“You’re not a very happy drunk,” she commented mildly.
“I’m not drunk, I’m tired,” I snapped, noticing all the while that she drove my Porsche with disgusting competence.
“Drunk or tired, either way you shouldn’t be driving. Where are we going?”
“The ground rules, remember? Back to your hotel.”
“Rules were made to be broken,” she replied.
I was still mulling over that enigmatic remark when she asked, “Where do you live?”
We were just turning right off Aurora onto Wall. I pointed toward Belltown Terrace, its late-night high-rise lights winking above the surrounding smaller buildings. Instead of turning left onto Fifth Avenue, which would have taken us directly back to the Mayflower, Jasmine headed down Wall toward the Belltown.
Grudgingly, I directed her through the zigzag maze necessitated by downtown Seattle’s one-way traffic grids. She eased the Porsche through the parking-garage doors, down the series of ramps, and into its assigned parking space without missing a beat.
So Jasmine Day had driven a Porsche before. Big deal!
With the car safely tucked away, Jasmine switched off the motor and dropped the car keys into my outstretched hand.
“I had fun tonight,” she said quietly. “Thanks.”
I grunted in reply and got out of the car.
“May I walk you to your door?” she asked.
I’m from the old school. The tables were turning a little too much, and I didn’t like it. “How come?” I answered stiffly. “Do I look as if I need it?”
“Maybe,” she answered, grinning.
I shrugged. “Suit yourself,” I said. “We’ll call you a cab from my apartment.” It was hardly an engraved invitation.
We stopped in front of the locked door that opens into the garage-level elevator lobby, where I proceeded to fumble incompetently with my keys.
“You know,” she said. “I think I like you. You’re an interesting combination of old-fashioned machismo with just a hint of ego problem.”
I finally managed to insert my key in the lock and turned to look at her as I pushed the door open. She was grinning up at me. Not smiling—grinning. Impishly. I looked away and punched the Up elevator button.
The elevator doors slid open and we got in. It’s a hell of a long way from P-4 to the twenty-fourth floor when you’ve got less than nothing to say. I glared at the pattern in the carpet so I wouldn’t have to talk to her or look at her. I was sure she was laughing at me, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
“Penthouse?” she asked as the elevator door opened on my floor to let us out.
I nodded.
“You never mentioned that before,” she said.
“You didn’t ask.”
We went inside the apartment. As I reached to turn on the lights, I noticed the red message light on my answering machine was blinking furiously. I was torn between ignoring it and playing back the recorded calls. I chose to ignore it. Jasmine and I didn’t know one another well enough for her to listen in on my messages.
Jasmine walked through the spacious living room to the wall of windows, where she stopped to look down. One of the windows was open. Twenty-four stories below, at the rear of the building, a few late-night cars were visible both on First Avenue and on Broad. We could hear them too, but only distantly. She turned from the window and examined the room, nodding in transparent approval.
“This is very nice,” she said. “Quiet too. Not exactly the K-Mart school of interior design.”
I didn’t know if that was a compliment or if she was making fun of me. “Glad you like it,” I said.
Moments later Jasmine Day solved my answering-machine dilemma by asking to use the bathroom. I directed her down the hall to the first door on the right. As soon as the bathroom door shut behind her, I made a dash for my machine.
The first few calls were hang-ups. I skipped over those. Then there was a call from Al Lindstrom, saying that although the surgery on his grandson was over, it was still nip and tuck and he would probably be at the hospital most of the night. In other words, I shouldn’t expect to see him at work on Friday.
Al’s message was followed by several more hang-ups. Then there was a call from Peters. His voice sounded as if he was talking to me from the bottom of a tin can, and he said he’d call back in the morning.
Finally, at the very end, a woman’s voice came on the machine. Her words were clipped and impatient. “Mr. Beaumont, this is Grace Simms Morris. Since you left a message for me to call, the least you could do is be there to answer your phone. I’ve tried several times. Now I’m going to bed. I had planned to stay with my son, but he must be out of town. I’m at the Executive Inn tonight. Room 338. If I don’t hear from Richard by noon, I’ll be going on home to Bellingham late tomorrow afternoon.”