"There is something I hope you will tell me," she said. "Either now or sometime. If you can, I mean . . . Um, is he . . . is there a chance he will be back?"
Bosch looked at her and slowly shook his head. He studied her eyes for reaction. Sadness or fear, even complicity. There was none. She looked down at her gloved hands, which grasped each other in front of her dress.
"My driver . . . ," she said, not finishing the thought. She tried a polite smile and for the hundredth time he asked himself what had been wrong with Calexico Moore. She took a step forward and touched her hand to his cheek. It felt warm, even through the silk glove, and he could smell perfume on her wrist. Something very light. Not really a smell. A scent.
"I guess I should go," she said.
He nodded and she backed away.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded. He didn't know what he was being thanked for but all he could do was nod.
"Will you call? Maybe we could . . . I don't know I—"
"I will call."
Now she nodded and turned to walk back to the black limousine. He hesitated and then spoke up.
"You like jazz? The saxophone?"
She stopped and turned back to him. There was sharpness in her eyes. That need for touch. It was so clear he could feel it cut him. He thought maybe it was his own reflection.
"Especially the solos," she said. "The ones that are lonely and sad. I love those."
"There is . . . is tomorrow night too soon?"
"It's New Year's Eve."
"I know. I was thinking . . . I guess it might not be the right time. The other night—that was . . . I don't know."
She walked back to him and put her hand on his neck and pulled his face down to hers. He went willingly. They kissed for a long time and Bosch kept his eyes closed. When she let him go he didn't look to see if anyone was watching. He didn't care.
"What is a right time?" she asked.
He had no answer.
"I'll be waiting for you."
He smiled and she smiled.
She turned for the last time and walked to the car, her high heels clicking on the asphalt once she left the carpet of grass. Bosch leaned back against the tree and watched the driver open the door for her. Then he lit a cigarette and watched as the sleek black machine carried her out through the gate and left him alone with the dead.
Michael Connelly, The Black Ice
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