"Well, I didn't know I would be needing it." I scooted my chair forward. Gorman may not be Mr. Personality but maybe he could help me make sense of some things. All I had to lose was my dignity, and that was going pretty cheap these days. "I'm a writer. I write murder mysteries."

"Uh-huh."

"This last Thursday, the same day that woman Susan Lee was killed, I received five prank phone calls. The caller didn't say anything-there was just silence and a click."

"Any calls since Thursday?"

"No."

"Uh-huh." I noticed that this time Gorman didn't write anything down. He probably found my account so riveting that he knew he'd never forget it.

"So, that same night I came home from an art opening at Sussman Gallery and I found a broken glass."

"A broken glass?"

"Yes, a broken glass on my kitchen floor."

"Any idea how it broke?"

"Well...I do have a cat."

"Uh-huh."

"But the thing is, the glass was in the middle of the floor. I don't have a big kitchen, but it would be hard for Mr. Katz to knock a glass that far off the kitchen counter."

"Mr. Katz?"

"My cat."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, so here comes the really weird part. In my second novel, Sex, Drugs and Murder, my protagonist, Alicia Bright, well, she sometimes gets prank phone calls and in one scene she comes home and finds...a broken glass!" I sat back in my chair and waited for Officer Gorman to react.

"Uh-huh."

Not the reaction I was looking for. "Okay, I know, glasses break all the time, right? That's why I decided not to call the police."

"Good decision."

"But now there's the car thing. In my book, Alicia Bright's roommate's car is vandalized in almost exactly the same way mine was. You see, the bad guy, Jeremy Spaulding, knows that Alicia's roommate, Kittie, has a cassette tape that could prove that his father was involved in a political scandal. Kittie's father produced X-rated films, so she had all these contacts to the pornography underworld."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, that's probably not all that relevant. Besides, you could always read the book, right?"

Officer Gorman just stared at me. Apparently that one wasn't even worth an "uh-huh."

"The point is..." The point. What was my point again? "Oh, yes. The point is that things are happening to me that happened in my book. I am living Sex, Drugs and Murder!"

This time it was Officer Gorman's turn to sit back in his chair. He put his fingers together steeple-style, furrowed his brow and was silent for what seemed like an hour. Finally, he looked up and made eye contact. I knew he had formed his theory. He leaned forward and I did the same. I could feel my heartbeats increasing in speed.

"You sure you don't do drugs?"

CHAPTER 6.

"Before she met him she had assumed that being sexy and obnoxious were mutually exclusive traits."

-Sex, Drugs and Murder Feeling frustrated and embarrassed, I waited for Anatoly on the steps of his building. It figured that it took me less time to walk back to Anatoly's than it did for him to find a parking spot. After the exchange with the police, I had no intention of telling him about the similarities between the vandalism to my car and the one in Sex, Drugs and Murder. I was probably just being paranoid. But still, the slashing of the upholstery, even the spare tire... I rested my head in my hands. I needed Advil. Or a Bloody Mary. Maybe both. And to make everything worse I was wearing black and I had no makeup on. If I was going to be a damsel in distress I could at least be an attractive damsel-not some washed-out, big-haired bimbo.

"Are you okay?"

As usual I hadn't heard Anatoly coming. "Where'd you park?"

"Up by Grace Cathedral."

"That's eight blocks from here."

"You really need to get a garage."

I put my head back in my hands. "My head hurts. I need a drink."

"I wasn't aware that alcohol cures headaches."

"Don't mess with me, Anatoly, I'm in a bad mood. My car was trashed, the police officer I reported it to thinks I'm on crack, and I'm not wearing any lipstick!"

Anatoly looked perplexed, but he waved it off and knelt down beside me. "I won't pretend to understand the lipstick part but I do understand the rest. Leave a message with your insurance company and deal with everything else on Monday. For now, let's go get a beer...."

"I want a Bloody Mary."

"All right, a Bloody Mary..."

"And some Advil."

"Right. We'll go find a bar that serves Bloody Marys, nonprescription pain relievers and cosmetics, and we'll start over. How does that work for you?"

I smiled for the first time in over two hours and pulled myself out of my hunchback position. "Well, it would probably make more sense for me to make a quick run to my apartment for the Advil and the lipstick, but you're on the right track. There is still one problem, though."

"What's that?"

"Unless you bought a car since I last saw you, we have a conspicuous lack of transportation."

"Ah, now there you are mistaken. I don't have a car yet, but I do have a bike."

"A bike? Like...a bicycle?"

Anatoly clenched his teeth. "No, a bike like a motorcycle. I own a Harley."

I shot to my feet. "A Harley? You bought a Harley?"

"I didn't steal it."

"Wow." I looked around before spotting it across the street. "Is that it?"

"That's it. And I have two helmets. I'll go get them."

I crossed over to the bike to get a better look. I had never ridden one before, nor could I picture Anatoly on one. People who rode Harleys had long beards and wore all kinds of bizarre-looking leather stuff. Anatoly didn't even have stubble.

He came up behind me and handed me a helmet. "Ready?"

"When you buy a Harley, don't you have to join a biker club or something?"

"You mean like the Hell's Angels?"

"I guess. I don't know. I just assumed guys who drive Harleys are in some sort of club."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you but I'm not in a club. Are you going to put your helmet on?"

"Hey, these are real helmets!"

Anatoly muttered something in Russian.

"What, no little beanie caps for you?" I watched as he put on his helmet. "What if I get helmet hair?"

Anatoly put down the face visor, straddled his bike and revved it up, so I decided to be obliging and climbed on as well. The second I wrapped my arms around his chest, the incident with my car was pushed from my mind. It's hard to be aloof when your nipples are smashed up against the broad back of some guy giving you a lift on his Harley.

"Okay, we're going to stop by your apartment so you can get the things you need, and then where?" he called back to me through his helmet.

"Then we head toward North Beach." My breath caught as he revved the engine again. He maneuvered the bike away from the curb, and I felt the pressure of the wind as we accelerated. Anatoly's body leaned to the left as he turned the bike toward my apartment. It was as if he was an extension of this incredibly powerful machine. No, that was wrong. It was like the powerful machine was an extension of him.

Anatoly knew his way around enough to get to North Beach. He easily parked the Harley (a major advantage of owning a bike), and I brought him to the bar of a trendy little restaurant.

I surveyed the patrons. Was there anyone suspicious around? Anyone who showed more of an interest in us than was appropriate? Anyone who looked like they just finished ripping up an Acura? We pulled a couple of bar stools up to a table. I hesitated, feeling uncomfortable about sitting with my back to the window. This was so ridiculous. Who did I think I was? Malcolm X? I was here to have a good time and distract myself. I let my eyes quickly run over Anatoly's physique while he was busy checking out the restaurant. Distraction accomplished.

"Nice place." He gave me one of those little half smiles that made my tummy get all tingly. "You look nice too. In fact, you look like you're feeling a little better."

"That's because I'm wearing lipstick."

"That's why you look nice or that's why you're feeling better?"

"Both."

"I have nothing against lipstick, but you don't need it. A woman whose lips are as naturally full and pink as yours should know that she doesn't have to do anything artificial to make them enticing."

"What can I get you two?"

"Huh?" I could barely hear the cocktail waitress and I certainly couldn't see her. All I could see were Anatoly's dark brown eyes looking at my lips.

"What would you like to drink?"

I stared at her for a moment and tried to focus on her question. "To drink, right-what do I want to drink?" The waitress tapped her pencil against the pad. Maybe I should order a beer instead of a Bloody Mary. I wouldn't want Anatoly to think I was a hard-core drinker. Better to make restraint the strategy of the day. I could do it. I was strong. "I'll have a Corona."

Anatoly's forehead creased. "I thought you wanted a Bloody Mary."

"Okay, a Bloody Mary."

He laughed softly. "I'll have a Pacifico."

Oh great, now he thinks I'm a lush. Well, I couldn't take the order back now. Of course, after drinking the Bloody Mary, ordering one would seem like less of a big deal. That was the new strategy. If I couldn't make the impression I wanted, then I would just drink enough so that I didn't give a damn.

"Sooo..." I searched for something to say; I was feeling very self-conscious about my mouth. "Why did you leave New York?"

Anatoly shrugged. "It was time for a change. I'd visited San Francisco a few times before and liked it. Interesting mix of people."

"Have you been anywhere else on the West Coast?"

"Just L.A. I had a friend down there."

"Had a friend?"

"Yeah, he moved up north."

"Anywhere around here?"

"No, nowhere near here."

The drinks arrived. The waitress put mine down without even looking at me and then presented Anatoly with his like she was making a sacred offering. "Here's your Pacifico."

"Thanks, that will be all for now." I used a volume a notch above what was appropriate.

She went off to harass some other unsuspecting couple.

"Now, what were we talking about?" Anatoly took a swig of beer. "Ah, yes, why I moved to San Francisco."

"What?" I was watching our waitress, who was now at the bar. I was pretty sure that I could see brown roots.

"We were talking about my move."

"Right. I mean wrong. We were talking about your friend. Where'd he move to?"

"My mistake." He looked past me to the pedestrians pushing past one another on the other side of the window. "I lost contact with him a while ago. I'm not exactly sure where he is right now."