Zaccaro

to a woman, wearing such a taboo color: white.
It’s not a full-blown wedding dress, but a lace, white blazer and short skirt. Sheh’s a gorgeous face, they all are. But the broad is wearing my mother’s ring. Quiet as can be, I snatch up the phone as the front door silently closes.
There are more photos in the text. The phone number who sent it isn’t familiar, but it’s a local Los Angeles 323-area code. The photos have been sent to a long line of unfamiliar numbers.
I dial my father. Tony starts with a cheerful greeting but I cut in. “You gotta be fucking kidding me?”
“I'm married, Valentino,” says the goof.
I grit my teeth as he calls me by the name I hate. There's no fucking way I'm going to dress in the brand and people call me by it too.
“You're coming home for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll be back from Vegas so you can meet your new ma.”
“I'm thirty-one. Too old for a new ma.” Run through all the pussy you want, put a ring on whomever but none of them has a title as far as I'm concerned. Yeah, that’s exactly what I should advise. But I can’t say that to the old guy. Dad vowed not to marry unless he knew.
He knew damn right, the woman beside him is drop-dead gorgeous. C’mon, Tony, you’re smarter than hot tail.
“Okay, Valentino, I overlooked how sensitive you are. Nobody’s ever gonna take your ma’s place. Capiche?”
“Me, sensitive?” More like observant. When Tony sets his eyes on a female there's no saving them or him. He’s the world’s most tenacious romantic, saying it took twelve admission tickets–to be exact–and at a museum in New York before my mother gave him the time of day. With dad as a major benefactor of Smithsonian, everyone encouraged mom to take him up on a cup of coffee. Not sure how twelve ‘Hello, we continue to serendipitously cross paths’ became the oaf’s lucky number. Yet Mom caved. Perhaps it was the flowers. Dad went from roses, to lilies, peonies maybe it was the orchids and not the lucky number twelve.
Now the chatterbox has grown old, lonely even. The broad standing next to him just played her cards right.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Tino,” Tony says and we hang up.
I rub a hand over my face, while arising from bed and start for the door. Reese made her awkward getaway just a few minutes ago.
Reese Dunham. What a sweet, savory name. Seeing a woman more than once isn't the norm for me. My job always comes first, and I’m not in the business of breaking hearts. But she just tried to jump ship after the night we shared. I dial up dispatch. Maybe I'll call her tomorrow after meeting Tony’s praying mantis.
As the call connects, dispatch gives a greeting.
“Patel, that you?”
“Aw man,” he sighs. “You’re off the clock, Evan. And from the clowning around going down at the office this morning, you’re in trouble. Whadaya want?”
Fuck, the entire office is talking shit about me. “Reese Dunham, look her up for me.”
There’s a constant sound of typing in the background as he asks, “DOB?”
While walking into the bathroom, I consider her age. “Couldn't be more than twenty-five or so. “1990...”
“Wait, despite the gossip regarding last night, you’re one of the most thorough cops I’ve ever crossed paths with. This reeks of breaking policy,” Patel begins to provide the rules and regulations, verbatim. “So why am I looking up Miss. Dunham?”
“Because I said so.”
His tone mellows an octave. “She's sweet.”
“You found her?” I lean against the limestone countertop.
“Yeah, Reese is an unusual name. Unless you like the purple-haired Reese Dunham who was born in the ‘40s. I like ‘em older, wiser too, but trust me, you don’t wanna learn any lessons by the purple-haired Reese.”
“Nope. My Reese doesn't have purple hair.”
He scoffs. “Sounds like she's not your Reese at all if you don't even know something as simple as when to celebrate her birthday. ‘89 baby, by the way.”
Shit. Where did my possessiveness come from? “Give me what you got, Patel.”
“Despite the obvious, cute face, those soft cheeks tell me that she isn’t so innocent in the ass and hips department either.” He gives his analysis, and I have to fucking take it. Or pull out my laptop and look her up myself. Also, Patel thinks he’s funny. He sort of looks like the comedian Ravi Patel, and with the same name, it’s amplified his annoyingness. He continues with, “I’d take Reese home to mom. Evan, you think our Reese’ll convert to Hindu?”
“Priors?” I say through gritted teeth as he goads me.
“Oh...” He says.
“What?” There was this aura of innocence about Reese. But she came into a shoddy bar after a long day of work. I suspected some sort of creative, cutesy job. Then there was the moment she told me she didn’t fuck cops. “What are the charges, Patel?”
“Oh, uh, just a few parking meter tickets around metro area. But I think I know her.”
A thick blade of jealousy stabs through my chest. I didn't peg Reese for a regular bed-hopper. She failed in the walk-of-shame department.
“I’ve visited the Flour Shoppe a few times.”
“Oh, she's a florist?” Owning a business must have been the reason Reese was down on herself last night.
“No. Flour as in that white powder your protégé once mistook for the pure, more expensive, brain altering and highly addictive stuff.” Patel laughs.
I try not to roll my eyes. Hotheaded Gregory has been dubbed my protégé though he was forced upon me for a while when Tyrone had to fly to San Antonio. My partner was gone a month sitting at his grandmother’s deathbed. The captain’s wife requested a job promotion for a family member. I ended up babysitting.
“So she bakes.” That’s why Reese had such undertones of sweetness. “Alright, give me her info.”
After getting Reese’s phone number, I hang up as he offers to take Reese off my hands. I suppose I could have Googled, but