Killer Heels (16 page)

Leaving the Yankees fans in what passes for the living room of my apartment, I went into the bedroom, ostensibly to retrieve the box of stuff. What I really went to do was to hide the key and the picture of Teddy and Yvonne in my sweater drawer. I knew I wasn’t going to give the picture to Edwards, not until I had an explanation for why it didn’t draw a big red arrow to Helen and her guilt. I had the feeling that the key was equally treacherous. And on the off chance that either man wound up passing through my bedroom, for any reason at all, I wanted the photo and the key out of sight.

I picked the box up out of the chair where I’d dumped it when I’d come home from work. The thing to do was to march out into the living room, give the box to Edwards, and tell them both to go home. That was the prudent course of action. But, come on. If we always chose the prudent course of action, life wouldn’t be nearly as interesting and I, for one, would be out of a job.

I lifted the lid off the box and looked again at what remained of Teddy’s personal effects. I’d gotten rid of the condoms. More precisely, I’d stuffed them in an envelope and mailed them to Planned Parenthood’s Manhattan office, hoping they might actually do some good there. Not that they hadn’t done some good by preventing more Teddys, but I was thinking of a greater good here. I had even thought about mailing them to the Manhattan Archdiocese, but I figured I was racking up plenty of karmic problems without actively seeking them out.

I poked around one last time, but there didn’t seem to be anything else in the box that could embarrass Helen or tarnish Teddy or trip me up. Plus, the longer I took, the more suspicious Edwards was going to get. Or worse, the more he might bond with Peter. So I took a deep breath and carried the box back out to the living room.

I half-expected them to be drinking beer and scratching themselves. It was possible, because I do keep beer in my fridge, two brands even: Tsingtao, because wine doesn’t go with Chinese food, and Dos Equis, because Mexican carryout cools off too fast anyway and it just dies if you stop to make a margarita. To my relief, they were neither chugging nor scratching. They were having a far too earnest conversation about how you compare pitchers today, when no one ever pitches more than six innings, with pitchers from the “good ol’ days” when guys would rupture their shoulders for love of the game. At least Peter wasn’t grilling Edwards about the case.

Then again, maybe Peter was just waiting for me so I could observe his keen journalistic techniques in action. Because as I put the box down on my coffee table, Peter stopped and stared at the box with that slightly wide-eyed look little boys get when told they’re about to catch a glimpse of a dead animal, particularly one that’s begun to decompose. Repulsed, yet attracted. I don’t know that they ever outgrow that phase; they might just learn to hide it better. “Teddy’s effects, huh?”

“Desk junk,” I assured him.

“The legacies we leave,” Peter pursued, leaning forward to peek into the box.

I made myself laugh as I made big shoo-shoo gestures in his face and forced him to sit back into his slouch on the sofa, but I really wanted to smack his hand away. This time, I wasn’t protecting my story or Edwards’ investigation. I just had a sudden urge, maybe a flashback to a life as a temple guard in El Giza, to keep unworthy hands away from what was left of a man’s life.

Edwards looked at me rather than at the box. I met his gaze with as neutral an expression as those blue eyes would permit and tried my darnedest not to think about the picture and the key. Besides, if he wasn’t going to read my mind and help me out at the restaurant, he didn’t get to leaf through my thoughts now. “This everything?” he asked.

“Other than some art on the wall,” I answered. “Everything else was files and his assistant Gretchen will have to go through all that. And Brady, his second-in-command. But as far as what belongs to Helen now …” I shrugged.

“Thank you.” Edwards didn’t stand up. That was nice. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave. Unfortunately, Peter looked like he was settling in for a long winter’s nap himself. That was less nice. Fatigue was catching up with me and I didn’t have the energy to play hostess to competing interests. I wanted Peter to go home.

“I’m sorry about all this, Peter,” I ventured. “Guess I owe you a raincheck.”

“Raincheck? It’s early,” he protested, checking his watch. It was only 9:30, plenty of time to still have dinner and really foul things up, but the momentum of the evening was shot for me. I didn’t want to go out again. And I really wanted Peter to go home.

“The last twenty-four hours have been a bit much. I guess I’m more tired than I wanted to admit.” I glanced at Edwards, but he was studying Peter and again, not receiving.

“You need dinner. We’ll bring it in.” Peter reached behind the couch to get the phone from the console table without looking. He was showing off for Edwards, demonstrating how familiar he was with my apartment. “What sounds good? Chinese? Italian? Thai?”

“No. I just …”

“Pizza?”

I can normally eat pizza at any hour of the day or night, hot or cold, thin, thick, or stuffed crust, may the spirit of Dr. Atkins forgive me. But at this particular moment, all I could picture was how the grease coagulates in the pepperoni slices as the pizza cools, which led to the picture of the blood coagulating in the office carpet around Teddy’s body, and I wanted to barf. I shook my head pretty emphatically.

Peter scratched his head with the antenna on the cordless. “Mexican?”

“She’s not hungry.” Edwards said it quietly, but with such authority that both Peter and I took notice. Peter looked from Edwards to me and back, trying to gauge the depth of the connection, if any. I watched his expression carefully, because a third-party reading would be very helpful about now. Edwards glanced up at me and Peter’s eyes followed.

“No, I don’t think I am.” I should have quit there, but my deeply repressed inner Martha Stewart leapt up before I could squelch her. “But if you two want to eat—”

“No, thank you,” Edwards said quietly. He nodded at the phone in Peter’s hand and Peter reached back to set it in the base. But he missed and had to look back over his shoulder to fumble it back into place. I was fascinated by this turn of events. It wasn’t that Peter was intimidated by Edwards, it was simply that Edwards had taken control of the room. He had to be amazing in the interrogation room. Among other rooms.

Peter sat forward on the couch, still watching Edwards. Edwards stood and Peter did, too. Edwards stuck his hand out and Peter shook it with formal restraint. Then he surprised Peter and me by smiling. “Maybe I’m the one who owes you dinner. Sorry to have busted up your date.”

From where I stood, the smile was as effective on Peter as it would have been on me. Something about the wattage of the smile, after he’d been so serious so long, was disarming. Peter smiled back in spite of himself. “Official business, I get it. No harm, no foul.”

“Can I drop you somewhere?” Edwards asked and I chewed the inside of my cheek in disappointment. Peter was going to leave, but so was Edwards.

“No, I’m cool. I’ll get a cab.” Peter blinked a moment as it registered that he had just agreed to leave. He looked at me and I forced a yawn, but it didn’t take much effort. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. And then we all stood there, silent, everyone waiting for someone else to make the first move. I took a step toward the door, Edwards picked up the box, and Peter fell in beside him as we trekked all the way across the room. I felt like I should open the door and then offer my cheek to each of them for a chaste goodnight kiss as they went past. Doris Day would be so proud.

I kept my cheek in check as Edwards passed by. “Thanks again, Ms. Forrester. I’ll be in touch.” He stepped out into the hallway and then looked at his feet as though he wasn’t allowed to watch if Peter was going to kiss me good night.

But Peter was still under the influence of Edwards’ authoritative demeanor and he would’ve sooner kissed me in front of my father than kissed me in front of Edwards. I did my best not to let my amusement show and not to take advantage of his discomfort either. “Sorry again. Talk to you later.”

“Yeah. Good night.” He stepped out into the hallway, gestured to the elevator for Edwards, and started down the hall.

Edwards took three steps after him, then turned back to me. “Ms. Forrester, there was one other thing.”

“Yes?” I said with what I hoped was a proper lack of glee, though glee was trying its best to work its way in.

Peter paused, looking back curiously. Edwards threw him a quick look. “Thanks again. Pleasure talking to you.”

Peter wavered a moment, then took the dignified option. He raised his hand in acceptance, said, “You, too,” and punched the elevator button with focused vigor.

I stepped back, letting Edwards follow me. I closed the door behind him, then hovered near it. Not a time to appear overeager. “Yes, Detective? One more question?”

He didn’t lead me back into the apartment, but he leaned in close. Deliciously close. “How serious are you?”

“About Helen being innocent?”

“About the college crew captain.”

“He didn’t make captain and it haunts him to this day.”

“Answer my question.”

“Why?”

“In my line of work, I’m used to people answering my questions.”

“Aren’t you also used to people lying to you, calling you names, and threatening you?”

“Let’s save that for when we know each other better.”

“Are we going to get to know each other better?”

“Depends how serious you are with Crew Boy.”

“How’d we get back to him?”

“He doesn’t seem like a bad guy and I wasn’t raised by wolves, all rumors to the contrary.” He straightened up, no longer deliciously close. That wouldn’t do.

Now I leaned in, closing the gap back up. “Not that serious. Teetering on the brink of break-up, in fact.”

He fought a smile. “Thank you for the clarification.”

He started to put the box down, but I stopped him. “That was your one question.”

“I’m sure I have others.”

“I’m sure you do, too, but even though Crew Boy isn’t the love of my life, I know him well enough to know that he’s sitting down in the lobby, timing you. And while I might enjoy trying his patience, it wouldn’t be very kind of me.”

To his credit, his smile broadened. “My point exactly. Good night, Ms. Forrester.”

“Good night, Detective Edwards.” I opened the door for him, he shifted the box under his arm, took my face in his free hand and kissed me. Briefly, but firmly. Coming attractions, indeed.

9

“And you let him walk away?” Tricia reprimanded me the next morning. She’d been lying in wait for me in the lobby as I trudged into work and was not very happy with the fact that I had neglected to call her to brief her on “dinner” with Peter. She was even less happy when I told her about Edwards’ appearance. But not so unhappy that she refused to hand over the extra vanilla cappuccino that she’d very thoughtfully brought along for me.

I led Tricia and our candied coffees through the limestone and glass canyon of the lobby and toward the elevator. We needed to get upstairs, not because I was in any hurry to get to work, but because Tricia had a meeting with Yvonne about Teddy’s reception. Yvonne didn’t like to be kept waiting and I didn’t want to be part of anything that was going to upset her. Not that she was going to like being arrested, but that was different.

But first there was the matter of calming Tricia and finishing my story without divulging all my secrets to my fellow elevator riders. “It seemed like the right thing to do,” I whispered, scanning the still-waking faces around me. No one I recognized, fortunately, but you never know who knows someone you know.

“Oh, you and the right thing. It’s going to get you killed and make me crazy,” Tricia hissed.

“In that order?”

“Could be neck-and-neck.”

A few pairs of eyes moved our way, but didn’t linger. They seemed more annoyed that we were talking than interested in what we were saying. So far, so good.

Tricia studied her coffee cup in tightly coiled silence, then said, far more loudly than necessary, “Must not have been much of a kiss.”

Every pair of eyes moved our way. I didn’t have to see them, I could feel them. I could also feel my face reddening in a good old-fashioned, junior-high blush.

Good manners prevented me from throttling my dear friend in the middle of the elevator with all those handy witnesses, so I gritted my teeth until I could march her off at the eleventh floor.

“It was amazing,” I corrected as we proceeded to my desk.

“Then why let him go?”

“Because I was trying to be a lady.”

“Because he’s going to call your mother and report on your behavior after he crawls out of your bed?”

“Tricia, the moment wasn’t right.”

“Oh.” The fight went out of her instantly and she smiled sweetly. Tricia harbors the heart of a true romantic and understands certain basic concepts, like the moment having to be right. “Why didn’t you say so? That I get.” She tapped her coffee cup against mine in a toast of acquiescence.

At this point, I had successfully propelled Tricia all the way to Yvonne’s office and I gratefully leaned against her assistant’s desk for a moment. I hadn’t planned to start my day with an interrogation and I needed to catch my breath. “Fred, she’s your problem now.”

Tricia, ever the good girl, stuck her hand out to Fred, Yvonne’s assistant. “Good morning, I’m Tricia Vincent, I have an appointment with Yvonne.”

Fred Hagstrom is a sweet little guy in a thankless job and he knows it. He also makes sure everyone else knows it. Not that anyone stood much of a chance of ignoring him anyway. Fred has a Truman Capote fixation that hovers somewhere between endearing and annoying. The glasses actually work on him and I suppose it’s his business if he wants to wear linen suits in New York City year round, but in October, you can get cold just looking at him.

“Yvonne’s running a little late,” Fred oozed, squeezing Tricia’s fingertips in greeting. He looked at me, waiting for me to escort Tricia to the kitchen and out of his hair.