Dead Sexy, Page 3

  Chapter 3

  The sirens were definitely getting closer as Spense dragged me toward the screen of shrubs I had thrown myself over. When we reached a point where we wouldn’t be seen from the back windows, Spense broke out into a dead sprint, still dragging me along by a fistful of t-shirt. We burst through the gate and into the front yard just in time to see a uniformed LAPD officer leaning on his car door, reporting into a radio that “Everything looked normal.”

  Apparently, it is a bad idea to startle the brave men and women of the Los Angeles Police Department in the pursuit of their duties. The next thing I knew Spense and I were on the ground with our hands behind our heads while the cop and his partner trained guns on us. I couldn’t focus enough on anything other than Marilyn to be frightened for myself or, trust me, I would have been plenty frightened for myself. I’ve never seen anyone pointing a gun in real life—much less pointing one at me.

  “Officer,” I panted, on the verge of hyperventilating in panic. “There’s been a crime. My—”

  “You don’t say. We just got a call from someone in the neighborhood that two white males were trespassing on Dr. Chatsworth’s estate.”

  “No, not that crime,” put in Spense. “We saw a man inside the house—through the window. It looked like he assaulted someone—”

  “—My wife!” I interjected. “It was my wife.”

  “Hey. We don’t know that, buddy,” Spense said soothingly. I think he was going to try to pat me on the shoulder, but the cop barked out, “Don’t move, Scumbag!” So he didn’t.

  I had to convince him that we weren’t the criminals, or the only criminals here. “Her car! It’s in the driveway. She went in there. A red Ford Escort. The back bumper is missing and the right sideview mirror is duct taped on. Please,” I begged. “Just check. Please.”

  I don’t know if it was because I sounded so desperate or because she was obligated to investigate a potential crime, but she told her partner, “Let’s cuff these two, and then we’ll go check it out.”

  “I could’ve sworn there weren’t any cars in the drive besides that silver Jag,” the other one said.

  “Well, we’ll check it out. What is your wife’s name?” the one cop asked while she clicked handcuffs on my wrists.

  “Marilyn—Marilyn Archer. She’s about 5’10”. Blond hair. I think she’s wearing yoga pants.”

  Did you know that the backseat of a police cruiser doesn’t have handles on the door? And it is really hard to move while your hands are handcuffed behind your back. I was twisting around trying to see anything, nearly taking out Spense with an elbow. Because he was on the side closest to the house, I had to crawl over him.

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry,” I apologized.

  “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Dude. You’re soaking wet.”

  “Sorry! They’re talking to someone! I can’t tell if it’s the guy we saw. He looks—smarmy.”

  “Smarmy?”

  “Yeah, like an evil businessman in a 1950s situational comedy—the cops are laughing!”

  I wanted to know what was going on. I tried banging my head, the only appendage available, on the window to get their attention, but it didn’t work. And it didn’t help my head either.

  Finally, they shook hands with the smarmy character, and he flashed them an extremely large, very white toothy smile. They walked back to the cruiser and got in. The one who had called Spense a scumbag was chuckling. “That Dr. Chatsworth is such a card!”

  “There wasn’t another car in the driveway,” she addressed me in the rear view mirror. “We walked through the house. No one was there, and there were no signs of a disturbance—besides the one caused by you two in Dr. Chatsworth’s landscaping. He’s been kind enough not to press charges for trespassing or vandalism, so we’re going to let you go this time with just a warning.”

  The cops escorted us to our cars and out of the neighborhood. As soon as we got back to a part of town that I looked like I belonged in, they flashed their lights and sped off around me. I pulled over. I was crazy to make sure that Marilyn was okay.

  I checked, but my phone had not survived the swim in smarmy dude’s pool. Damn.

  I didn’t speed home. I’d already had one run-in with the LAPD tonight. I felt a little better when I saw her car in front of our Glendale condo, but the knot that had formed in my throat didn’t start to loosen until I saw Marilyn herself looking perfectly healthy—looking amazing actually—sitting calmly cross-legged on the couch in her yoga pants.

  After falling all over my wife and telling her how much she meant to me and how beautiful and wonderful she was, I had to text Spense to let him know that Marilyn was okay.

  me: Marilyn’s here she’s ok

  Spense: Told you so

  Spense (again): Dude, can’t believe you were going to leave your injured wife in some smarmy dude’s house

  Some days you just can’t win.