I note that our knees and thighs touch and that sends a thrill through me that all but obliterates any lingering sadness from the day before. I remind myself that Rachel is just about as likely to fall for me as Gwen had been. Still, I like touching her leg. I feel my heartbeat picking up a little. Yes, a roller-coaster of emotions for me. I’d gone months—years—of giving little thought to women. And now, I’m swinging wildly from one day to the next. I’m not sure how I feel about that. And then Rachel shifts a little next to me, sliding her thigh along mine, and a new thrill rushes through me all over again.

  Actually, I think, I feel pretty darn good about it.

  After pleasantries are signed, Detective Hammer gets to the point, which I suspect he had probably wanted to do from the moment he first stepped inside my apartment.

  Soon, Rachel is relaying his message into my palm: “A body has been found.”

  I sign back to her, which she relays to the detective. “One of the missing?”

  Soon, we are in the flow again, each message only taking seconds, rather than minutes to relay.

  “Yes. He was found floating in Long Beach Harbor, tangled in some lines.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Single shot just behind the ear.”

  “Execution style,” I sign. “Suspects?”

  “None yet.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Yacht owner.”

  “When did he first go missing?” I ask.

  “He was one of the originals. Maybe a year ago.”

  “How was he I.D.’d?”

  “Dental records. He was in rough shape, had been floating for a few days. Crabs and other nasties had at him.”

  I make a face for Rachel’s benefit. Truth is, I have seen such floaters before. Many of them. The horrors of my job still had little effect on me. Back in the day, I could look at the most disturbing crime scenes, the most mutilated of corpses and not get a reaction, even as my partners would turn away, or turn green…or get sick altogether. As for Rachel, I don’t know her story, and I hope she is okay relaying these messages, graphic as they are.

  As if reading my mind, she squeezes my hand a little and signs just for my benefit. “I’m okay.”

  I nod. Hammer has resumed talking. Although he is sitting across from me, I can feel Rachel nodding along while he speaks. She stops nodding and now signs into my palm.

  “He disappeared a year ago. Like I said, one of the first to go missing. In fact, he’s officially the third to go missing. No one heard a peep from him. He leaves behind a wife, a kid, a decent job at Boeing in Long Beach.”

  “Near where he was found floating?” I ask through Rachel.

  “Right,” comes the response a few seconds later. “Nothing from this guy in a year…and then he shows up out of the blue, floating in the harbor, shot behind the ear. But there’s more.”

  I nod and wait, keenly aware of Rachel’s hand lingering in my own. But I’m not thinking too much about her hand. No, my mind is racing, putting together the pieces of the puzzle. Like old times. Detective work is problem-solving…and often problem-solving is working backward. In our case, we work backward, starting with the crime. And with my job—or my old job—the crime always involves a corpse.

  Finally, I sign, using both hands: “What’s the victim’s name?”

  “Jesse DeFranco.”

  “Any chance Jesse is unconnected from your case?”

  “Anything is possible. You know that, Lee. Except Jesse’s case reads like all the others. Except, of course, he’s the first to show up dead.”

  “Perhaps the first of many.”

  “Jesus, I do not want to think about that, Lee. It’s bad enough that they are missing. Worse, if they start showing up dead, too. And a year later, to boot.”

  “Did you just say ‘to boot’?” I sign to Rachel, who translates for me.

  “I did,” comes Hammer’s response. “And don’t fuck with me, Lee.”

  After a moment, I sign: “Why a year later, you think?”

  “My guess, he attempted to disappear. And didn’t do a very good job of it.”

  “Or had second thoughts,” I interject.

  “So, he comes back a year later, maybe thinking everything’s okay, or to let his family know he’s okay.”

  “And someone pops him,” I sign when Rachel is done relaying Hammer’s scenario.

  “But who?” asks Hammer. “And why?”

  “Maybe whoever helped him disappear.”

  We are silent. At least, I think we’re silent. Finally, after maybe a half minute or so, I feel Rachel nodding, encouraging Hammer. Soon, she is signing into my open hand, pressing her small fingers into mine and, well, sending shiver after shiver through me.

  “Can we agree that the missing eleven people had help?”

  I nod. “Agreed.”

  “No skimming cash out of their bank account. No removing themselves from social media. No awkward final conversations with friends and family. They’re just…” Rachel pauses slightly, then adds, “gone.”

  “Did any of them have any reason to be gone? Any gang relations? Any pending IRS tax fraud investigations? Any domestic violence?”

  “Typical problems. Nothing too outrageous. One guy, Danny something or other, owed money to a bookie. Another guy was facing jail time. Many were in debt, but typical stuff.”

  “What’s typical for one person might be unbearable for another,” I sign.

  “Enough for them to want to disappear?”

  “Maybe,” I sign. “Let’s talk about this last disappearance, James Kirkpatrick.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “House on Vermont in Los Feliz.”

  “The very first victim lived in Los Feliz,” I add.

  “Right. One of the few links we have.”

  I nod. “We have evidence, via apartment surveillance footage, of two victims turning north.”

  “Initially turning north,” counters Hammer, via Rachel’s impulses in my hand. “What if they turned down another street?”

  “Maybe,” I sign. “But Los Feliz is north.”

  “But so is Alaska. What’s your point?”

  “What’s north of Los Feliz?”

  “Nice homes, hills, Griffith Park.”

  I nod, thinking. “I would suggest searching surveillance footage up and down Los Feliz. Lots of apartments there. Lots of footage.”

  “Because Los Feliz Boulevard is north of him?”

  “Right.”

  “And for some reason, all vics are gravitating north, into the hills of Griffith Park?”

  “Maybe they’re zombies,” I sign. “But humor me.”

  “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” I sign, thinking. “See if the park has security footage, too.”

  “Will do.”

  I nod and sign privately to Rachel: “Would you mind hanging back for a few minutes?”

  She pats my hand, yes.

  Detective Hammer stands and drops a heavy hand to my shoulder and squeezes. I sense that he wants to give me a hug, but doesn’t. His loss. Since losing many of my physical senses, I’ve become a helluva hugger.

  Rachel sees him to the door. I’m damn good at tracking footstep vibrations within my own apartment. I also sense a slight decompression of air around me as the front door opens and closes. More vibrations up through the floor, more footsteps, and now a small hand on my shoulder, a hand that slides down and slips into my own hand, before signing:

  “Would you like some wine?”

  “I don’t have any,” I sign back.

  I sense her laughter. “Luckily, I just happened to bring some.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I sit and wait.

  Rachel is in the kitchen, working. I know this because Betsie is watching her every movement, should a scrap of food accidentally fall. Betsie’s head moves a little more and I feel the floorboards shift. Betsie’s tail thumps once, twice, over my loafers, and I hold out my hand. And just like that, the cool stem of a wine glass appears. Magic.

  Rachel sits next to me. I catch more of her perfume and ask myself if this is really happening.

  It is, I think. At least, I think it is.

  If I’m dreaming, I don’t want to awaken. Intimate or not, friend or not, I can’t remember the last time I’d been alone with a woman in my apartment. Actually, I do remember. It had been Gwen. Yes, definitely. It had been the day before she sent my brother a text message—my brother who had been my cell phone liaison for me. A text message letting him know that she was sorry, that she just couldn’t do this anymore.

  Now, I find myself drinking wine with a woman I have never seen and will never see, whose voice I would never hear, whose ears would never hear mine. A woman I knew only by touch. A woman whose touch I was already beginning to love.

  I next feel something clink against my own glass, and I smile, raise my own glass, and sip from it. Champagne and orange juice. As I swallow, I feel almost human. I feel almost loveable. I feel almost worthy. Amazingly, I also feel flirty.

  I set the glass down on the coffee table before us. I slide my right ring finger over my left knuckle and make a drinking motion: “Early for drinking?”

  She takes my hand in hers. And presses her fingers in mine: “They’re mimosas. They’re permitted.”

  I grin, release her hand and sign: “The alcoholic’s answer to drinking in the morning?” I open my hand on my lap for her reply.

  “Exactly.”

  It’s a choreographed dance we do. I release her hand so that I can use mine to sign, then she takes my one hand and signs into my palm. We exchange information like this quickly, now almost effortlessly. It is already second nature to me…and yet…

  And yet each time she takes my hand, a thrill courses through me.

  Uh oh.

  I am not sure what to ask now, although a million questions race through my mind. Not counting my failed attempt to talk to Gwen yesterday, I am long out of practice of flirting and making small talk.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “And take advantage of you?” she asks, pressing her small fingers into my palm.

  Now, when I go to release her hand, her fingers hold mine a little longer. Finally, she does release them, and I sign, “Something like that.”

  My heart is thumping—somewhere up against my artificial tracheal tube. I’m finding breathing difficult, but not in an alarming way.

  Calm down, cowboy.

  I reach for where I’d left my glass, find it smoothly enough, and take a long pull on it.

  This isn’t happening.

  But this is happening. I feel her repositioning herself on the couch. I think she is now sitting cross-legged, facing me. She takes my free hand and wants me to sit the same way. I nod and do so, and fold my long legs under me and face her. To be safe, I reach over and set my mimosa down.

  Once done, I sign the only thing I can think of:

  “What do you look like?” Immediately, I feel my face burn hot, and I hurriedly sign: “Not that it matters or anything. I mean, I’m just curious. Never mind. Forget I asked!”

  I can feel the couch bounce a little with her giggles, and I imagine she’s holding her hands over her mouth and looking at me in such a way as to suggest that I’m either adorable or she is regretting staying behind.

  When the couch is done bouncing with what I hope is adoring laughter, there is a short period of…nothing. And now I am certain she is regretting being here and she is going to tell me that she has somewhere better to be.

  I breathe in deeply, the air rattling in the tracheal tube. A tube that needs to be cleaned soon. My life. Whether she leaves or not, the short time I’ve spent with her has already lifted my spirits—especially after yesterday—and I’m about to thank her for her help, when she takes my hands in hers. Both hands. This is new. Generally, she signs into my right or left hand, whichever is closest to her.

  Now, both hands move over my own so slowly that I nearly whimper at her warmth, her caring, her sensuality—all of which, I know, might just be in my head. None of which might be actually happening. For all I know, she is trying to keep me from tipping sideways. I suspect all the hair on my body is standing on end, and, yeah, I’m definitely having a hard time breathing.

  Breathe, I tell myself. Relax. Clean it later.

  Her touch calms me, excites me, liberates me. And now, she is guiding my hands toward her, up toward her face, and I feel myself shaking and wanting to laugh and not knowing what to do with myself, exactly.

  Too much, I think. Too much excitement for one day.

  The prospect of touching Rachel now is so overwhelming that I pull my hands back and find myself rocking on the couch. I turn away and do my best to wipe the tears that come from empty eye sockets, careful to not push away the sunglasses too far, careful not to reveal the monster beneath.

  Once again, she seems to read my mind—or understand my fears and deeper issues—and I next feel something I hadn’t felt since my accident: someone touching my face, which she does now, slowly, tentatively, carefully, even while I try to turn away from her. Her fingertips move over my cheeks, over my cheekbones, and slip under my sunglasses. I turn away a little when they do, terrified by what she will find. She pauses, still holding my face, and I realize she’s not going anywhere. Not yet, at least.

  I relax a little and breathe and now she cups the left side of my face—the most damaged side of my face, with her palm. I feel her thumb brush away what I know is an errant tear. I try to sign, but she shushes me by holding my hands down. I don’t need to explain myself, her gesture suggests. She understands. I nod once and crack a half-smile and I wonder if she is smiling back.

  She next takes hold of my hands in both of hers and I wonder all over again what is happening. Whatever it is, I am eternally grateful to the woman in front of me. Just these few minutes of physical contact will last a lifetime, something I will treasure forever.

  But she is not done with me. No, not by a long shot.

  She guides my hand up to her face…

  Chapter Nineteen

  Her skin is so soft.

  So soft and delicate and perfect and fragile and strong and smooth. I feel that I am touching the face of an angel. Of something brought down from heaven, just for me to experience in these few short moments.

  I am unsure of how much to touch—that I have violated her face too much, too long—when I feel something so heartbreakingly beautiful that I nearly lose it right there. I feel her smile. I feel her cheeks rise and the corners of her eyes crinkle.

  It is the first smile I have felt in years. No, that’s not right. It is the first smile that I have felt ever.

  And as I hold her left cheek in my hand, I feel the warm drops. They work their way down over my thumb and onto my wrist, down my arm, down, down. Wetness, warmth, tear drops. Lubricating my skin against hers. I do not think it’s my place to brush them away, and so I let her tears flow, and I give her a small smile, and I know my hand is shaking. I do not know why it is shaking. Perhaps the effort of holding her carefully. I imagine her face as a fragile flower, afraid of damaging it in my big clumsy hand. Except I know that is not true. My hands, if anything, have become less clumsy. They are my feelers. My antenna, my connection to this world. I see with them, laugh with them, explore with them, and I explore her face now, even as her warm tears continue to flow.

  My fingertips move through her hair—gossamer, silky, ethereal—so soft as to almost not be there. I am again reminded of an angel. I move my hand over her ear, covering it completely, cupping it, lightly stroking it with thumb and forefinger, committing it to memory. She’s not wearing earrings, although I can feel the tiny holes in her lobes. Two holes, in fact. Rebel. I am fascinated by these tiny holes and explore them longer, front and back. And she lets me. And she gives me the time I need. I don’t know how much time I need, but I sense we are in no rush, and for that I am thankful.

  I move my hand away and sign: “What color is your hair?”

  “Light brown,” she replies into my hand, and I smile and add the splash of color to the portrait of my mind.

  Still, she holds my left hand in hers, fingers interlaced in mine, and so I reach for her face again with my right. She dips her cheek into my hands. It’s okay, she seems to say. She wants me to do this, and so I do, exploring her, exploring the unknown. The known unknown, perhaps. Never before have I touched a woman more intimately. Never have I, say, explored her eyebrows. But I do so now. I move my fingertips over one now, with the grain, so to speak. Her brow is not plucked; it feels full and proud. I move my hand carefully over her eye, and feel it moving just under her lid, shifting and moving and following my fingertips. Jesus, I had forgotten how strange and beautiful an eyeball could feel, orbiting and rotating in its socket, such a gift from God. And such a nightmare to lose them. I leave her eye and brush down her slender nose that has the slightest of bumps in it. Maybe she is ashamed of the bump. Maybe she is proud of it. I love it more than anything I’ve touched on her so far. The bump fills in her face for me, giving it personality and depth and distinction. God, I loved that little bump.

  My fingers fan out over her nostrils and trace them, but that seems too intimate, too exposing, and so I move on to the space above her upper lip, my finger finding the divot that probably has a name. I explore the divot and find it sexy, exciting, a hidden quiet spot that is uniquely hers, but now mine, too. I feel some small fuzz there, too, so soft as to almost be my imagination.

  Now, I am moving down, down to her lips, and I can feel the excitement building in me.

  Her upper lip. It’s even softer than I am expecting, yet I can feel a clear edge to it, where it meets the skin above her lip. Her mouth is open a little. I can feel her hot breath on my palm. I can also feel the last, waxy remnants of a lip balm. I trace her upper lip carefully, soaking it in, feeling her teeth just behind it. Feeling the occasional wetness, the delicate skin.