Episode 9

It seemed that Don had something in common with his eighteenth-century ancestor. At the age of 36, in 1761, Giacomo fell in love with Leonilda, the seventeen-year-old mistress of the Duke of Matalone, and wanted to marry her. Soon afterward, he discovered from her mother, Donna Lucrezia—a former lover—that Leonilda was his daughter. Even though he didn’t marry his daughter, it didn’t stop him from sleeping with both mother and daughter at the same time.

Don’s problem with women who enjoyed sex as much as he did was that he kept going back for more—a weakness he was convinced he’d inherited from Giacomo.

It was easy to conclude that keeping Cut somewhere else was the only way to get back to a life of sexual sobriety. His close friend, Mandy, a leggy cocktail waitress at the club and one of the few women he was attracted to whom he’d never had sex with,  was the perfect person to take Cut from his lusty hands.

Leaving Cut sleeping, he drove to the club thinking of ways he could convince Mandy to let Cut live with her, but images of a nude Cut still sleeping in his bed kept sabotaging his plans. In fact, concentrating on anything was a challenge, and he almost had an accident on Interstate 90 when traffic suddenly came to a quick stop.

When he arrived at the Aphrodisiac Academe, a half-dozen cars sat in the parking lot, along with three police cars and a van from the coroner’s office. The police lieutenant waiting for him was a woman who cut her hair like a man, wore men’s clothing, walked like a man and had a look in her eyes that said she regretted that she couldn’t fuck like a man.

She introduced herself as Jane Eyre Patton, and Don wondered if her parents had cursed her with the name of the famous fictional character.

“You look like you’re Irish,” he said. She had piercing blue eyes and natural blond hair. She also had the shoulders of a linebacker and a face that would have been beautiful, if not for the dry, leathery skin. She was probably ten years younger than she looked.

“Call me Eyre.” She held out a hand with skin that felt like an emery board. When they shook, she started to squeeze, and Don realized this was a macho contest to see who had the stronger grip. When he squeezed back, the lines radiating from her eyes deepened. When Don eventually relaxed his grip, she let go first. Her hand, which was swollen and red, went behind her back.

“Where do you live, Mr. Casanova?” she asked.

“Call me Don.” He smiled and gave her his address.

She opened a pocket notebook and wrote it all down. “You look like you’re in your early thirties,” she said.

“Almost forty,” he replied.

Her thick, unplucked, unruly eyebrows arched, and the skin on her forehead wrinkled into a spider web of lines that said she didn’t believe him.

“Lieutenant, the club’s chief of security called me at home and said that someone had died, but didn’t say who. He said he’d leave that up to the police. Since you are the police, what happened?”

“I’ll check your date of birth.” She inspected his arms and chest. “What do you press?” she asked. “You look like you lift weights on a regular basis.”

Don glanced past her and noticed that most of the police activity was taking place in the nearby marina where the Aphrodite was moored. He looked past the palm trees to the beach and saw that there weren’t many people on the beach and the boardwalk appeared deserted.

“What do you do when you aren’t working?” she asked.

“I exercise. I hike in the mountains with a few close friends. I like to do things with my hands, and I have another job.” His second job was a secret from his family and most of the people who worked in the club. The only people who knew about his teaching were Ben and Mandy.

“Really,” she said. “Why would you want to work another job? I’m sure you get paid more than enough as the Academe’s maître d’, especially seeing as how you belong to the family that owns about half the property along the local coast.”

“Why the interest?”

“I heard you served in Vietnam. Did you kill anyone over there?”

“I don’t talk about that.” He didn’t like where this was going.

“She ignored him and went on. “I ran a check on you and the other family members who work at the club, and you came up clean. My information says you served three tours in Vietnam from 1969 to 1972 and earned a Purple Heart with a cluster and a Bronze Star. It’s obvious that you keep in good physical shape. After Vietnam, you sort of vanished for a few years before showing up here again. Even your tax records show nothing—no earnings of any kind. Where were you during those missing years after Vietnam?”

“Is this how all cops interrogate suspects?” he asked. Even if he wanted to tell her about those missing years, he couldn’t.

“Who said you were a suspect?”

“I’m really sorry, Don.” It was Veronica, whose arrival offered him a welcome escape from Jane Eyre, but when he turned and saw a face full of concern, his stomach flipped and his fingers and toes tingled. He knew who was dead. He should have figured it out after seeing all the police activity in the marina, but, due to his bedtime marathon with Cut, his mind wasn’t functioning at peak potential.

“You work mornings now?” he asked.

“I’m standing in for Betty. I’m sorry about Jonah.”

He felt the blood drain from his face, which brought on a wave of dizziness and a strong urge to return home to his bed and Cut. Sex always distracted him from reality’s harshness.

Then the guilt arrived like a freight train, heavy and ponderous. The first layer of guilt focused on his wanting to return to Cut for more sex. The second layer was for avoiding Jonah as much as possible since returning from Vietnam. The layers swirled together to create a mix of bitterness that he resented.

Poker-faced, Don turned to Jane Eyre. “Are you married, lieutenant, and why did you become a cop?”

The lieutenant’s eyes appeared to shrink into her skull, and her shoulders stiffened. “What puzzles me,” she said in lieu of a reply, “is what would cause anyone to serve three tours in Vietnam. Are you a violence junky?”

“Why didn’t you tell me my grandfather was dead?” There was a sharp edge to his voice laced with enough pain to garner some sympathy and possibly get this cop off of his back. “I don’t like being played,” he said.

She looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I was just doing my job.” She touched his arm briefly in a pacifying way, and he wanted to jerk away from her.

“If we are done here,” he said, “I want to see him. How did it happen?”

The coroner’s van started its engine, and they all turned to look.

“That will have to wait,” Jane Eyre said, and they watched the van glide by them and leave the parking lot.