Charred (7 page)

He knew her life inside out. Lesson one: Never date a detective because he’s going to investigate your past.

Hers was fairly interesting, at least from the standpoint that she was not necessarily television material, but she’d made it work.

Farm girl from Indiana, majoring in telecommunications in college, which was a pretty innocuous degree for most, but she’d had every intention of using it all along, because Rachel was exactly like that. She had a plan, always, and it included television journalism from the very beginning. She had the looks, the poise, and had gone back to graduate school and was now a professor at the University of Wisconsin.

Impressive.

He hadn’t fared nearly as well and should have done much better.

Ivy League background. Made detective when he was still fairly young …

After fifteen years on the force there had been an incident that resulted in an investigation by internal affairs, a stinging slap on the wrist in the form of a temporary suspension, then the demotion. He’d been a little out of line maybe … it would be better if he could remember that particular evening more clearly. When a detective is called out, even if the charge is dropped, it really hurts his career.

Still, obviously the burning was one of the cases that had been open when he was reprimanded, and he’d always regretted it. Like unfinished business, that loose thread left dangling, the door you weren’t sure latched securely behind you and nagged at you until you picked up the phone to get one of the neighbors to check …

Gambolli’s was busy, which didn’t surprise him, even on a holiday when so many people were doing the great American cookout. It was easily one of the best restaurants in town. He’d ordered rigatoni with sausage and a marinara sauce, and predictably Rachel had gotten broiled fish and a salad. There was a reason her figure was still trim. The food arrived, whisked into place by an efficient waiter who actually had an Italian accent, and Carl picked up his fork before saying, “The last time the neighborhood was different. I wonder why.”

“You aren’t assigned this case, Grasso.”

The pasta was good, spicy but not too much. He really wasn’t fond of green peppers if they were cooked, but like this, they tasted good. “The chief thinks maybe I can help.”

“Does he?” Her eyes took on a speculative glint he recognized. “Metzger wants you on this?”

“Not officially.”

“What does that mean? So … in your spare time you want to do extra police work?”

He thought about that big, spacious house he’d inherited. The swimming pool in the backyard with the brick patio, how he’d had all the windows replaced last year, the kitchen remodeled; the lawn care service that came twice a week. But it was, essentially, empty except for him rattling around in it in the evenings and on his days off. Most people would be envious, but in truth, it just all bored him. A personal flaw probably, but he had others that were worse. He said succinctly, “Yes.”

Her dress had thin straps and her shoulders were bare and dappled with freckles. He liked women who didn’t need to lather themselves in cosmetics, and her natural beauty had always appealed to him.

“You know what,” she said quietly, giving him a level look. “I’ve never been sure if this case drew me, or if it was more how you might handle it.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It’s always interesting having dinner with a killer.” Her eyes were steady across the table.

Even more so sleeping with one?

He’d always wondered. They’d never really talked about this outright before.

“Feel free to clarify.” He took a bite of pasta and tried to ignore that she’d struck a nerve. He thought about it as they ate, remembering how she was in bed, wondering if he had scared her a little at times, not that he’d been rough with her, but he was … “forceful” might be the right word. Maybe he made love with an agenda, like he did everything else. Some women liked it, some did not. She sure seemed to at the time.

“It was neat and clean,” Rachel murmured, “and no one could prove a damn thing. But I covered it, and we both know that what happened that night wasn’t self-defense.”

He took a sip of wine before he responded, the movement deliberate, before he said pleasantly, “Prove it.”

“I’m not interested in proving it. And lucky for you, neither was Metzger, most probably because you are an extremely talented investigator. Tell me, were the consequences worth it?”

Were there regrets? Not on his side. But he’d never admitted it, not to anyone, and he doubted he ever would, not even to Rachel. He picked up his napkin, touched it to his mouth, and then smiled. “Everything we do in this life has repercussions, you know that as well as I do. I can’t change what happened that night. It happened, it’s over, and dwelling on whether I was right or in the wrong is pointless. I was not charged with a crime, which I’m sure you remember because as you just said, you covered that media circus.”

Sometimes death was meaningless, like what had happened to his parents. And sometimes death was perfect, symbolic, and just.

He liked the latter scenario much better.

She leaned forward and spoke softly, just loud enough he could hear her over the bustle of the busy restaurant. “I could never find it, but there’s a connection between you and that girl who was attacked. The truth is, once I met you, I didn’t look very hard because I was so sure of it. If I found it, I’d have to make a pretty difficult decision and so it was an easier path to set aside the reporter for the woman.”

“I happen to like the woman,” he said in the same low tone, a slow smile surfacing. There had been the chance, all along, that someone would put two and two together, but he’d known it going in, and Rachel was the most likely to dig deep enough. She was very good at her job. It wasn’t why he started sleeping with her, but it was part of the equation.

However it had all gone down, he’d been right, in his mind.

It still made him a killer, and what bothered him a little about the entire thing was that she liked it, liked the edge, liked that he was dangerous. He’d gotten that from their first meeting.

What did that say about
her
?

*   *   *

Jason loathed the party.

It didn’t really surprise him, as he hadn’t expected to like it, but it was worse than he expected. Of course, it didn’t help he was underdressed. He’d expected maybe a little beach volleyball and some beer on ice when he heard it was going to be on the lake, not white cloth-covered tables and waiters with trays of drinks in a high-rise condo that had a rooftop deck overlooking the water.

The view was stunning. The company was not, but that was just his opinion.

Kate naturally looked great in a sundress and glittering sandals, but her casual was apparently not his casual, her dark hair shining, her expression outwardly serene, but he could tell she was annoyed.

Very reasonably, or so he thought, he said, “You could have told me.”

They stood by a row of tropical plants that must take someone hours to water in the heat of this record-breaking summer, looking out over the downtown skyline and the spectacular sunset. She said almost under her breath, “I believe I did say a party at the home of a dean who did his graduate work at Cambridge, England, and who was a Fulbright scholar.”

“You said a party by the lake.” He looked down at his flip-flops. “And I dressed accordingly.”

“God, Jason, you can be so—”

“I spent part of my afternoon in the morgue discussing with the medical examiner the finer points of a murder victim’s anatomy,” he interrupted, not inclined to apologize. He had his faults, but being underdressed seemed like a minor matter to worry about when he thought about that blackened corpse. “I could always leave.”

She sent him a withering look, but then relented. “No, of course not. I’m to blame. I forget sometimes how literal you are.”

Somehow, and he wasn’t the one doing a doctorate in psychology, that made it still sound like his fault. He took a sip of wine, grimaced, because who the hell served white wine on the Fourth of July at a party, and said, “Yeah, well, my job deals with facts. The Milwaukee Police Department prefers that I’m literal. Please tell me there’s a beer here somewhere.”

Kate was, essentially, a great girl. She laughed and took the wineglass from his hand and gestured with it toward a corner of the rooftop. “You are such a philistine. Over there. Go.”

He did, still thinking about the case, even as he took out a dripping bottle of Bud Light—thankfully it was all on ice—and popped it open.

A philistine. Yes, well, maybe. He could make a comment or two about her snobbish friends and their academic society gatherings. As for his background, she had no idea. He’d been suitably vague about his past … maybe mentioned that his parents had split when he was young—that meant his mother had walked out when he was five, leaving him with a bewildered father who worked about twelve hours a day at a blue-collar job and had very little patience with the turn of events. In the end they’d managed by virtue of a mutual truce. If Jason didn’t make trouble, he was fed, if peanut butter and jelly counted, and his father was content.

However, when he got into high school the dynamics changed. He’d done it to himself, he knew it—he’d known it at the time. Started drinking, smoking a little weed, nothing big, but just enough to annoy the shit out of his old man.

That had backfired in a big way. Looking back he thought it might have been a bid for some attention, but at the time he told himself he was just having a good time. Skipping so much school meant he was called in to the principal’s office one time too many, he graduated at the lower end of his class, and his father had kicked him out that very day.

He’d learned a thing or two on the street, so the experience actually helped now that he was a police officer, but it had been a hard way to earn it.

“So you’re Kate’s cop.”

He was in the act of taking a long drink and he turned to see a man standing a few feet away. Young, late twenties maybe, dressed in a polo shirt, tailored slacks, and what looked like Italian loafers at a swift assessment, with brown hair swept back in a fashionable cut. Perfect teeth bared in a smile.

Jason really despised people with perfect teeth. His past didn’t include braces, but luckily he only had one really crooked tooth and he’d been told it gave his face character. He replied, “I kind of like to think of her as mine rather than the other way around, but whatever. Yeah, I’m Detective Santiago. And you are?”

“Not nearly as high on testosterone.” The guy extended his hand, the other one cradling a glass of wine. “Brian Wilfong. Just wanted to say hello. I’ve never met a homicide detective before. Kate talks about you all the time.”

All right. He’d concede he came off a little aggressive. Jason said, with more effort at politeness, “I take it you work together?”

“In the same graduate program.” The other man took a sip of wine and regarded him with a bit of amusement, the light wind ruffling his hair. “From a psychological viewpoint, you don’t seem her type.”

“But you don’t know me.”
Asshole
. He didn’t add it, but really wanted to, except he could tell Kate was already pissed off at him.

“Good point. I just meant the job. She’s very cerebral.”

Cerebral. Who the hell talks like that?

He pointed out in his most pleasant voice, “Police officers have to actually think, believe it or not. Solving crimes requires it.”

Brian looked amused, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Point taken.”

Competition? All at once, he thought so. Kate was attractive; if
he
didn’t think so, they wouldn’t be living together.

“Hey, nice to meet you.” Wilfong—what kind of a name was that?—walked away.

Jason watched him go, thinking about how much he despised so-called intellectuals who thought they were superior just because of a few letters after their name. He and Kate were having a few problems … maybe Brian was one of them.

The lake was busy, lights on the boats sending glimmers over the water, and soon the fireworks would go off, and really, as much as he felt out of place, from this view, it was no doubt going to be spectacular.

All in all, Jason decided as he took a look at the well-dressed crowd, he’d rather be investigating the case. What did that say about him?

Maybe one day he’d ask Kate, the psychologist.

Except he was a little afraid to hear the answer.

Chapter 6

Almost dawn. That promising glimmer on the horizon. The subtle outline of the building next door taking shape was like a ghost, only a hint at first, but something was out there. The faint burned smell of coffee filled the room, the glowing light on the machine a red eye in the darkness. Coffee smelled good when it was brewed, but like crap when it sat there for hours.

My old man used to drink it morning, noon, and night.

For years I couldn’t walk into a breakfast place without a twist in my stomach at that smell, like a belly punch. Needless to say, I don’t like to be reminded of him. I’ve gotten over it, luckily, and so I poured myself another cup and went back to my window.

Resilience is a gift. A person can really adjust to almost anything, I’ve found.

Almost. Maybe adjust is the wrong word. Acclimate works better.

JULY 5

Ellie slowly stirred
her cup of coffee, tasted it, and then added more sugar. Watching the fireworks had been nice the night before, but unfortunately she’d been late—too late for the cookout, but Bryce’s parents had been gracious about that. As soon as she met them for the first time she could see where their son got his easygoing demeanor. That was all well and good, but she’d been starving. He’d made her a sandwich at about eleven o’clock, when he’d finally asked her if she’d had a chance to eat, and even though she’d stayed the night with him, she’d been way too tired for anything except falling asleep the minute she crawled into bed.