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jacket, pulled the tail of her blouse outside her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. Cyrus felt like an invisible man in a Fellini film. |
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"You don't smoke, do you?" she asked. |
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Kyna sighed and began unbuttoning her blouse. "Neither do I." |
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She picked up her overnight case, walked into the bathroom and closed the door; a moment later Cyrus heard the lock turn. |
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"No, that's okay," he muttered. "You go ahead." |
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With nothing better to do, Cyrus got the gun and holster from the camera case and a box of cartridges from his suitcase and began feeding bullets into the clip. After checking the slide, he slapped the clip home, replaced the gun in the holster and draped it over the back of the chair next to his bed. |
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Removing his shirt, Cyrus dropped down between the beds and did a fast twenty push-ups. He didn't know Kyna was out of the bathroom until he heard the TV come on. |
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She was standing in the door in a knee-length T-shirt that proclaimed, "Life's a Bitch and then you Marry One" and punching the buttons on the remote. The bathroom light was behind her, drawing the outline of her body against the cotton. |
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"Uh . . ." he started to say. |
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On the TV, a disembodied voice was explaining a series of grisly video images. |
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"This is the scene at the Key Biscayne home of reputed gangland figure Pablo Morales. The bodies of Morales, his wife and seven-year-old daughter were found by friends this afternoon." |
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In the background, men in blue windbreakers with an alphabet soup of initials across the backs were running around like ants: taking samples, directing forensic photographers and generally just being in charge. The news cameras swarmed the front of the house as two morgue attendants carried a small black vinyl bag out of the front door. Right behind the first |
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