Coyote Hills

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Regina Klein called.

“Buy me lunch,” she said.

“Good to hear from you,” I said.

“There’s an Ethiopian place near my office.”

“Doing well, thanks for asking.”

“Spicy, but they’ll tone it down for you.”

“Kids are great, thanks,” I said. “How about yourself?”

“I’m texting you the address. Meet me at noon.”

“Regina. I’m busy. I can’t just pick up and drive to Santa Cruz in the middle of the day.”

“Need I remind you,” she said, “I almost died for you.”

“Nice try. You acted of your own free will.”

“Busy with what?”

“Embezzlement case.”

“Fuck that,” she said. “Mine’s better. There’s a body.”

I drove to Santa Cruz.

The restaurant, Lulit’s, was on Soquel Avenue adjacent to a Brazilian jiujitsu studio. Grunts and thuds vibrated through the shared wall.

Regina is five-one, I’m six-three. She rose on tiptoes to hug me; I bent down to meet her. Button-cute and a chameleon. Perfect for snaring the gullible.

She was wearing a silver silk blouse over black gabardine slacks, which on her gave the look of a kid playing dress-up. She’d corralled her wild dark hair into a bun, ditched the Keds for ballet flats, subbed out her gigantic horn-rimmed glasses for an understated rimless pair. Just enough makeup.

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