Part 21 (1/2)

”We shouldn't have done that,” she said.

”Why not?”

”It was unprofessional.”

She looked straight at me. I nodded. I guessed it was a little unprofessional.

”But it was fun,” I said.

”We shouldn't have.”

”We're grown-ups. We live in a free country.”

”It was just taking comfort. Because we're both stressed and uptight.”

”Nothing really wrong with that.”

”It's going to complicate things,” she said.

I shook my head.

”Not if we don't let it,” I said. ”Doesn't mean we have to get married or anything. We don't owe each other anything because of it.”

”I wish we hadn't.”

”I'm glad we did. I think if a thing feels right, you should do it.”

”That's your philosophy?”

I looked away.

”It's the voice of experience,” I said. ”I once said no when I wanted to say yes and I lived to regret it.”

She hugged the robe tight around her.

”It did feel good,” she said.

”For me too,” I said.

”But we should forget it now. It meant what it meant, nothing more, OK?”

”OK,” I said.

”And you should think hard about going back.”

”OK,” I said again.

I lay on the bed and thought about how it felt to say no when you really wanted to say yes. On balance saying yes had been better, and I had no regrets. Duffy was quiet. It was like we were just waiting for something to happen. I took a long hot shower and dressed in the bathroom. We were done talking by then. There was nothing left to say. We both knew I was going back. I liked the fact that she didn't really try to stop me. I liked the fact that we were both focused, practical people. I was lacing my shoes when her laptop went ping, like a m.u.f.fled high-pitched bell. Like a microwave when your food is ready.

No artificial voice saying You've got mail. I came out of the bathroom and she sat down in front of the computer and clicked a b.u.t.ton.

”Message from my office,” she said. ”Records show eleven dubious ex-cops called Duke.

I put the request in yesterday. How old is he?”

”Forty, maybe,” I said.

She scrolled through her list.

”Southern guy?” she asked. ”Northern?”

”Not Southern,” I said.

”Choice of three,” she said.

”Mrs. Beck said he'd been a federal agent, too.”

She scrolled some more.

”John Chapman Duke,” she said. ”He's the only one who went federal afterward. Started in Minneapolis as a patrolman and then a detective. Subject of three investigations by Internal Affairs. Inconclusive. Then he joined us.”

”DEA?” I said. ”Really?”

”No, I meant the federal government,” she said. ”He went to the Treasury Department.”

”To do what?”

”Doesn't say. But he was indicted within three years. Some kind of corruption. Plus suspicion of multiple homicides, no real hard evidence. But he went to prison for four years anyway.”

”Description?”

”White, about your size. The photo makes him look uglier, though.”

”That's him,” I said.

She scrolled some more. Read the rest of the report.

”Take care,” she said. ”He sounds like a piece of work.”

”Don't worry,” I said. I thought about kissing her good-bye at the door. But I didn't. I figured she wouldn't want me to. I just ran over to the Cadillac.

I was back in the coffee shop and almost at the end of my second cup when Elizabeth Beck appeared. She had nothing to show for her shopping. No purchases, no gaudy bags.

I guessed she hadn't actually been inside any stores. She had hung around for four long hours to let the government guy do whatever he needed to. I raised my hand. She ignored me and headed straight for the counter. Bought herself a tall white coffee and carried it over to my table. I had decided what I was going to tell her.

”I don't work for the government,” I said.

”Then I'm disappointed,” she said, for the third time.

”How could I?” I said. ”I killed a cop, remember.”