Lay Your Sleeping Head: A Henry Rios Novel (Henry Rios Mysteries Book 1) by Michael Nava

Author:Michael Nava [Nava, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Persigo Press
Published: 2019-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

“Why would a mugger inject me with truth serum?” I asked as we drove from the hospital back to Hugh’s apartment.

He thought for a moment. “Do you have an ATM card?”

“A what?”

“Automated teller machine,” he explained. “You see them at banks. You put in a plastic card, punch in a code and it dispenses money from your account.”

“Uh, no, that technology hasn’t reached the great unwashed yet. And what if I did? How would that explain the sodium pentothal?”

“They could have been trying to get your code. Where did you say your car was?”

I directed him to where I had parked my car. It was gone.

“Fuck,” I said.

“You need to file a police report,” he said. “For your insurance company, if nothing else. You can call from my place.”

We drove into the underground garage beneath his building and took the elevator up to his condo. Outside, it was dawn and the view of the bay from his windows was spectacular. While I filed a report with the cops over the phone, Grant made scrambled eggs and bacon and a pot of coffee. We ate at a dining table that seated eight.

“You have a lot of furniture for one guy,” I observed.

“My mother’s an interior decorator,” he said. “I get the stuff her clients decided they didn’t like after all.”

“The Hancocks have to work for a living?”

“She doesn’t do it for the money, it’s how she expresses herself.” He gave me a quizzical look. “What do you have against rich people?”

“Hugh called them sharks,” I said.

“Maybe his family,” Grant said. “Not mine. What’s your story, Henry? You from the city?”

He said “the city” with a proprietary air. “No,” I said. “I was raised in the Central Valley. You’re San Francisco born and bred, right?”

“Fourth generation. But I asked about you.”

I told him a little bit about myself, got him to reveal a little bit more about himself, and soon we were chatting freely about this and that, as if we were on a first date that was going really well as opposed to two guys thrown together by a death. Some part of me wished it was a date. That seemed strange, but then, the whole night had been strange. And exhausting. I yawned.

“Sorry,” I said, covering my mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You must be wiped out. Why don’t you clean up? I’ll give you something to wear while I throw your clothes into the washing machine. We’re about the same size.” He grinned. “I didn’t want to say anything before but you have a little vomit on your pants.”

I glanced at the stain on my pants leg. “That’s attractive,” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show where the bathroom is and get you some clean clothes.”

I took a long, hot shower. Grant had laid out a pair of levis and a rugby shirt on his bed. He’d also left a pair of boxers—pale blue, Brooks Brothers—and it felt a little strange putting them on, intimate and undeniably kind of sexy too.

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