Part 68 (1/2)

”Where I provided aid and sustenance to my clinically depressed sister? Is that what you're talking about?”

I finished frisking him and stepped back. He was right. I had nothing on him.

He looked back over his shoulder at me. ”Oh,” he said, ”you're done?”

He unlaced his fingers and stood, brushed at the dark ovals on each knee, the oily, sunbaked tar permanently imprinted in the linen.

”I'll send you the bill,” he said.

”Do that.”

He leaned back against the wall, studied me, and I again felt the irrational urge to push him over. Just to hear his scream.

Up close for the first time, I could feel the casual combination of power and cruelty that he wore like a cloak draped over his shoulders. His face was a strange mix of hard angles and ripeness-hard jawline under fleshy red lips, a doughy, pudding softness to his ivory skin interrupted by jutting cheekbones and eyebrows. His hair was blond again, and combined with those fleshy lips and eyes so blue and vibrant and mean, the total effect of his face was defiantly Aryan.

As I studied him, he studied me, c.o.c.king his head ever so slightly to the right, his blue eyes narrowing, the hint of a knowing grin curling the corners of his ample mouth.

”That partner of yours,” he said, ”is a real babe. You f.u.c.k her, too?”

It was as if he wanted me to throw him off the roof.

”I bet you have,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder at the city below. ”You bang Vanessa Moore-who by the way I caught in court the other day, quite good-and you're banging your hot little partner and G.o.d knows who else. You're quite the swordsman, Pat.”

He turned his head back to me and I placed my gun in its holster at the small of my back for fear I'd use it.

”Wes.”

”Yeah, Pat?”

”Don't call me Pat.”

”Oh.” He nodded. ”Found a sore spot. Always interesting. People, you know, you can never be sure where their weaknesses lie until you prod a bit.”

”It's not a weakness, it's a preference.”

”Sure.” His eyes glittered. ”You keep telling yourself that, Pat, er, rick.”

I chuckled in spite of myself. The guy didn't quit.

A traffic helicopter from one of the news stations flew over us and then made an arc over the expressway as the crush of rush hour began to swell on the elevated girders to my left.

”I really hate women,” Wesley said evenly, his eyes following the path of the helicopter. ”As a species, intellectually, I find them...” He shrugged ”...silly. But physically”-he smiled, rolled his eyes-”Christ, it's all I can do to keep from genuflecting when a really gorgeous one walks by. Interesting paradox, don't you think?”

”No,” I said. ”You're a misogynist, Wesley.”

He chuckled. ”You mean like Cody Falk?” He clucked his tongue. ”You couldn't get me out of bed for rape. It's pedestrian.”

”You'd prefer to reduce people to sh.e.l.ls, that it?”

He raised an eyebrow.