Limits of Justice, The by John Morgan Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

whimpering, Maurice reached down and picked her up to quiet her.
    “I expect I’ll be making a trip to the pet store. These little pedigrees are notoriously picky eaters, especially if they’ve been spoiled.”
    “I have a feeling this one has.”
    Frown lines formed on Maurice’s smooth old face.
    “You say Mei-Ling’s mommy made her transition last night?”
    “She may have had some help crossing the threshold.”
    I filled him in on my odd, brief relationship with Charlotte Preston.
    “Oh, my, not another murder. You seem to have a knack for sniffing them out, don’t you, Benjamin?”
    “It’s a gift, I guess.”
     
    *
     
    After a shower and change of clothes, I called downtown to Parker Center and left a message for the detective who had questioned me the previous evening. I alerted him to the fact that I had Charlotte Preston’s dog by mistake, and asked him to send someone to pick her up as soon as it was convenient, though preferably sooner. After that I went out front to stand on the curb and wait for Templeton.
    She zipped up a few minutes later in her new Cabriolet, with the top down and her sound system offering up a ballad delivered in a deep, elegant voice that could only belong to the late Joe Williams. The roiling clouds and gusty winds from the night before were gone, and we sped off into a bright, cloudless Sunday morning with a slight breeze tempering the air. The Porsche was engineered for high compression and fine-tuned like a good race car, and Templeton knew how to drive it, letting the engine wind up tight to get some torque before she shifted, keeping the pedal down and the car moving at a good clip. We hummed along in a southeasterly direction by way of San Vicente Boulevard until we reached Crenshaw Boulevard, where we hung a right and headed into the largely black Crenshaw district. Most of the residents seemed to be in church or home sleeping off the excesses of the night before, because the streets were largely clear of traffic.
    Worried that Fred would soon tire of Mei-Ling, I spent the time trying to convince Templeton that she and the dog were perfect for each other.
    “You can put her on the couch in your fancy condo like a new throw pillow. All you have to do is fluff her up and rearrange her once in a while.”
    “She sounds adorable, Benjamin. But she’s just been through a terrible trauma. She needs lots of attention. I’m putting in sixty hours a week with the new job. It wouldn’t be fair to neglect her like that.”
    “Maybe your new boyfriend can take her.”
    We’d reached a red light at Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and Templeton glanced over with a look I didn’t like.
    “I suppose I should have told you before.”
    “Told me what?”
    “The man we’re meeting for lunch isn’t exactly my boyfriend.”
    “What exactly is he?”
    “Promise you won’t get mad.”
    “Only with my fingers crossed.”
    “We’re meeting Oree.”
    The name was like ice water thrown in my face.
    “Oree Joffrien?”
    Templeton nodded and looked quickly away as the light turned green, then pulled the Porsche out. I waited to speak until she’d shifted into third so she could hear me over the whine of the gear box.
    “You tricked me, Templeton. You lied.”
    “I did nothing of the sort.”
    “You told me we were having lunch with someone you’ve been seeing.”
    “I have been seeing Oree. We’re just not dating, in the usual sense.”
    Oree Joffrien was a UCLA anthropology professor Templeton had introduced me to the previous year when my life had been more intact and promising. It had been Oree who’d helped me get a job writing my first TV documentary, an hour episode on the bareback sex issue that PBS had deemed too controversial to air. We’d shared a chaste but flirtatious relationship before I’d tested positive for the virus and turned from Oree to Jose Cuervo for solace. Oree had offered to be there for me when I’d needed him most, and I owed him an