Dating Dead Men by Harley Jane Kozak Read Free Book Online

always told my brother and me we were allergic to things with fur.”
    â€œSmart mother.”
    I looked over and caught the tail end of a smile. The dimple again. And a good profile. Strong nose. He pointed out the window to a gas station just short of the freeway entrance. “There. Pull in.”
    â€œNo need,” I said, and stepped on the gas. “We have half a tank.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    W OULD THINGS HAVE gone differently if I hadn't had to pee?
    North of Thousand Oaks sat a good-sized mall, dark except for a corner facing the freeway, featuring the Donut Stop (“Fresh—All Day, All Nite!”). I parked in front of a blue neon doughnut and practically leaped from the car.
    Doc got out too. “Throw me the keys, I'll lock up and meet you inside.”
    I stopped. “What do you take me for?”
    â€œLook, I won't drive off. Margaret's gotta pee, then I'll put her back in the car.”
    â€œSo leave it unlocked. She can't open doors, can she?”
    â€œLeave your car unlocked?” He sounded shocked.
    â€œIt's a sixteen-year-old Rabbit with a defective CD joint,” I said and ran inside.
    The bathroom at the Donut Stop doubled as the supply closet for industrial doughnut making. From the toilet I stared at multi- gallon–sized cans marked “blueberry filling” and wondered what the chances were that Doc was actually waiting for me, as opposed to hot-wiring the car. Just in case, I squandered a full minute in front of the mirror to see if my appearance could be improved. It couldn't. I looked tall, tired, and tense.
    When I emerged from the bathroom, Doc was at a window table, reading the paper. A warm holiday feeling engulfed me, at being in a well-lit, well-heated place redolent of brewing coffee and rising dough. Where a man like that sat waiting for me.
    The scrub cap was gone. I'd hoped for a little baldness, something to reduce him to mere mortal status, but he had a full head of hair, black and wavy. Whole wigs could be made from its excess. I sat opposite him.
    Without looking up from the
L.A. Times
, he tapped a well-stocked plastic plate. “Crullers. Chocolate éclairs. Glazed.” He handed me a napkin.
    â€œYou're awfully well brought up for a kidnapper,” I said.
    He acknowledged that with a smile, but kept reading. He'd already put away a doughnut or two, judging from the powdered sugar dotting his five o'clock shadow. One of those men who has a five o'clock shadow six minutes after shaving, I decided. He looked like he'd been up since the seventies. He looked ravaged. He looked good.
    He took the paper and ripped out a piece of the page he was reading, then tossed the rest onto a pile on the adjoining table. “Okay, Wollie, plan B: I borrow your car, give you money for a cab, and later, you tell the police—”
    â€œShh.” I nodded toward the counter, where a husky red-faced trucker type fortified himself for the return to the convoy. “We'll talk in the car.”
    â€œYou're not listening.”
    â€œI've already taken a cab tonight; one's my limit.” I broke off a piece of cruller and put it on my napkin. “My best offer: you drop me in Hollywood, you can have the Rabbit.” There were four coffees in front of him. I opened one and added a drop of half-and-half from a tiny plastic container.
    He opened a second coffee, threw in five packets of sugar, and stirred violently. His black hair and unshaven face brought to mind the Middle East: one of the Apostles, on a coffee break. He looked out the window. I did too. The Rabbit was the only vehicle in sight. Margaret stretched out on the dashboard, looking back at us.
    He spoke quietly. “Look, I'm trying to limit your involvement here. Why are you making it so hard?”
    â€œStockholm syndrome.”
    He stopped stirring. “I'm serious.”
    â€œYou think I'm not? There are dead bodies in the road and killers