Guardian of Lies by Steve Martini Read Free Book Online

of her finger.
    We talked for a while. She told me about her friend and his business selling rare coins, that he often took her shopping. While she enjoyed this, she was getting tired of it now and missed her family. Then she turned the tables and started her own inquisition.
    In ten minutes’ time she learned more about me than some of my friends who have known me for years. She was a Latin litany of questions, where I lived, what I was doing in Del Mar, whether I was married. This as she checked my finger for a ring. When I told her I was widowed, she said she was sorry, and before she could take a breath asked if I had any children.
    She was not shy. Still, there was a kind of charm in the innocence of it, as all these questions seemed to come naturally to her, like water from a fountain.
    “I have one daughter,” I told her.
    “How old?”
    “She’s in college, and if I had to guess, I’d say maybe just a few years younger than you.”
    “So you think I am young?”
    “Like most things in life, age is relative. You are certainly younger than me.”
    “Why are American men all like this?” She cradled the coffee in both hands and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t understand. Why do they say I am young and they are old?”
    “Maybe because it’s true.”
    “Who cares? Makes no difference,” she said. “How old do you think I am?”
    “No. No. I don’t play that game.”
    “What game?” she said. She looked at me as if she didn’t understand.
    “In this country, guessing a woman’s age is a good way to get in trouble,” I told her.
    She laughed. “Nooo. I won’t be angry. Please.” Before I realize, she’s reached across the table and brushed the back of my hand with the long nails of two fingers. “Tell me.”
    Like a man who has lost a leg, the sensation of her fingernails on the back of my hand seemed to linger long after she had withdrawn her hand from mine.
    “Tell meee.” She smiled and gave me a sideways glance, the full two-dimple show, coquette.
    “How would I know?”
    “Make a guess.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Come on.” She put the cup down and grabbed my hand with both of hers. She wasn’t taking no for an answer.
    “Let me see. Twelve.”
    She gave me a look as if she might slap me. So I looked at her closely. She turned her face, first one side and then the other.
    “Hmm. If I have to guess, maybe twenty-two.”
    “Aw, you are not serious.” She pouted a bit.
    “Am I close?”
    “I’m not telling.”
    “No, now you have to tell me.”
    “No.” She looked at me with her big, oval dark eyes. The way she sipped her coffee and looked at me over the top of her cup, the calculating gaze, told me that I had probably underestimated by a few years, but not much.
    “They must have found the fountain of youth in Costa Rica,” I told her.
    She gave me a puzzled look. “Esscuse me?”
    “Never mind.”
    “I know some lawyers in Costa Rica. In San José there are many.” She looked at my business card. “Coronado, where is that?”
    “Down the coast, just a little south of here. It’s across the bay from San Diego.”
    “Ah. And what type of legal work do you do?”
    “Mostly criminal trial work.”
    “Really? That must be interesting. You must be very intelligent to do that.”
    “It has its moments. Sometimes it’s interesting, sometimes it’s stressful, and there are times when it can be boring.”
    “So if I get in trouble, I could call you,” she said.
    “Well, you have my phone number now.”
    “Yes, I do.” She slipped my business card into her purse with the pen.
    We finished our coffee. I had to run to catch my friends. We said good-bye. That was nearly two weeks ago.
     
     
     

EIGHT
     
     
    This morning Katia does not look nearly as young or as innocent. The smile is gone, as is the twinkle in her eyes. But even without makeup, and missing a solid night’s sleep in the women’s lockup of the county jail for the better part of three days,