Part 13 (2/2)

”Hey, easy, there. A little jumpy, are we?”

Rafe Martino.

Chapter 18.

I felt the breath go out of me in a single whoosh, and he reached out his hands to steady me. He was looking terrific as usual, tanned and handsome in a pale blue golf s.h.i.+rt and khaki pants. His grip was light but firm, and I could feel the heat of his body.

”Sorry, but you startled me.” I felt like an idiot. My heartbeat kicked up a notch, and I wished I'd taken a few seconds to put on some lip gloss and drag a brush through my hair. ”Ever since last night, I'm just not myself, you know?” I was talking too fast, babbling. Pressured speech, as the shrinks would say. A sure sign that I was rattled.

He nodded, keeping his gaze cool and level. ”How are you feeling? You were really out of it in the ER last night. I wanted to ask you a few questions but we had another call on the west side of town. I have Officer Brown's report on my desk.”

Officer Brown. It took me a beat to realize he was talking about Opie. ”My head's still throbbing,” I admitted. ”They say I had a mild concussion and there's not really any treatment. So I guess I'll just have to wait it out. I may take a few days off from work.”

Rafe smiled. ”I noticed they're playing it up on WYME. Hourly bulletins.”

”I know,” I said, feeling a wash of embarra.s.sment. ”They're laying it on pretty heavy. That's not my doing, believe me. That's all the fault of the news department. I guess it's a slow day for serial killers so they're going to concentrate on petty theft.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. ”If that's what it was. Petty theft.” Some other customers were crowding in behind us and we moved to a red leather banquette to wait for our orders. Had there really been something else behind the break-in last night? As always, Rafe was holding his cards close to his vest, as Vera Mae would say, and I tried to draw him out. ”The only things missing are two candlesticks I picked up at an estate sale. What else could it be?”

”You tell me.”

”I don't know.” I tried to read his expression, but it was neutral, revealing nothing. We were sitting so close, I could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes and could sense the coiled readiness in his body. He always seemed watchful, alert, and I couldn't decide whether it was part of being a cop or just his personality style.

”Why would anyone go to the trouble of breaking in just to grab a couple of candlesticks that were worth what, a hundred bucks?” His voice was low, reasonable. He spread his hands in front of him. ”That doesn't make sense to me.”

I shrugged. ”It doesn't make sense to me, either, but I don't have an answer. The criminal mind is a mystery,” I said lightly.

”Even to you? I thought you handled a lot of forensic cases before you moved here.”

”How did you--,” I began, and then stopped abruptly. I was living with someone the Cypress Grove PD considered a prime suspect in Guru Sanjay's murder. So naturally he'd done a background check on me, and, knowing Rafe, it was a thorough one. ”Yes, you're right. I did some forensic work as part of my practice back in Manhattan.”

Rafe nodded as if this was old news to him. ”I've dealt with a few forensic psychologists before.” I waited. There was something dismissive in his tone, and I reminded myself not to show my annoyance. Maybe he was baiting me, maybe he was serious, but I wasn't going to fall into the trap of playing games with him. I had the feeling that Rafe Martino could outmaneuver me at every turn, and I was on my guard.

”As consultants on your cases?” I kept my voice deliberately neutral.

”The state brought them in. Sometimes the prosecutors like to bolster their cases by including some psychological twists about the criminal mind. So the shrinks get on the stand and try to tell the jury why it's plausible that this particular suspect could have committed this crime. Or if they're working for the other side, they tell you why the suspect couldn't possibly have committed the crime. You hear both opinions in the same courtroom about the same case. It's mind-boggling.”

I could feel my blood pressure inch up a tic when he gave a dry laugh. ”Is that so?”

Rafe went on, clearly on a roll--or a rant. ”Since they're hired guns, they say whatever they're paid to say. They do a lot of tests and some mumbo jumbo and make a few hundred bucks an hour. And then they file a thirty-page report that no one ever reads. It's a racket.”

”The reports are called psych evals,” I said mildly. ”Psychological evaluations.”

”Yeah, that's it,” he agreed, ”psych evals. Our file cabinets are full of them. After a while, they all start to sound alike. And some of the profiles I've seen are really over the top. You find out that a serial killer likes peanut b.u.t.ter and drives a Subaru. Some meaningless facts that could apply to millions of people. It's just useless information that any wing nut could dream up.”

Wing nut? If Martino was trying to bait me, he was getting nowhere. I knew I had to stay focused so I could work the conversation around to Lark and see whether he had any new evidence. ”It doesn't sound like you have much respect for my profession.” I tried to match his low, calm voice and kept my face expressionless.

”Psychology is no match for police work.” His tone was blunt. ”Psychobabble theories can't match hard evidence. And most of these forensic types have never had to get their hands dirty at a crime scene.”

He was right on that one.

Compared to CSI investigators, who have to deal with grisly sights like bodies floating in the Everglades and people riddled with bullet holes, forensic psychologists have a cushy life. We can sit in an air-conditioned office doing personality tests and clinical interviews while they're out sweating in the field. We can charge a hefty fee for our services, whether we're doing our evaluations, writing our reports, or testifying in court. And Rafe was right. We get paid up front and we never get our hands dirty.

There's a lot of mental stress involved, especially in the court, where we're grilled by the opposing attorney, but at least n.o.body shoots at us.

The server at the counter called my lo mein order then, and I turned to Rafe. I decided to take a chance and blurt out what was really on my mind: Was Lark just a person of interest or a prime suspect? I took a deep breath and plunged in. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

”Is there anything new on the investigation into Guru Sanjay's death?” As soon as the words were out, I had the sinking feeling he wasn't going to give me anything. A long beat pa.s.sed between us while I locked eyes with him.

The restaurant suddenly seemed hot and noisy, and I had the mother of all headaches. They called my order a second time, and I stared at him. Who would blink first? I had the feeling that Rafe could outwait a jungle cat.

”We're still moving along and looking at all the evidence,” he said finally. ”I hope you're planning on filling me in if there are any new developments.”

”Of course I will.” Any new developments? Did he expect me to get hit over the head again? Or did he expect me to magically solve the crime? He'd told me over and over to stay out of police business. Plus, he equated forensic psychology with mumbo jumbo. Hardly likely he'd want me as a consultant on the case.

”You andyour roommate. We'll be talking to her again soon. You be sure to tell her that, okay?” He gave me a long look, his dark eyes cool and shuttered. We both stood up then, and the veiled threat in his husky voice was unmistakable, running like a dark undercurrent just beneath the smooth surface.

I knew it. He had set his sights on Lark, like a hungry tiger stalking a gazelle at a watering hole. I gave a tight nod and walked to the counter, his words sending p.r.i.c.kles up my spine. I could feel his eyes drilling into the back of my head, and I willed myself not to turn around. As far as Rafe Martino was concerned, the Cypress Grove PD already had their man.

Or in this case, woman.

Pugsley raced to the door to meet me when I arrived home ten minutes later. He was so excited to see the aromatic bag from Johnny Chen's that he jumped straight up in the air, all four feet off the ground, just like a Hollywood stunt dog.

”Very impressive, Pugsley,” I told him, ”but you have to wait your turn. There's a steamed pot sticker for you, if you behave yourself.” He gave an aggrieved yip but followed me into the dining area, his chunky body quivering with excitement. Pugsley is a foodie with eclectic tastes, but anything from Johnny Chen's sends him into canine nirvana.

I glanced at Mom, who looked flushed with excitement and was humming a little tune under her breath. She had a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look on her face, and I knew something was up. But what? The three of us were crowded around the IKEA table, and Pugsley was sitting at Mom's feet, glancing up at her adoringly. Mom waited until Lark had dished out the lo mein and egg rolls before she dropped the bombsh.e.l.l.

”You'll never guess what I did today!” she said, clasping her hands together dramatically. She was wearing enough thin gold bracelets to outfit a gypsy, and they clanked together when she raised her arms. Lark sent me a sympathetic look. It was obvious that Mom was up to something, and Lark knew where the conversation was headed.

”Okay, I'll bite. You called Donald Trump and asked him out to lunch?” I said innocently.

”Oh, don't be silly. He's got that sweet young wife, Melania. He wouldn't be interested in an old broad like me.” She paused, thinking. ”Well, he might be tempted, maybe, but not seriously interested. There's a difference, you know. At this stage of my life, I need a man who's ready to make a commitment.” She gave Pugsley a tiny corner of her egg roll. ”Use your imagination, dear. I'll give you a hint. It fulfills my craving for something exciting and adventurous.” Exciting and adventurous? She gave Lark a saucy wink.

I was stumped. ”Stephen Spielberg called and he's offering you the lead in his next movie? Woody Allen invited you to Michael's for an evening of jazz? You're replacing Mary Hart on ET?”

”No, no, and no.” Mom flashed me a sly smile. ”You're on the wrong track. Think hidden talent. Think of something I've never done before.”

”I give up,” I said, helping myself to a hefty serving of brown rice. My mother has always had a rich fantasy life along with an obsessive interest in show business. I had no clue what she had gotten herself into this time, but I had the p.r.i.c.kly feeling that whatever it was, it didn't bode well.

Mom leaned across the table and lowered her voice as if she was about to impart a military secret. ”I did some sleuthing today.”

”Sleuthing?”

She nodded in my roommate's direction. ”We all have to step up to the plate to help Lark, honey. I know you've been doing your best, but let's face it, Maggie, this investigation is going nowhere. Lark is still the key suspect in Guru Sanjay's death, so I figured it was time for me to get into the act. I did some snooping around.” She paused. ”And I seem to have a real talent for it,” she said with a note of surprise. ”I'm a natural.”

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