Part 8 (1/2)

”Details.”

”You've been under constant surveillance for the last week.”

”I was the main suspect, wasn't I? That's what you were trying to tell me last night.”

”I told Wyatt that the only thing you were guilty of was bad luck and a weak stomach, but he was still suspicious of you.”

Weak stomach. Funny. I took a drink of the now-lukewarm coffee to prove him wrong. ”Why?”

”He thought you were too nervous.”

”I am. But not because I'm a murderer. I've got a million other things to be nervous about.”

He chewed on a wooden stirrer and considered what I said. ”He also didn't like the connection between you and the car that the body was dumped in.”

Made sense.

”But you're a lot smarter than that. You wouldn't use your own car to dump a body.” He took the stirrer out of his mouth and pointed it at me. ”Would you?”

”No, I would steal a car from a total stranger and then dump the body in that,” I said, going along with his train of thought. I must have answered too quickly because he looked at me closely. ”Kidding!” I said. ”I wouldn't know how to steal a car. I can barely program my dishwasher to 'pot scrubber.'”

Somewhat satisfied, he continued. ”Once we found a connection between Kathy and Ray, it took the heat off you a bit. I'm trying to keep the heat off you altogether, so you have to tell me everything you know.” He leaned back and caressed the gun on his hip, like I had seen Wyatt doing in the chapel. These guys loved their guns. ”I think I'm right about you. I am, aren't I?” he asked, staring at me with red-rimmed eyes.

”You are right about me,” I said. My coffee was approaching ice-cold but I finished it anyway. Weak stomach, my a.s.s.

”Don't disappoint me.”

”Well, don't set the bar too high,” I said, thinking back to the old breaking-and-entering situation. ”Why didn't you haul me to the station house and put me under the bright lights?” I asked, trying to sound more lighthearted than I felt. A suspect in a murder case. I guess it made sense. The cuckolded wife and all. Who's dumb enough to use her own car to stash a dead body. Believe me, I had thought about killing Ray and his paramours many times over the last several years, but none of my students or my car had figured into the scenario. Medieval torture devices maybe, but not my car.

”We didn't have enough to go on.”

”The car wasn't enough?”

”No. And the deal was sealed for me when you pa.s.sed out in your office and vomited on yourself. You didn't have the stomach to look at homicide photos, never mind be a coldhearted killer. Fred wasn't so sure.” He saw the puzzled look on my face and responded, ”Wyatt,” by way of clarification.

”Oh. I call him something else.” I picked up my debris from the table-countless sugar packets, wooden stirrers, and balled-up napkins-and pushed them down into my empty cup.

”And then there was all that crying and fainting,” he said, looking at a spot over my head. He was either embarra.s.sed or perturbed; I couldn't tell. ”You cry an awful lot.”

”Have you ever been a suspect in a murder case?” I asked defiantly. He shook his head. ”So, so . . .” I couldn't come up with anything else. Being a suspect in a murder case was enough. ”Anyway, I have very low blood pressure, which is why I faint more than your average murder suspect.”

”You never seem to lose your appet.i.te, though,” he said, looking at the debris on the table.

I looked at him. What a freaking comedian.

”What happens now?” I asked.

He traced his finger along the design of the table. ”We look at what we took from your house, see if we have enough evidence to charge Ray officially and take it from there.”

”I called Mitch Klein. Ray wants out tonight,” I confessed.

Crawford rolled his eyes. ”I'll probably be on desk duty by morning if that guy gets involved. I'm sure somebody's civil rights have been violated or some kind of c.r.a.p like that.” He looked at me. ”How do you know Mitch Klein? He's not the kind of guy you just call out of the blue.”

”Remember Max?” I asked.

”s.e.xy, red-bottomed-shoe girl?” he asked. I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a hint of red flush his cheeks. It looked more like embarra.s.sment than anything else, but I couldn't be sure. Max had that effect on certain men. The good ones, mostly.

”Oh, you noticed?” I asked. ”Well, she and Klein used to date. Or something. Whatever you call it when two rich, successful people spend time together having s.e.x.”

”I think you still call it dating,” he said, smiling. He straightened up in his chair. ”I've got to go.” He stood up. ”Let me take you home.”

I collected my garbage and threw it in the metal trash can by the door. He held the door open for me, and we walked onto the street. In the distance, I could see the river and a couple of boats swaying back and forth in the marina. It was early in the season for boats to be in the water, but a few optimistic sailors had taken a chance anyway. I thought about leaving the house after he dropped me off and going to the river to sleep on one of those boats. Maybe it would drift away in the middle of the night and deposit me in Bermuda. Or, maybe, with the way my luck was going, the police would be called, and I'd end up in jail for breaking and entering. An image of me in the Bedford Correctional Facility wearing an orange jumpsuit and paper shoes popped into my head, and I shuddered.

I saw the Crown Victoria parked in front of the coffee shop. ”Do I have to ride in the cruiser again?”

”It's not a cruiser, and yes, you have to ride in it again.” He walked over to the car and opened my door, waving his hand ceremoniously for me to get in. I got in and closed the door.

The car sagged slightly as he threw his large frame into the driver's seat. He looked over at me and saw that I hadn't put my seat belt on, and like the night before, reached over and pulled the belt from its holder above the door. I was close enough to see the stubble on his cheeks and smell the slightest hint of the clean-laundry smell that I had detected before. Now it was mixed with something muskier, a pleasant smell nonetheless. We were nose to nose; his normally sad expression was replaced by one that either said, ”I am in love with you,” or ”I'm going to fall asleep on you.” I couldn't tell, but I suspected it was the latter. I found myself pus.h.i.+ng my head as far back as I could into the headrest instead of leaning forward, as I probably should have, given our close proximity, my attraction to him, and the situation. I focused on his unders.h.i.+rt. ”You were an altar boy, weren't you?” I blurted out as his left hand pulled the belt over my chest and his right hand dropped onto my upper thigh.

The moment gone, he clicked the belt into the slot and pulled back, a bemused look on his face.

”You knew the words to all of the hymns that were sung at the funeral.”

He turned his body and faced the steering wheel, putting the key in the ignition. ”You talk too much.”

”So I've been told,” I admitted, and looked out my window.

Before he backed out of the spot, he turned on the interior light and took my chin in his hand, turning my face to his. He stared at my lips. ”I don't think you'll get a blister,” he said. ”Put some more ice on that when you get home.” He pulled out of the spot, drove down Main Street, and hung a right onto my street.

”I'm off tomorrow,” he said.

”OK,” I said slowly, not sure why he needed me to know this.

”You have my card, though, so . . .”

”. . . so, I'll call you if I remember anything.” I finished the sentence for him. He seemed afraid to deviate from his cop script, and I didn't want to throw him off.

He pulled up in front of my house. It looked fine from the outside, but I didn't know what to expect when I got inside. ”What does it look like in there?” I asked, my hand on the door handle.

”I made sure that everything was put back. We didn't do our usual ransack.”

”That was nice of you.” I took my seat belt off. ”So, were you?”

He looked puzzled. ”Was I what?”

”An altar boy.”