,” I told her. “The food level is probably fine. I need to sleep more and run less.”
Andy tilted her head again, this time just slightly to the right. This was her signal to me that she was no longer bullshitting and was genuinely concerned for my well being. It made her angry when I brushed off these attempts at trying to improve my state of being.
“Seriously, have you seen anyone?” she asked.
“I see you,” I said. “And not nearly often enough.”
“Shut up,” she replied. Andy had a way of saying “shut up” that was not mean spirited. She was probably the only person I knew who could say “shut up” in a caring, compassionate manner. “Don’t get cute on me,” she warned.
“I’m not already cute?” I tried to continue a line of conversation away from my physical and emotional health.
“I’m talking about going to your doctor.”
“Here we go,” I began to protest.
“Win,” she insisted, “you haven’t slept properly in, like, three years. Sooner or later you’re going to have to acknowledge that it’s not normal to live on less than three hours of sleep each day and find out what the hell’s wrong with you.”
“Thank you for putting it so gently. What if I find out I’m nuts or something?”
“At least we’d know medically what we’ve believed all along.” She paused long enough to cause me to to wonder what had happened and look back up from my food. When my eyes came level, I found her staring at me.
“What?” I demanded. She didn’t respond, only continued to give me a commanding stare. In many ways, Andy and I communicated non-verbally like an old married couple. She didn’t really need to say anything else, because I knew she has reached her end of the conversation. I now had two choices: accept what she was trying to tell me to do, or start a lengthy argument.
“Okay,” I eventually acquiesced. “You win. I will go to the doctor as soon as I have time.”
“Thank you,” she said with just a hint of smugness in