“Give us a few minutes, Matéo,” Kylie said.
Without a word, he backed away and eased the door shut with all the grace of an English butler who knows that what happens in the master bedroom stays in the master bedroom.
Kylie sat up, leaned back against the headboard, and drilled her eyes into mine. “And what are you staring at, Papa Bear? Goldilocks is sleeping in your bed? Is that a problem?”
Of course it was a problem. But not one I wanted to discuss with Kylie. “No,” I said. “More like a surprise.”
“What was your last partner’s name?” she asked. “Shanks, right?”
“Omar Shanks.”
“So if you were making this trip with Omar, and you rolled over and saw him asleep next to you, would you give him that same what-the-hell-are-you-doing-in-my-bed look?”
“It depends. Did Omar and I bang our brains out when we were in the academy together? Because if we did, I might give him a weird look if he suddenly hopped back into the sack with me twelve years later.”
“Oh please, Zach. Get over yourself. Don’t dredge up what happened a lifetime ago. Plus I didn’t exactly hop into your bed—excuse me—the bed, the only bed, which technically makes it our bed. I tried to wake you after a half hour, then I gave you another half hour, but you were lying there like a dead mackerel. So I had dinner and more wine than I should have, and I crashed. Remember, you’re not the only sleep-deprived cop on this airplane.”
And just like that, I’d been sucked into the exact high school, soap opera dialogue I’d wanted to avoid. I knew Kylie. She never met an argument she didn’t like to win. And now, here we were once again, all cozy in bed, tempers flaring, passions rising, and if I’d learned anything during our torrid affair, it was that this wasn’t a fight. It was foreplay.
Sex with Kylie had always been a twelve on a scale of one to ten. But some times were better than others. One was mornings. Especially if she woke up with her hair tousled, her eyes at half-mast, looking like a drop-dead gorgeous lost waif who’d wandered into my bed during the night. Our other best time was make-up sex. This was starting to feel a lot like both.
The black silk pajamas clung to her in all the right places, but she’d left the top three buttons open, and despite the fact that I knew every inch of her naked body, undressing her with my eyes was driving me crazy.
I was completely turned on.
If I were in New York, I’d have gone running to Gerri Gomperts at the diner, but I was a continent away from my quasi therapist. I was on my own, and I might not have handled the situation all that well so far, but I knew the exact right thing to do now. Stop eyeballing your ex-girlfriend’s awesome cleavage and get the hell out of bed before you do something you’ll regret.
I swung my legs over the side. “You know what?” I said. “This is dumb. Sorry if I stared at you funny. Feel free to crash in our bed whenever you want. I’m going to take a shower.”
I stood up and headed straight for the lav.
“Don’t forget to lock the door, Sugar Pants,” she chirped.
I didn’t respond. Letting her have the last word—and the last laugh—was the best way to convince her she’d won.
I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. I would also need a blast of cold before I stepped out, but at least the moment had passed.
I dressed, then checked my cell phone. It was the middle of the night in New York, but Cheryl had texted me before she went to bed.
Hope you slept well. Love you.
I texted back, thanking her for the Ambien and all the other contributions she’d made toward tiring me out, but I left out the part about waking up with my ex-girlfriend curled up next to me.
Kylie was in the main cabin enjoying the breakfast feast Matéo had laid out. “Sink your teeth into this,” she said, handing me a warm cinnamon roll. “And check out the DVD collection. We could fly around the world ten times and not run out of movies.” She winked. “It’d be a lot of fun—assuming we could work out the sleeping arrangements.”
It was classic Kylie. Always happy to get in one more dig. Knowing her, it wouldn’t be the last.
Our pit stop was fast and efficient. We left Helsinki at 9:15 a.m. and flew through half a dozen time zones. It was the shortest day I’d ever experienced and one of the most relaxing. Kylie and I watched movies, catnapped in our respective seats, and ate like royalty.
We touched down at Suvarnabhumi Airport shortly after midnight. A black Lincoln with an American flag mounted on the fender was parked on the tarmac. A tall young man in jeans bounded toward us. “David Hinds, U.S. Embassy,” he said. “Welcome to Bangkok.”
He whipped us through customs and immigration, and within minutes we were on the road to our hotel.
“When do we get to interview Segura and Samuels?” I asked.
“Who?”
“We’re here to meet with two prisoners. When do we get to see them?”
“Sorry, Detective, but I don’t know anything about that. I work in the mushroom division of the embassy. They keep us in the dark and shovel shit on us. All I know is that tomorrow you’re scheduled to meet with Pongrit Juntasa, head of the Department of Corruption.”
“The what?”
“Department of Corrections. That was embassy humor. You’ll be his honored guests at the Muay Thai matches.”
“That’s lovely,” Kylie said, “but we didn’t come here to watch boxing.”
“Muay Thai is not boxing. It’s an ancient fighting style known as the art of eight limbs—fighters use their fists, feet, elbows, and knees. It’s practically a religion in this country.”
“David, tell Mr. Juntasa we’re flattered by the invitation,” Kylie said, “but we’re here on a homicide investigation.”
“Detective, did anyone teach you anything about Thai culture before you got on that airplane?” Hinds said.
“You mean like remove your shoes before entering someone’s house or don’t sunbathe in the nude?”
Hinds laughed. “You are so New York,” he said. “But that won’t cut it in Bangkok. Thais don’t do business—wham, bam—on the first date. They have to get to know you. He’s aware of why you’re here. Just don’t jump into it until you’ve spent quality time together.”
Kylie rolled her eyes. “Define quality.”
“Small talk, some laughs, break bread, and, most important, be seen together. Pongrit Juntasa is a high-ranking government official who wants everyone to know that two esteemed New York City police officers flew halfway around the world to bask in his aura. To put it in diplomatic terms: the more you kiss his ass, the more likely you are to get his blessing to meet your prisoners.”
Kylie shook her head and looked at me. “Zach, you know what I hate about this job?”
“Ass-kissing,” I said. “But on the plus side, you’re getting very good at it.”