Chapter Three---Do You Like Jazz?

She had an odd memory. It was the last time she and her brother had had a quiet drink together, in his house, on a rare night off. They were going to go over to their father's house, together. Ray was telling her about a woman he was seeing, a teacher, with a certain air about her that he liked. She was very dry, very much in control of her world around her, and while she didn't have the physical appearance of a supermodel, Ray found her to be incredibly sexual, from her mousy brown hair to her perky breasts and her long, slightly skinny, natural legs.

Normally, Ray was very much a gentleman with the ladies, but he worked too much. It was his flaw. Probably the same flaw that existed in all cops. This woman, however, seemed to be fine with that.

"I feel funny talking about this with you," he said as he refilled her glass. It was a Friday, late, on a rare night off that she had, and she spent it here, relaxing with him. When he wasn't being a nag, he was a really great guy that she totally adored.

"Why?" she asked. "I tell you all my secrets."

He chuckled. "What secrets do you have?"

She hesitated. "Well...I met somebody."

"What?" He set down his beer, favoring it over the harder stuff that she liked to sip at, over long periods of time. "That has a definite sound to it."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to be a detective to figure that out." She rolled the amber alcohol around her glass. "I've known him for a little bit. He's a graduate student. We wind up crossing paths on a regular basis."

"Yeah, go on," he prompted.

"Well...he asked me to cover for him on something, I can't even remember what it was now, and then sent me a thank you note a few weeks later, after we hadn't seen each other in a while. He made some offhand comment about how we hadn't run into each other lately. I sent him back a little note mentioning that I noticed the same, that maybe we should have coffee or something."

"And when are you going to have coffee?"

"Next week, when I have a day off again at the same time he's got one."

"Coordinating your schedules already, huh? I guess that's the real world. Modern romance." She sighed. He noticed. "What's wrong, then?"

"Well, he's a nice guy, I like him. I just don't know how I feel about him."

"You don't have to know. Just let whatever happens...happen."

"I know." She sighed again, looked away.

"But..."

"No, it's silly."

"Tell me. I told you all about my sexy new girlfriend." He watched her carefully, his penetrating detective eyes seeing through her evasiveness. "What, is this back to your childish fantasy again?"

"Everybody's gotta have a dream," she said, sipping an extra large mouthful.

"Swept off your feet, huh?" He laughed. "That could happen, too, when you're not looking for it."

"Come on, Ray. You know me. I have to classic situations. Either I'm more interested in him than he is in me, or he's more interested in me than I am in him. And I can't decide which one I hate more. Although being more interested is certainly more fun."

"You mean more psychotic," he joked. "You know how obsessive you can be. That's why you're going to be a great detective someday, just like me."

"And then I'll be better than you and publish a best-selling novel to top it all off." She had clinked her glass against his.

Callie could hear a clinking noise. She looked down, noticed that there was an aluminum can rolling across the parking lot, to land against the curb.

The snapping of the gas pump shutting off drew her attention back to the present. She pulled it out, capped it off, and placed the pump back in its place.

She looked up. Out across the lot, not more than thirty feet from her, stood Vincent. His back was to her, and he was looking around, not with the kind of nervous intensity he'd previously show, but a calm, long glancing, his lips occasionally parting to reveal his teeth, then closing again.

He shuffled so he was partly facing her. He looked across his shoulder, and his expression was just as cold as before.

He'd been angry when he'd stopped her. He reached across and yanked out the key from the ignition, then reached down and unlocked the back door for himself. He climbed in, leaving her bag of fares abandoned in the middle of that alley, and angrily tossed her keys at her, letting them land painfully against her thigh.

"Drive," he ordered.

He made her stop at this gas station, threw a twenty at her and told her to fill up the tank. Then he'd walked away, and had been standing there ever since. This was the first acknowledgement he'd made of her presence since.

"You do anything like that again, and you might get very badly hurt," he said. His voice was loud enough for her to hear it, but not so loud that it attracted attention. Besides, it was past ten o'clock at night, there weren't too many people around. She wished she had a watch so she could see the exact time. She'd been too afraid that Vincent was going to make her pull over and shoot her in the back of the head before to worry about it then.

"Do you understand?" he snapped, a bit harsher.

She nodded, thoroughly chastened.

"Yeah?" He nodded himself, his expression stiffening. Either he was trying to cool off, or he was attempting to lighten himself up. "Well...new news, then." He clapped his hands, and it made her jump a little, as she wasn't expecting it. "You like Jazz?"

"Jazz?" she echoed.

"Jazz, do you like Jazz?" He was stepping closer to her. She turned a little, confused. The closer he got, the more relaxed he became.

"It's...okay. I listen to the jazz stations every now and again."

He looked away. "Well, there's this place I heard about. All the greats played there, Charlie Mengis, Chad Baker..." He gave her a little smile, and she could have sworn it was mildly apologetic. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

She shook herself, feeling like she'd slipped into a stupor and was imaging all of this. "I'm sorry?"

"A drink, you know?" He got closer to her. "Come on, Callie, there really isn't any reason for there to be hard feelings between us. We had a misunderstanding before, that's all."

She glanced at the windshield of her car. Some misunderstanding. He seemed to catch her meaning.

"Come on, nothing's done that can't be undone." His smile widened. "Maybe they'll have dancing. You like to dance?"

She grunted, in the back of her throat. "Yeah, I guess," she said softly. He handed her they keys to the cab again.

"Come on, let's go."

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So what he'd really meant, she gathered later, was that she hadn't yet seen anything that could make her a liability. Sure, she saw him shoot two punks who threatened their lives. Sure, they'd done a bad thing by not calling the cops and removing bodies from a crime scene, but that was small potatoes for him, she was sure.

It was hard to believe, but as she drove to the jazz club, she was sure of it. She was driving a real live hit man.

She had always known that such things existed, although they seemed more myth than reality. She saw a TV movie once that starred Tim Matheson, who played a hit man who, instead of shooting the woman he was contracted to kill by her husband, had instead made a deal with her to put her husband in jail and let her go free. Turned out that he had a serious soft spot for her, could have potentially been in love with her, if the movie had been willing to go that far out. Instead, it realistically - in as much as a television movie could - portrayed the twists and turns of trying to set everything up to protect everyone and actually get the husband arrested. They had succeeded, but all was not happily ever after. The hit man wound up serving some time in jail, the husband was paroled early, and the woman had to change her and her children's identities so she could have some peace. Supposedly it was based on a real life story. Probably explained the "real" aspects of it.

Tim Matheson's hit man hadn't been anything like Vincent. Matheson had been a scruffy looking teddy bear, smart but small-time, and ultimately, lonely and pathetic. Vincent was sleek, well oiled, a machine. And he was...strangely charming.

In an anti-social kind of way.

It took a good while to get to Leimert Park, at least forty-five minutes. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he attempted to make conversation with her, but she was a bit too shaken up to really respond.

"What else do you listen to, besides jazz?" he asked her.

"My favorite station is..." she trailed off, knowing he wouldn't know it. "They play a wide variety. Popular music."

"Huh. Never cared much for it myself, but I guess it's called popular music for a reason. Any particular favorites?"

"Barenaked Ladies," she answered, turning a corner. "Vanessa Carlton, Smashmouth, Black Eyed Peas, you name it. A little of everything."

"Any else?"

"Some new wave stuff. Sarah Brightman, Enya." She struggled to concentrate on driving. Only now that she realized what she was dealing with did all the other things come snapping into place.

She'd been much more attracted to him initially than she'd thought. The disappointment that he was what he was, it was much more potent than she'd imagined. It was like a deep hole had been opened inside her, the kind of raw sorrow that only comes in dreams, emotion in its pure form.

She shook herself. She was getting dizzy, sentimental, and worst of all, unwound. Her brain was just going through reflexes in its attempts to defend itself against the reality of the situation. She was, bottom line, a hostage. She could not walk away at any time. As nice as he was being about it, she was his prisoner and he would not let her go.

The next question became, would he ever? The feelings of helplessness, of being trapped, squirmed into her stomach and made her feel like there was a vortex inside her, sucking away all the hope, all the light, every drop of happiness she'd ever known. She attempted to step outside of herself, examine her feelings, but the doors were locked and she was trapped inside.

What if this was her last night on Earth? What if he was going to kill her in the end? She shook her head, feeling her eyelids starting to flutter. She couldn't panic, she couldn't get upset. He was taking her to a club. He was going to buy her a drink. He talked about dancing. She could play pretend. Pretend it was a date with a handsome guy.

A handsome guy who killed people for a living.

No, she didn't know that yet. Although her brain kept replaying, again and again, his motions in the alley, the lightning reflexes, the cold, detached expression he had when he walked away from that kid, shooting him in the skull as he went.

She had done enough profiles. She had gone to enough classes. She knew what the hell she had in her cab. But she dared not say a thing. Maybe if he thought he'd convinced her that he was harmless - or at least not a legal threat - he would let her go when it was all over.

She drew a shuddering breath. He was rambling about jazz, about the different artists, and he seemed to have realized somewhere that she wasn't listening to him anymore.

"Hello?" he called, gently, leaning forward. She jumped a little, shaking herself again. "You okay?"

She nodded.

He cocked his head. "You're not very convincing. It's stress, though, just stress. Are you breathing?"

"Yes," she said, a bit more tersely than she thought herself capable of at that moment.

"Look, if it makes you feel any better," he said, knowing where her mind was without her saying a word, "those two were criminals. Engaged in continuing criminal activity. We did the world a favor, you know. Any cop, including your brother, would have done the same in that situation."

Surprisingly, the words had their desired affect. Ray would have done exactly that. Her fingers itched. She wanted so badly to talk to him. She had never wanted him more in her life.

"When this is over," Vincent went on, and she heard the faint tapping of his pointer on the screen, "you can call him, tell him everything. Make yourself happy. But tonight your job is to be my driver, and until that job is done, you stay with me and do what I say." There was a hint, just a hint, of force behind his words. Anybody else would have used a lot more, but Vincent didn't need to.

"Yeah," she replied, swallowing to moisten her drying throat. "Yeah."

"You still breathing?"

"That's the plan," she said, focusing on the road.

"In the meantime, there's no reason in the world that this can't be a pleasant evening." She glanced up at him, and he was faintly smiling at her again. She felt a chill when she realized that her attraction to him might be mutual. The thought was terrifying. Utterly so.

"Yeah," she said, unable to find another word. Then, "I guess."

"You'll like this place, it's a piece of city history." He trailed off, and let out a small sigh when he noticed that her expression hadn't changed, her shoulders hadn't unclenched. He was very good at body language, and she was coiled to jump, secretly wishing that the driver's seat was actually an ejection seat in disguise. "You know, I didn't mean for that to happen. It was never a part of the plan."

She didn't say anything.

"But you know, shit happens," he said. "And we have to just roll with it, go with the flow." His eyes were brighter, staring her down in the rearview. "Right?"

"Right."

"I mean, nothing ever goes exactly the way you planned it. I'm sure your brother could tell you stories. I'm sure you have stories of your own, you've lived here long enough. You've studied Darwin, right? E-Ching?"

She blinked. "Are you trying to talk me down?" she asked, her voice faint.

"I'm sorry?"

She stared up at him, stopped at a red light. It was amazing. She'd expected a lot of things from meeting a criminal personality, but this guy actually seemed to think he was right, and wanted her to think so, too.

Sociopath, her criminology-mind told her. That's what sociopaths were like. They weren't psychotic, they simply saw the world a particular way, and didn't understand why others didn't see it the same.

Sociopathic and anit-social. His earlier comments about society had to be a clue. If she really wanted to live through this night, she was going to have to play along.

Thoughts of Patty Hurst and Stockholm syndrome danced in her head, but she managed to really calm herself down, think soothing thoughts, let herself focus on the more pleasant aspects of the situation. When they reached the club and she parked, he paid the fee, and they got out together.

"Wait," he said as she closed the driver's side door. He looked down at her pantleg. "That punk ruined your jeans."

She'd nearly forgotten. She was so focused on keeping her body calm, however, that her mouth had quite lost its ability to form words.

He reached out, gently pulled away the leather jacket she was wearing. "You've got a sweater on underneath," he said. "Take it off."

She took off the leather coat. He held out his hand for it. She removed the sweater.

"Tie it around your waist," he said.

She obeyed, letting the longer part cover the wide smear of blood on her upper thigh. When she looked up, she caught him looking at her, and realized that she was wearing a thin, satiny tank top underneath everything, fitted and cut around her waist and breasts, but high enough not to show any bared cleavage. He seemed to approve.

"Good, put this back on."

She took it back, slipped it back on. It looked nice without the bulk of the sweater underneath.

"Okay, that will work. But one more thing." He reached up and removed her had, tossing it inside the cab through the broken window. Then he crooked his fingers for her to step closer to him, which she did, hesitantly. He gently turned her around, and she felt his fingers at the end of her long braid.

"Hey," she managed.

"Sorry," he said, "but the night's taken its toll on your hairdo." He took off the band and pulled the locks apart gently, until her hair in all its streaked glory lay across her shoulders, spreading across her back. She felt his fingertips thread through it, coming close to the nape of her neck. His touch was gentle, caressing. She found herself closing her eyes as it came around again, combing through the locks, smoothing them out. Unconsciously she let out a small sigh of pleasure. She hadn't had her hair brushed for her since her mother was alive.

Then he turned her around, and he was grinning. "Perfect," he said. He took her hand and looped it through his arm. "Let's go."

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The club was dim, but comfortable. There was a round area where tables and chairs and even a few booths were spread out for people to sit and listen to the band, which played on the stage with a wild abandon she hadn't seen in most rock stars. Jazz wasn't like other music.

Vincent seemed utterly delighted by the sight, although how she was able to detect any of his moods was beyond her. But his face definitely changed. It softened, and he smiled, and the tension went out of his shoulders.

"This is my kind of place," he said. Her hand had been resting on his arm the whole way up, and he took it now in his hand, palm to palm, fingers gently enclosing hers.

Something in his touch was different. Before it had been informal and rough, but now she was reminded of the gentleness of his fingers in her hair, and her scalp tingled. He pulled her close to his side, even as he motioned to a host to seat them at a table.

Then she realized that it was a mistake. She was letting herself go soft. She was letting herself sympathize with him, allowing her natural, physical attraction to him blind her to everything else. She was letting him totally charm her.

She had to get away.

She wiggled her fingers in his grip, noticed that his hold tightened ever slightly. "Vincent," she said, low enough for only him to hear.

"What?" he asked, turning to her, raising his eyebrows, all innocence.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she said. It was lame, but she squeezed her thighs together for emphasis. She looked embarrassed, and genuinely was, as it was unlikely she would be able to make a movie-like escape through a bathroom window.

There wasn't anything getting past him. He calmly walked her toward the sign that said, in red neon, "RESTROOMS," and led her down the hallway. It was a single seater, no windows, which he allowed her to enter without protest. She went in, attempted to go in case she really did need to, and the tension of the evening was just making her ignore it, and saw that her hair didn't look half bad, even though it had spent a good part of the day smashed under that hat.

When she came out, Vincent was waiting for her at the end of the hallway, and she caught a small smile on his face, maybe of appreciation, maybe of triumph, she couldn't tell. He led her to their table, in the middle of the floor, wide open, hardly any people there, but it was a weeknight and people did have jobs.

She wasn't too familiar with all the different artists, but there were pictures and names on the walls. Vincent let his hand rest lightly on hers as the music changed from a more quick pace to a slower one, lazier. He glanced around, as if he meant his earlier offer about dancing. When the waitress came to take their order, he kept his very simple - seltzer water with a lime. She, however, felt the terrible craving for a simple shot of bourbon on the rocks. She made herself drink it slow, not wanting to buzz herself, but knowing that that was the real reason she'd wanted it. Vincent asked her if she wanted another, and she declined.

They didn't talk much during the evening. Vincent was totally absorbed in the band. There was a childlike delight on his face, bright and glowing.

When she finished her bourbon, which didn't take as long as she'd hoped, she found herself wanting to talk. Just watching him, getting comfortable with him, it went against her instincts. She was having a silent argument with herself and was desperate to do anything to shut herself up.

"I've been trying to learn to listen to jazz," she muttered.

"It's off melody, behind the notes. Improvised. Just like tonight." He flashed his eyes at her, a smile lingering his face but not reaching his lips. He leaned forward on his arms, eyes trailing back to the band as he got a little closer to her. "Everybody always plays it so safe. Same job, same house, same people, everything the same, same, same. Ten years from now...hell, you don't know where you'll be ten minutes from now...do you?"

He had turned his head completely to her now, pinning her in place. She grunted, looked away, annoyed. The cute-boy act didn't seem to work as well with a bit of alcohol in her.

Vincent leaned back, his hand going out. It took her a second to realize he was stopping the waitress.

"Who is that, on the trumpet?" he asked, his voice still soft in the noisy room, carrying perfectly.

"That's Daniel, baby, he's the owner," the woman replied, the tone all hip, mingled with modern-day L.A.

Vincent reached down, pulled out some money from his pocket. "Well, he's fantastic. Can you ask him to join us? I gotta buy him a drink." He put the money on the small tray she supported against her hip.

"Sure thing, baby," the woman said.

"And bring us another bourbon on the rocks," he added before she walked away. Callie tossed him a look. He was grinning at her.