Deadly Beloved

Dominique Muerta sat behind a mahogany desk about the size of a sideways BMW. Impeccable in severe though stylish business attire—gray suit, black silk blouse, by some European designer whose work I could neither recognize nor afford—she was a beautiful woman, no question of it, slender and yet strong and so pretty that the mannish severity of her no-doubt-expensive short hairdo took nothing away. The thin lips were a bright red and the almond-shaped eyes were as richly, deeply mahogany as the desk, softened with a touch of lavender eye shadow.

“Michael Tree,” she said, and smiled as she rose. She came around from behind the desk and met me halfway, extending a graceful hand.

As we shook, she said, “This is a long overdue meeting. We have so much in common.”

She did not offer to take my trenchcoat and I left it on, as well as my gloves, purse on its strap over my shoulder.

Indicating the glass coffee table, she said, “Sit, sit.... Cappuccino? Water?...I can have hot or iced tea or regular coffee or a soft drink—”

“No,” I said, sitting on the nearest couch. “Thank you. This won’t take long.”

Dominique sat on the white leather chair across the glass table. Her thin lips formed a razor-edge smile as she opened her hand to display the bullet in her palm.

“Interesting business card,” she said. An eyebrow arched. “Did you mean to scare me, or just get my attention?”

Dominique set the bullet on the coffee table, straight up, as if placing a miniature in a collector’s set. It made a little klik on the glass.

“When I want your attention,” I said with my own smile, “it’ll be traveling faster...”