Page 17 of Casualties of War
Adán walked around the desk and followed the sergeant over to a blank door. The sergeant opened the door and held it aside. “Maybe next time have one of your people come by instead,” he murmured.
Adán looked at him, startled. He didn’t have people. Only big name stars carried satellites like a tail behind them.
The door closed on him. He stood inside an interview room so typical it was a cliché.Battered table, two chairs, a one-way mirror. Cigarette butts had gouged the green linoleum all around the table. One chair was bent, so only two feet sat on the floor.
The door opened and Officer Graves came in, carrying his video player, sealed inside an evidence bag. She put the player on the table. “Sorry, I didn’t think about the people out there.”
“Neither did I,” Adán admitted.
“Whatdo you think of our interview room?” Her smile was small.
“Honestly? It’s a lot cleaner than the sets I’ve worked on.”
She snorted. “We have janitors.”
“While we have set dressers.” He reached for the player.
“Do you have a moment?” she said.
He hesitated. He had been wondering what he could do until he needed to sleep. “Why?” he asked.
Her lips thinned. Discomfort oozed from her. “I wonderedif we could…talk.”
Adán raised a brow. He had been propositioned more times since the Smokey Silva movie had come out than in his entire life before the movie. Instinct told him sex wasn’t what Graves wanted.
She blew out her breath. “It’s something you said the other day in your apartment. About doing what you love.”
The odd note in her voice. He remembered it now. Adán nodded. “Sure. Whatabout it?”
She glanced at her watch. “Would you mind…would you be comfortable with sliding over to the coffee shop across the road and talking there?”
He remembered the people in the waiting area. “Is there a back way out of here?”
* * * * *
He dumped the player in the trunk of his car and walked over the road to the shopfront eatery and stepped in. Graves was already there, wearing an oversizedhoodie over her uniform and no cap. She picked up two Styrofoam cups of coffee off the high counter as he stepped in and glanced at him. She moved to the back of store and settled at one of the three tiny tables there and pushed the second cup across the table toward the empty chair.
Adán settled opposite her. Coffee was the last thing he needed. He sipped, anyway. The warmth was welcome.
Shetook her time tearing open sugar packets and milk tubs and stirring.
Adán recognized her awkwardness. “How about we start with you telling me your first name?” he suggested. “You already know mine.”
Her cheeks tinged with pink, which made the freckles stand out. “Parris,” she said.
“As in Hilton?”
“As in the English couldn’t spell the name of the city when they used it as some great-somethingof mine’s last name.” She shrugged. “John of Parris.”
“Two ‘r’s, then?”
“It’s an old family name. My mother thought it was a cute first name.” She shrugged again.
“So, Parris. About doing what you love…?”
She met his eye. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I figure…well, I read an interview you did. After the Oscar nomination.” She said it with the air of someone confessing a great sin.
Adán grinned. “I won’t hold it against you.”
