Heather Graham (7 page)

“I think—” she began.

“You did invite me up,” he reminded her, and before she could say more, he took matters—and the door—into his own hands.

He stepped determinedly past her, and into the living room.

“N
ICE PLACE,” HE TOLD
her, looking around.

It was a nice place. The living area/studio was quite large, twenty by forty, with a small kitchen and island backing the far end and the balcony with the French doors to the left of the entry. Near the kitchenette area, she had her easel and oils set up beneath the skylight that was beginning to spill the brighter hues of the day into the room. She’d managed to keep the feeling of spaciousness and yet add warmth, toward the French doors she had her sofa grouping—French Provincial in keeping with the aura of the city—with a modern entertainment unit set into a handsome antique wardrobe casing. There were two bedrooms opening up from the living room on the far side of the door, one for her, and one for Katie when she was home. But Katie wasn’t home; thankfully, she was off on a college trek into the Amazon. A pre-med student, Katie was studying a genetic disease that was inherited by a particular tribe in the rain forest.

Katie, Ann thought with another stab of pain. If not just for herself and Jon, she had to prove him innocent for their daughter’s sake. Katie adored her father.

“Would you like coffee?” she asked.

“I’d rather like a cup of that coffee you were drinking,” he told her.

She pursed her lips together and walked to the kitchen area, digging the wine from the refrigerator and reaching into a pine cupboard for a wineglass. She hadn’t realized that he was right behind her until he reached past her.

For a water tumbler. He took the wine from her and poured it into his glass. “When in Rome...,” he murmured. “Cheers!”

He swallowed her blush chablis down as if it were water.

“Are you supposed to be drinking on duty?” she demanded.

“I’m not on duty.”

“So what are you doing—looking in my house for the murder weapon on your off hours?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. He poured more wine, then walked out past the small island counter, pausing by her easel. He didn’t ask permission, but cast back the sheet she’d had covering her most recent work. He let out a long whistle like an exhalation, studying the painting. She was nearly finished with it. It was a study of an old Cajun woman she bought flowers from down at Jackson Square each morning. The woman smiled; her warmth seemed to light her eyes. Her face was so weathered it was difficult to discern her racial makeup, but then, she might not have known her own racial makeup anyway, such was the wonder of New Orleans. She was aging, she was worn, she was beautiful within her soul. It was a good painting, Ann thought. One of her best. Nearly finished except for the background.

“I thought Jon Marcel had been working on
Red Light Ladies
,” he said.

“He had.”

“Then—”

She ripped the sheet from his hands, recovering her painting. “This is mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

He might have said something then. A compliment might have been in order. But he didn’t offer one.

“Ah,” he said, sipping his wine more slowly now as he moved about the room. He shook his head.

“Spacious, nice, but feminine,” he said.

“Gee, I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry to me, but doesn’t Jon mind?”

“The room isn’t exactly filled with frills, and no, Jon doesn’t mind. Why should he?”

He shrugged. “It’s just that it’s...very much your room,” he said. “It even smells like your perfume.”

“It’s probably soap, since I just stepped from the shower. You could use some, you know.”

He arched a brow to her. “Maybe I am acquiring something of an unwashed, manly smell.”

“Maybe you simply need a shower.”

“Is that another invitation?”

“Yes, I’m inviting you to go home, Lieutenant, drink in your house, and bathe for your own well-being.”

He smiled again, looking around the room. He walked toward the sofa.

“Thinking of lifting the cushions to look for the knife?”

“Should I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

To her amazement, he grinned, and lifted the cushion next to him. Ann muttered and strode back into the kitchen, pouring herself more of the wine. If she didn’t do so, he might stay until he’d consumed the rest of the bottle on his own. He was already tearing up the place on her.

“So where is hubby’s work?” he asked her.

“What?”

“Your husband’s work. He can’t have everything in a gallery, can he? Do artists need separate space or something? Different vibes?”

Frowning, she walked slowly back out to where he sat—sprawled, rather—on the sofa.

“Hubby’s work is at hubby’s home,” she said calmly.

His brow shot up with surprise. “You keep separate residences?”

“We do.”

He shook his head. She saw that edge of contempt she had seen before at the hospital harden his steady gaze upon her. “Lady, I’ve got to admit it—I just don’t get you. I mean, it’s not as if you were a weathered old crone or the like; you’re a good-looking woman.”

“How kind of you, Lieutenant.”

“You don’t live with the guy, you don’t mind that he dates whores, you—” He broke off suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re not...”

“What?” Ann said.

He shrugged. “He isn’t into the women for you, is he?”

“For me?” Ann repeated blankly. Then she realized what he meant. She wanted to throw something at him. Thank God for her morning wine. She managed to smile instead. She strode pleasantly toward him again, pausing right in front of him.

“Lieutenant, you are an ass. How dare you?”

“Mrs. Marcel, I follow all possible leads. Actually, the idea wasn’t mine. My partner—”

“Your partner, sir, is an ass. But you’re the fool who is sitting here, in my house, spouting out such crude, rude, insulting words. I think it’s time you got the hell off of my sofa, and out of my door.”

“Ah, and without the murder weapon,” he said, still staring frankly at her. He rose, walked by her, set his glass on the island counter, and turned to leave. “Well, Mrs. Marcel, I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Indeed, Lieutenant.”

He strode toward the door.

“Lieutenant.”

He paused, turning slowly back to her, a well-defined auburn brow arching. “Mrs. Marcel?”

“You seem to know so much.”

“Do I?”

She nodded. “Well, let’s see, you seem to
know
that Jon killed this woman. And you seem to know that he must have stashed the murder weapon here somewhere. You know about Jon’s injuries, you know about a trail of blood, and I’m sure you know just exactly how the poor girl died.”

“I do.”

“Well, then, it is amazing that you don’t know that Jon and I are divorced and have been for quite some time. Jon Marcel is the father of my child, Lieutenant, and my very good friend. I do love him, and I do mean to fight for him since he cannot fight for himself; but whom he chooses to date I consider to be entirely his own business. Now, if you don’t mind, please do get the hell out.”

Dark lashes lowered over his gray eyes. He looked up at her again, a rueful, self-mocking smile in place.

“Good morning, Mrs. Marcel. Don’t forget to call me if you think of anything important.”

“Certainly.”

“I’m assuming I can find you at the hospital later if I need you?”

“Lieutenant, you may assume anything you wish.”

“Careful. I can haul you down to the station for questioning.”

“Careful. I can call in my lawyer and you’ll be left holding—” She broke off, determined that she was going to be collected and mature.

An auburn brow arched high against his forehead. His smile, the one she grudgingly admitted to being attractive, slipped onto his lips once again.

“Pardon?” he queried politely. “Did you want to finish that thought.”

“Good day, Lieutenant.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Marcel.” He still hesitated, watching her. “I’m not an art critic, but your painting...it’s excellent, isn’t it?”

She was surprised to discover that she had to smile. “It’s one of my best, I think. Art is always subjective.”

“And you’re good.”

“I make a decent living.”

“What about your husband? Ex-husband,” he corrected.

“He makes a very decent living. He’s going to be able to afford top-notch lawyers, Lieutenant.”

“He’s going to need them, Mrs. Marcel.”

Ann felt a heated trembling snake along her spine. He was tough, tenacious, and determined. If criminals fell through cracks in the system, they weren’t going to do so through lack of effort on his part. This situation was awful enough without having such an enemy opposing her own efforts along the way.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Lieutenant, that you might be wrong?”

He looked down for a moment. She realized that he was actually trying to be gentle with her, and that was more frightening than his downright determination to be blunt. “A trail of blood led from the murder site here.”

“But someone else might have attacked them both.”

“From the evidence we have, such a scenario is not probable.”

“But it’s not impossible.”

He stared at her a long moment. “If you have something to give me, I’ll gladly look in another direction. Do you have something?”

“No,” Ann admitted after a moment. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” he repeated with a frown. “Mrs. Marcel, don’t go sticking your nose into police business—”

“I have your card, Lieutenant.”

“I’m warning you—”

“Don’t go sticking your nose into my business, Lieutenant.”

A pulse at his throat betrayed his anger; he didn’t reply at first. He managed another of his smiles. “If necessary, Mrs. Marcel, I’ll see you at the station.”

With that, he left at last, closing the door behind him with a quiet but definitive click.

Shaking, Ann found her way to the sofa, sinking into it. The lieutenant was dangerous. A murder had been committed; a murderer was going to have to pay. It seemed painfully obvious to everyone that Jon had committed that crime.

He hadn’t.

How can you know that yourself?
she cried inwardly.
How well does one human being ever know another?

He hadn’t killed the girl. Jon hadn’t killed the girl; Jon wouldn’t kill. She did know him.

And she didn’t begin to know how, but she was going to have to prove that he hadn’t done it.

He slept, but his sleep was disturbed by reckless, disjointed dreams.

Gina’s face.

Gina’s eyes.

It wasn’t that he had known her long, but rather that he had known her well. She had been
different
. Maybe not so different. Maybe she had taught him that every poor stiff out there was some mother’s child, and maybe her laughter in the face of all adversity had helped him when he had needed it most. Gina had
believed
. She had believed that her life would change, that love could fill her days. She could dance with enough sensuality for a eunuch to regrow sex organs the way a lizard regrows a tail, but all she really wanted out of life was a white picket fence, two cats in the yard, two kids, a dog, and a husband who came home nights. She had loved to cook, to sew. One day, she was going to do a tour of American amusement parks, ride every roller coaster, zoom down every slide. One day.

“One day” had seemed so very close for her!

“One day” had ended in death.

By eleven, Mark gave up on the concept of sleep. It wasn’t working. He crawled out of bed and into the shower, praying the water would revive him. Scrubbed but feeling lousy, he stumbled out of the shower and headed for his drawer. He paused, seeing Maggie’s picture, and sat wearily down on his bedside.

Funny how he went through life most of the time, never forgetting his wife, but realizing that life did go on, that he had an important job, and that he wasn’t alone. He was lucky. Maggie had left him two boys, Michael, now twenty-six—the surprise of their lives in their junior year of college!—and Sean, twenty-two, getting ready to finish up his senior year in the film school at the University of Miami. The kids were okay; he was okay. Maybe that was Maggie’s greatest legacy to him. It hadn’t been a perfect marriage; no marriage was perfect. But it had been a good one, and he had realized that he loved her just as passionately on the day that he buried her as he had when he married her.

Oddly enough, though, they had been arguing on the day she’d gone to the doctor. She went in because she was getting headaches which he blamed on the fender-bender she had because she’d neglected to get her brakes checked when he’d told her to. He didn’t expect anything serious when she came walking out to the waiting room; in fact, he looked up, smiling, ready to tease her. “Bad headache, huh? I know, no sex for a month, right?”

Then he saw the expression on her face, the anguish in her eyes, the tears brimming within them. She had always been a no-nonsense woman. A good wife for a cop. She had lived with the danger facing him. She was strong. So strong.

She never cried. Not when she received the news of the tumor; not when he broke down and cried himself. The only time tears ever spilled from her eyes was once, just once, near the end. She couldn’t bear to leave her sons, just coming into manhood. She couldn’t bear their tears, nor Mark’s, and so everyone learned to live with the days they had left. They had time, and they talked, and Mark told her once that he could never love again, and she remained quiet, ruffling his hair. “You need to love again; everyone needs to love.” He denied her words, and she had smiled. “Just make sure she’s a good woman, Mark. Because you’re a good man. And you deserve the best. Mark, you’re human. You’ve loved me. We’ve fought, we’ve quarreled, but it’s been good. Don’t punish yourself because we did love one another!” On another occasion she told him, “Don’t be alone too long, Mark. God, I love you. Don’t be alone. Don’t hurt for me the rest of your life. Just remember, never judge a book—or a woman—by a cover!”

Near the end, she had suffered. But at the very end, she had slipped away quietly in his arms, and he and Michael and Sean had been there for one another. That had been almost seven years ago now. He still loved Maggie. And Maggie’s words were what had made him realize there was so much more to Gina on that night when he had nearly arrested her. “Never judge a book—or a woman—by a cover!” Thanks to Maggie, he’d gotten to see what lay beneath Gina’s veneer. And Gina, no matter what she did for a living, had been a good woman, full of life and love.