Cold Hit (25 page)

The suitcases were off-loaded to the luggage rack, and Jake lifted his bag out so we could walk to the car. I carried his jacket and briefcase under one arm, taking hold of his left hand with my right. “You’ll get a full report this evening. I’ve been ordered to take today off, so if you don’t talk to me about the gross national product or global warming or the Japanese commodities market, I won’t bore you with the twists and turns in my murder case.”

“There’s nothing boring about it. What’s been happening?” he asked, as I opened the trunk to put the bag inside.

I put my index finger up to my lips, whispered “
Ssssssssssssshhh
,” and slipped behind the wheel of the Miata. “I’m taking you for a ride. Just relax and enjoy the scenery.”

We left the airport and started up-island. After about a ten-minute ride on the South Road, I turned the car off onto a wide-mouthed dirt drive, unmarked and unpaved and full of rutted holes that threatened to devour the small car.

“Am I being kidnapped?” Jake asked, tousling my hair. “Nobody at the network will ransom me, you know. Take me away now and you’ll be stuck with me forever.”

The brush was thick on both sides of the way, and we bounced along the winding path for more than a mile until we came to a fence attached to two wooden posts, which seemed to be standing on guard in the middle of nowhere. I took a key from the glove compartment, got out of the car to unlock the gate, drove through, and locked it again behind us.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” he asked with a laugh. “I’m exhausted. Quite frankly, I was hoping for a long, hot shower in your fancy new digs, and then — well, something in the way of a warm welcome stateside.”

“I promise you’ll feel like a new man after this. You’ve got to trust me.”

After a few more seconds I went around a bend, and ahead of us we saw the flat stretch of the dusty long green grass of the wetlands, and a pond populated only by a handful of swans. Beyond that were the rolling dunes of South Beach, merging into the wide-open expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

There were a couple of other cars parked at the entrance to Black Point Beach, on one of the most exquisite summer days. “What’s with the gate and key? Where is everybody?”

There are only two states in the country, Maine and Massachusetts, in which you can own beachfront property to the mean low-water mark. As a result, the Vineyard was dotted by vast lengths of ocean beaches that were privately held and not accessible to the general public. This was one of them — more than a mile in length — and I had bought a piece of it when I purchased the house, more than a decade ago.

“Better than a shower. Let’s go for a swim.”

I parked the car, grabbed two towels from my tote, and ran to the footpath that led over the dunes, kicking off my moccasins and telling Jake to do the same with his loafers. We reached the peak together and stood looking out at the wide belt of white sand and the white-capped blue water that seemed to go on forever.

“Great, Alex. You think I didn’t see enough of the Pacific, that I needed this today?”

“Don’t be such a grouch. Get those rags off you — c’mon, hurry up.”

“There are people—”

I lifted my sunglasses and peered down the beach. “It looks like there are maybe four stick figures between here and Edgartown,” I said, turning to Jake and unbuttoning the business shirt that he had worn on the plane, while he stood with his hands on his hips. I reached for his waistband, drew off his belt, and unzipped his pants.

“Well, I guess if they won’t recognize that you’re the sex crimes prosecutor from the big city, they won’t have a clue that the tired, naked guy you’re molesting is a newscaster.” Jake finished taking off his clothes while I lifted my T-shirt over my head and dropped my shorts on the sand. I ran down to the water’s edge, hesitated for a moment as the cold surf dashed against my feet, then dove into the sixty-eight-degree water and started swimming straight out, away from shore.

By the time I picked my head up and turned back to look for Jake, he had overtaken me with a strong crawl stroke.

“Isn’t this glorious?” I asked. I swam to him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and we played our mouths against each other as we bobbed in the endless roll of waves.

“I feel like I’m about fifteen years old — and I like it.”

There was nothing quite like the sensation of the brisk salty water against bare skin. Swimming naked in the ocean ranks among the world’s best pastimes. I set myself a course parallel to the beach and swam back and forth until I had done almost fifty laps. The undertow was getting more fierce as the tide started going out, so I reluctantly dove under a big breaker and went up on the sand to join Jake, who thought the water was too cold for a long swim.

“I’m exhausted just watching you.”

“Harrison High School swim team. Hundred-meter crawl and anchor of the relay. Don’t ever try to get away from me by taking a water route.” I stood behind him, steadying myself on his shoulder as I put my shorts back on.

“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” he said, grabbing my knee and kissing the still-damp back of my calf. He pulled on his trousers and we walked slowly over to the car, arms entangled, drying in the breeze as the early afternoon wind shifted and kicked up a bit.

Once on the main road again, I was conscious of driving too fast and tried to slow myself down. The outdoor shower was behind the house, its oversized head curtained only by a couple of old lilac bushes. I soaped up and washed off all the sand before going into my bedroom through the sliding door off the rear deck.

Jake did the same, following me in and pulling me toward him, onto the pale blue cotton sheets that covered the bed. “If dreaming counts, then I’ve made love to you over and over again all these last two weeks — in hotel rooms, on airplanes, every time I closed my eyes.”

“It doesn’t count at all,” I said teasingly. “I didn’t feel a thing.” I reached an arm across his chest and he raised my face to his, his tongue reaching in to taste mine. He ran his hands up and down the length of my thighs as I wrapped my leg inside his. We kissed and rolled and laughed and touched for as long as we could both stand to, and then Jake entered me and told me that he loved me.

For the next hour we rested on the cool sheets while I explored the surfaces of his body, which seemed so pale next to my own.

“Aren’t you going to answer your phone?” he asked me when it rang.

“Let the machine get it.”

“Coop? It’s me. Are you okay? Nothing urgent, but I wanted to make sure you got up there without any trouble. I started beeping you an hour ago but—”

It was Chapman’s voice speaking into the recorder, so I grabbed the receiver from beside the bed. “Hi, Mike. Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.” For some reason that I didn’t understand, it made me feel uneasy to be lying in bed with Jake while I was talking to Mike, with whom I had had such a close and complicated relationship for so long.

“For chrissakes, why didn’t you call us back? Me and Mercer have been worried about you after last night. Whaddaya trying to scare us for?”

I glanced over at Jake. I hadn’t yet told him the story about the week’s events. “I apologize. Actually, I never even heard the beep. I stopped off at the beach for a swim and left the beeper in the car. My fault — I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t tell me, Coop. Your new man’s into that
From Here to Eternity
crap. Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr on the beach, waves washing up over them as they make love on the shore. That it? Too much sand in the crotch for me, kid. I’d rather—”

“Grow up,” I snapped into the phone as I slammed it down on the table.

“Friend of yours?” Jake asked jokingly.

“A very good one, actually. One of the detectives on the Denise Caxton case.”

“Remind me not to cross you. Why did you hang up on him?”

“Some other time,” I said, leaning back and caressing Jake as I did.

“Have you made a reservation for dinner? I’d love to grab a nap before we go out.”

“Even better. I thought you might enjoy a good home-cooked meal.”

Jake looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m really confused. What time zone am I in? Who
are
you?”

“While you’re resting I’m going to sneak out for half an hour, and by about eight thirty tonight we’ll have a candlelit dinner for two.” I wasn’t proud of the fact that I couldn’t cook, but it was the truth.

“A little more exercise, and then you might lose me for a few hours,” Jake said, pulling me over on top of him and starting to arouse me again. “Put every one of those bad guys out of your mind, Alexandra Cooper. This weekend you’re all mine.”

When I finally rested in his arms, half an hour later, we both fell sound asleep. Shortly before six o’clock I showered and dressed and headed down the road. In the little village of Menemsha, less than ten minutes away, I could forage for an entire gourmet meal with no more effort than a few phone calls and a quick ride.

My first stop was the Bite, where I picked up a steaming quart of clam chowder and a side order of the world’s best fried clams. True to form, the Flynn sisters had the most-up-to-the-moment island gossip. “Heard you got a real looker with you for the weekend. Is it really that guy on the evening news?” Karen asked.

“He hasn’t even been out of my house yet. Who’s spreading this one?”

She pointed at her sister. “Jackie’s best friend works at the Cape Air counter. She called as soon as you picked him up. Bringing him for lunch tomorrow?”

“What, and lose him to one of you two? See you.”

A quarter of a mile farther, I pulled into the narrow space beside Larsen’s Fish Market. One of the best services on the island was provided by Betsy and Chris. You could call in the morning, place an order for lobsters, and pick them up at the appointed hour — all cooked, split, and cracked — ready to serve and eat. I could place them in the oven to keep warm, and then serve up the two-pounders anytime I wanted. I went next door, to Poole’s, for a few fresh oysters from Tisbury Great Pond. Last stop was the Homeport Restaurant, right on the edge of the harbor, where I stopped at the back door and bought a Key lime pie from Will for dessert.

When I returned home, I shucked the corn and put the water up to boil, poured the chowder into a pot to reheat it later on, and tucked the pie into the refrigerator to keep it chilled.

It was almost eight o’clock when Jake woke up, shaved and showered, and dressed for dinner. The red ball of the sun was setting off to the west as we sat on the deck and sipped our drinks. I listened to the details of the China trip and Jake’s descriptions of the meetings he’d had, the personalities he had met, and the opinions he had formed during his travels. For me it was fascinating to get inside a world so foreign to my own, and to contrast the problems of the witnesses’ lives in a single criminal case to the global problems he studied every day.

I disappeared into the kitchen to stir the pot, lit the candles in the dining room, and opened a bottle of ’ 91 Puligny-Montrachet. “Why don’t you come in and sit down?” I asked, dishing up the thick chowder and carrying it to the table.

With Smokey Robinson singing in the background, we feasted on the delicacies of a Chilmark summer, talking and laughing as we devoured the food. As best as I could I tried to explain the events of the week since Deni Caxton’s death, walking Jake through the steps of the investigation to date. “No more of this tonight or you’ll have bad dreams,” I said, pouring decaf with a serving of the pie.

“Have you made any plans? Outing us to any of your pals this weekend?”

“Everyone, Jake. It’s August on the Vineyard — I don’t have much choice, do I?” The usually tranquil island more than quadrupled in population with summer people, and it was an opportunity for me to be with friends from all over the country — some of whom I rarely saw all winter — when I came for a weekend or vacation.

“What’s the drill?”

“We’re teeing off with Janice and Richard at Farm Neck, eight a.m. Louise Liberman and Maureen White are giving a cocktail party in the evening, and we’re invited to stay on for dinner.” It had amazed me, when Jake and I first met, to discover how many people we knew in common. Those with whom I had social relationships of long standing, he had gotten to know through his position in the media. Somehow it made us seem even more connected than the short months we had known each other would indicate. I looked forward to letting everyone see how happy I was to be with him.

“Will the president and Mrs. Clinton be there tomorrow night?”

“Not sure, but I know they’re invited. I hope so.”

“Let’s clean up this mess and go to sleep.”

I held his face and kissed him on the forehead. “Go inside. This is the part I do really efficiently. I’ll join you in ten minutes.”

By the time I cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and straightened up the kitchen, Jake was spread-eagled, face down on the bed. I folded my clothes and placed them in my armoire, slipping in beside him and raising the comforter over us against the soft night wind that always makes my hilltop such an easy place for sleeping. I don’t remember any tossing and turning after my head came to rest on the pillow.

I was startled by the sharp ring of the telephone. Light was just appearing on the horizon as I picked it up and spoke softly into it. It could not have been much later than 6 a.m. “Hello?” I asked somewhat disoriented, perhaps by the hour, perhaps because of too much wine with my dinner.

“Alex, it’s Mercer. The lieutenant insisted on me calling you. Said you raised a stink last time you read it in the newspaper without a heads-up from us.”

“Don’t worry, he’s right. What is it?” I sat up as Jake raised his head and rested it on his elbow, massaging his eyelids with his thumb and middle finger.

“West Side — Eighty-sixth Street. Our man just hit again early this morning, about an hour after midnight. Got a twenty-year-old kid going into her building. Raped her, beat her up pretty bad when she tried to resist. I hate to do this, but can you come on back into town?”