Murder in the Aisles (5 page)

Chapter Eight

“But what about the tox screen? Not necessary? And the gash on his head? Fine. Yeah. Thanks.” Mark hung up the phone and stared ahead until the space between his dark eyes creased into a valley.

“Problem?” Eddie asked from the opposite side of his newspaper.

Mark's brows lifted and lowered. He leaned back against the worn leather of his chair and tucked his hands behind his head. “Elaine—the ME says they'd been in touch with Dresden's doc and he claims the old man was being treated for high blood pressure. ME says that based on his history and the preliminary evaluation, the old guy had a heart attack, fell, hit his head…end of story. Without probable cause or a family member demanding more, there's nothing else to be done but declare it death by natural causes.” He blew out a breath. “You know the city is not going to spend what it will cost to run a full set of tests and an autopsy without a damned good reason. Right now they ain't got one.”

Eddie peered at Mark over the top of his paper. “I'd think you'd be sounding more enthusiastic. Cut and dry. End of paperwork. Next case.” He cocked his head to the side and waited.

Mark grunted. “Yeah, yeah. Should be.”

“But?”

“I don't know. Something is bugging me.”

“That librarian?”

Mark's gaze jumped to Eddie's placid expression. “Ahhh…” Eddie waved away his comment, then pushed back from the desk and stood. He took his cell phone off of his desk and walked over to the file cabinet.

When Eddie was out of earshot, Mark pulled his notebook from his back pocket and found what he was looking for. He tapped in the numbers on his phone and listened to it ring. The call connected. He heard some shuffling in the background.

“Dr. Swift.”

“Yeah, hello, Dr. Swift. This is Detective Rizzo.”

“Yes, Detective. Is there any news?”

The husky sound of her voice did something to him, got under his skin and settled down. He loosened his tie.

“I do have some news. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone.”

“Should I come down to the precinct?”

“Actually, I'm about done for the day. I could meet you. What time do you get off?”

There was a beat of hesitant silence.

“In about a half hour,” she finally said.

“So what do you say I meet you out front at five-thirty?”

“Are you sure you can't tell me over the phone?”

“I think it's better if we talk face-to-face.” He heard her soft sigh. He closed his eyes—imagined.

“Fine. I'll be out front at five-thirty.”

He was oddly elated. “See you then.” He grinned at his phone as if it had done something amazing, and then sauntered back to his desk. Leaning over without sitting back down, he turned off his computer and locked his desk drawer. He pocketed the key. “I'm outta here,” he called out to Eddie. “See you in the morning.”

“Hot date?” Eddie quipped as he walked back to his desk with a file in his hand.

Mark stopped and glanced across at Eddie. “What makes you think that?”

“You never leave before seven unless it's a murder or a date. I'm figuring a date.”

Mark's expression creased. “In the morning, man.” He grabbed his coat from the rack by the door and strolled out.

He walked outside to the line of cars parked in front of the precinct. He bypassed his company car and used the key fob to unlock his gray Honda. It wasn't much better than his working vehicle, but at least it had great heat.

While he waited for the engine to warm up, the truth behind what he was doing crawled in the car and sat next to him, daring him almost to ignore what he was really doing. He turned the radio on blast to drown out the annoying voice in his head. “Strictly business,” he muttered as he pulled out of his reserved spot.

The evening traffic made the ten-minute drive longer than usual. Mark checked the digital clock on the dash. 5:38 blinked back at him. His pulse began to race. He banged his palm against the steering wheel when the line of traffic was stopped yet again. He had a good mind to put his spinner on the roof of the car and breeze through this mess.

Mark shook his head sharply. What was he thinking crazy for? Put on his siren just so that he could get to some woman to tell her something he could have said over the phone? Crazy. He gripped the wheel and forced himself to concentrate on the slow-moving traffic and not the stirring in his groin.

At ten minutes to six he pulled up in front of the Library of Congress. No one was out front. There was a thin trail of bundled pedestrians dashing down the street in search of an escape from the biting cold. None of them was Felicia Swift.

Pushing out a breath he dug in his pocket for his phone and scrolled for his last outgoing call. He pressed the green phone icon and listened to the ringing.

“I waited a full five extra minutes. It was much too cold to stand around,” Felicia said instead of hello.

“Totally apologize. The traffic was insane.”

Silence.

He cleared his throat.

“I ducked into the Art and Soul on New Jersey Avenue, N.W. Do you know the place?”

“No. But I can find it. Give me the address.”

“415 New Jersey Avenue, N.W.” She paused. “It's inside the Liaison Capitol Hill Hotel.”

Mark tapped the address into his GPS and froze for an instant when he heard the word
hotel
. “Yeah, got it,” he managed, pulling himself together. “See you in a few.”

“I'll be at the bar.”

The call disconnected before he could respond. GPS read less than five minutes. This time he intended to make it. Six minutes later he was turning onto New Jersey Avenue, N.W. The hotel loomed on his right.

For some odd reason his hands were sweating. He wiped them on his gray wool coat, then stuck his police placard in the windshield and got out.

There was no reason for the lascivious thoughts that were trooping through his head and stirring his libido. Simply because she'd invited him to meet her at a restaurant in a hotel didn't mean anything. Right? It was his fault that they weren't meeting on the steps of the library. No reason to read more into it than what was in front of him. He was a detective that dealt in facts, although he'd been known to let his gut direct him.

He climbed the three steps to the entrance of the boutique hotel. A hotel staffer who asked if he could help approached him. Instinctively and just to get a rise out of the staffer, he flashed his badge. The young man turned crimson.

“I'm looking for someone.” He paused for effect. “Art and Soul. Where is it?”

The young man, whose name tag read Josh, quickly sputtered out the directions and even volunteered to show Mark the way.

“That won't be necessary.” He peered at his nametag. “Josh. You've been a great help.” He clapped him on the shoulder and then headed in the direction of the restaurant, barely able to contain his laughter. Every now and then he had to find ways to release some of the tension of the job. Poor Josh just happened to be his release.

The dim mood lighting of the swanky lobby—with its low smoked glass tables, embraced by cushy, purple armchairs and loveseats arranged in conversational groupings—dimmed even further when he stepped into Art and Soul.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and take in his surroundings. The restaurant was of average size with banquettes as well as round tables that could seat two or six. The seating was arranged around a circular bar that was the showpiece of the space. The double-sided Plexiglas shelving in the center of the bar was stocked with top-of-the-line wine and liquor and gave the setup a surreal feeling of looking into a mirror, except the reflection was not your own, but a person on the other side of the see-through divide.

“Good evening,” the hostess greeted, materializing out of the dimness. “Can I show you to a table, or would you prefer to sit at the bar?”

Mark gave her a quick once-over. Early twenties, five-six, hundred and five pounds, dark roots, blonde hair, green eyes. He smiled down into her practiced expression. “I'm meeting someone at the bar. But thank you…Carrie.” He watched her flush, her smile shifting from corporate greeting to tentative invitation while her long lashes dipped over her green eyes.

“Enjoy your evening,” she said with a bit too much purr in her voice. She turned and walked slowly away.

“Do you always have that effect on young unsuspecting girls?”

Goose bumps ran up his spine at the edgy huskiness of the voice that had filtered into his dreams. He turned, his expression fixed and impassive.

“Dr. Swift.”

“Detective Rizzo.”

Her eyes seemed to taunt him. He tried to find one thing about her that said librarian. It wasn't the fashion-forward camel-colored wool coat, or the form-fitting black wrap dress beneath, or the come-hither black leather thigh-high boots or the face of an angel with the voice of sin. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long this time.”

“I'm starved,” she said as if she could care less about whatever he'd just said. “We should get a table—away from the crowd so that we can talk in private.”

Was he fucking hypnotized or what? Because the next thing he was aware of was helping her into her seat and stealthily inhaling her perfume.

A waiter was at their table within moments to take their drink order.

“Apple martini, frozen, please,” Felicia said. She settled back in her seat and under the light Mark realized that the dress wasn't black but a deep navy blue.

“And for you, sir?”

He tore his gaze away from the bird-like flutter at the base of her exposed throat and turned his attention to the waiter.

“Dewar's, neat.”

“Right away.” He quickly blended in with the ambiance and was gone.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

Felicia's gaze remained level and unreadable. She folded her slender hands atop the table.

Mark planted his feet firmly beneath him and leaned slightly forward, resting his arms on the table just as the waiter returned with their drinks. Mark raised his glass and Felicia did the same. He took a sip, let it slide down his throat, then rested the glass on the table. “I spoke with the ME, this afternoon.”

Felicia blinked slowly. She took a sip of her martini.

“The thing is, Elaine, I mean the ME, has been in touch with Dr. Dresden's physician.” He explained what he'd already told Eddie. He studied her expression, which hadn't changed. “His doc came in and ruled it a heart attack.”

Felicia inhaled sharply, the only sign that she'd registered what he'd said.

“I'm sorry, but it's like I said all along.”

Her gaze had drifted away then suddenly zeroed in on him. The penetration of her eyes held him immobile. “And you believe that?”

To Mark, her question sounded more like an accusation than an inquiry. “I have no reason not to.”

“Elaine.” She gave him a look. “The medical examiner, who from your tone is a close friend, isn't going to take it any further?”

“No, I'm sorry. She won't. Not without good reason. The state won't bear the cost of unnecessary autopsies and tests without cause or a request from a family member. And to be truthful, Dr. Swift, we don't have cause.”

Felicia raised her glass and finished off her martini in two long swallows before putting the glass down. She lifted her chin and frowned ever so slightly. “The steak is excellent,” she said.

For an instant Mark glimpsed a fragment of vulnerability that weakened her bottom lip and dimmed the fire in her eyes. But just as quickly it was gone, as if he could have simply imagined it. Felicia Swift was a convoluted mixture of icy cold reserve and lava hot sexiness. How could two opposing forces of nature reside in one incredible body?

They placed their dinner orders and second drinks and made small talk before they segued into chatting about their respective occupations.

“Did you always want to be a cop?”

Mark grinned. He flicked his brow. “Not really. I thought I was going to be a professional football player,” he said on the tail of a light laugh.

“Really?”

“Yep. Had a college scholarship.”

“So what happened?”

He exhaled. “I was good, really good. NFL scouts had me on their radar. Then in my second year at Duke, I got hit, knocked unconscious. Concussion, dislocated shoulder and a cracked collarbone.” He pointed to the barely there scar above his right brow. “Doctor said I was lucky. When I was laying up recovering, I knew I didn't want to get hit like that ever again.”

“You'd rather get shot at.”

He laughed. “The transition wasn't that direct. I dropped out of college and joined the marines. Did a year as an M.P., and it piqued my interest. Got out and went back to school to study criminology.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. Was it admiration? He couldn't be sure.

“Did an internship at the local precinct and ride-alongs with two of the hardest-working cops in the district. They actually cared about getting the real garbage off the street. So,” he shrugged, “the rest is history.”

“I'm still trying to imagine you in your football uniform,” she said with a teasing smile.

“Ha! Not all of my heroics are on these mean streets.”

“I'm sure you've seen your share of…ugliness in your line of work.”

He nodded and cut into his steak. He forked a piece into his mouth and chewed slowly. “Hmm, you were right. This is good.” He chewed another piece. “Yeah, I've seen my share and then some.” He sprinkled some black pepper on his mashed potatoes. “What about you?”

Felicia savored her green beans and washed them down with sips from her second martini. “Not much to tell, really.”

“I don't believe that.” He leaned toward her. He ran his gaze over her face, then angled his head to the side. “I figure you as an only child, a prodigy of some sort. Spent a lot of time with books instead of people.” He watched her lush lips tighten and knew he had hit the mark.