Sex, Murder And A Double Latte. Kyra Davis

Oh shit, Sophie, he sees me! Oh my God, he’s getting into the white scooter-deally… Run, Sophie! Get your little ass down here now!”

      I kicked a nearby pillow with enough force to propel it across the room and send my cat running for cover. I looked over in the direction of the kitchen where the diamond studs I’d planned on wearing rested on the counter, and quickly decided against them. Considering the state of my hair, nobody would see them anyway. I did want to bring my cell phone, though. Funny, I thought I had left it by the earrings. The buzzer blasted again. Obviously I’d have to find it later. I grabbed my purse, and booked down the three flights of stairs to the entryway of my building. As I hurried out the door I saw the meter maid puttering toward us, less than fifteen yards away.

      “Get in, get in, get in!” Marcus screamed from behind the wheel of his Miata, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

      I jumped into the passenger side, and Marcus, without so much as giving me a sideways glance, put the car into gear and we were off, leaving the meter maid snarling in our wake.

      “You know, you could have just driven around the block.” I yanked my seat belt across my chest.

      Marcus snapped his head in my direction for the first time that evening, a move that I assumed was a precursor to a snappy comeback, but the retort froze on his lips. “Oh my God, what happened to your hair?”

      “Oh, well, I thought I’d do something different. Close your mouth and watch the road.”

      Marcus turned part of his focus back to the narrow street leading us toward downtown, but his eyes continued to dart in my direction. “You tried to use a curling iron again, didn’t you?”

      “Um…”

      “How many times do I have to tell you…stay away from the curling iron. In the wrong hands those things are like deadly weapons. It’s like that little Australian crocodile man always says—danger, danger, danger.”

      “Okay, fine, I look like shit. Point taken.”

      “You don’t look like shit. The makeup’s all good and the little camel suede halter dress, paired with the three-quarter leather is a look ripped right out of April’s In Style. It’s just the hair that’s giving me ‘Tina Turner in the eighties’ flashbacks.”

      “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!”

      “Well, it won’t be in a few minutes. I’ll fix it in the parking garage.”

      “You have hair supplies with you?”

      “Never leave home without them.”

      I relaxed back into the seat. He brought hair supplies. Earth-shattering crisis averted. Unfortunately, that allowed my mind to wander back to the phone calls. It was pretty ballsy to crank-call after my last threat, even if the perpetrator didn’t believe me. It showed that the caller was not just looking for an easy target to intimidate. In my book, Sex, Drugs and Murder, the bad guys had prank-called my protagonist and her roommate in hopes of determining when they were home. That way they didn’t run the risk of running into them while breaking in. Could someone be thinking of breaking into my apartment? Had I remembered to close the kitchen window? The thing was almost impossible to close and I usually left it open a crack… No, I was being paranoid. The first part of my day had been hideous, and there was no way I was going to let a few phone calls ruin my night. I forced myself to think of a more removed topic that would hold my interest.

      “Have you been following the JJ Money murder case at all?”

      “And we’re back in the stream-of-consciousness world of Sophie Katz.”

      “You know me, I’m all about keeping you on your toes. It’s what gives me my edge.” I made an attempt at a playful smile. “DC Smooth’s appealing the verdict. I honestly think the guy is innocent. All the evidence against him is just way too convenient for my taste.”

      “As a mystery writer this is probably a hard concept for you, but in the non-MTV real world, people who are convicted of crimes are usually guilty.”

      “Come on, Marcus, what kind of black man are you? Shouldn’t you be chanting ‘Down with the system’ and campaigning for the release of our unfairly accused brother?”

      Marcus turned the car into the O’Farrell Street Garage and paused to collect his ticket. “You’re not exactly little Miss Black Panther yourself. The only reason you’re interested is that you think that if you tweak it a smidge you’ll be able to use the case as a basis for a novel.”

      “I have no intention of tweaking anything. All I want to do is take what has been a very high-profile case, write about it and feed it to a voyeuristic society.”

      “God bless America.” He slid his car into a spot on the third floor and killed the motor without bothering to remove the keys from the ignition. He shifted in his seat so that he could fully appreciate the enormous mass of hair weighing down my head. “We’re going to have to pull it up in a braid thingy.”

      “A braid thingy? I don’t get—”

      “You don’t have to ‘get.’ Just sit back and let me prove my genius.” He pushed himself out of the car and came back seconds later armed with a wide-tooth comb, some ozone-depleting hairspray and a Tupperware container full of rubber hair bands and bobby pins.

      Fifteen minutes later my hair was swept up into a sophisticated little braid and the few curls I had actually succeeded in creating were gently framing my face, keeping the look from going to severe. I examined myself in the side-view mirror. “I don’t care if you are gay, I still want to marry you. I’ll support you, do your laundry, turn my head when you bring home male companionship—all you have to do is my hair every day of the week and I’ll be satisfied.”

      “Honey, the only thing I want to do every day of the week is Ricky Martin. Are you ready to eat?”

      I took one last look at my reflection and allowed him to escort me to the restaurant across the street. We seated ourselves at the bar between a bearded man wearing a rather unfortunate Hawaiian shirt with pink palm trees on it and a woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to Prince, during his “formerly known as” period. Without bothering to look at the familiar menu, we ordered our prerequisite Cosmopolitans and a gourmet pizza to share. Marcus tugged gently on his locks as he watched the bartender mix our desired poison. “You’re still coming to Steve’s surprise party on Saturday, right?”

      I nodded vigorously. “Like I’d miss an opportunity to eat chocolate cake. How’s he doing anyway? Any change?”

      “His T-cell count has gotten ridiculously low, but he’s staying optimistic. He’s going to be so excited to meet you. He’s practically memorized every one of your books. I swear, girl, you are just the female John Grisham these days. Every client I have…”

      Marcus’s voice faded into the background as I studied a man on the other side of the restaurant talking on his cell phone. Maybe the prank calls had come from a cell. That would mean that the person could have been watching the apartment while making the call. But I hadn’t heard any background noise, so they probably had come from someone’s home or—

      “Sophie? Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”

      “Hmm? Oh yeah, of course. You were talking about Steve.”

      “Yesss…about five minutes ago. What’s up with you?” He paused to order a second round.

      “I’m sorry. There has just been some weird stuff happening.”

      “Such as?”

      “I’ve been getting prank calls. Five today. At least, five that I was home to answer.”

      “Oh, I hate those. You know how you deal with them?”

      “How?”

      “Heavy breathing. As soon as you realize that the person is prank-calling, start breathing heavily into the receiver.