The Switch (22 page)

"Ms. Lloyd?" The last person to approach her was a woman in her mid-fifties. She had a stout but compact figure, an air of efficiency, and a kind face. "My name is Linda Croft. I work at the Waters Clinic. Your sister was a lovely person. I only met her a few times, so I hope you don't think it's presumptuous of me to attend her service."

"Not at all, Ms. Croft. I appreciate your coming."

"I can't believe she's dead. I just saw her earlier this week." "In fact, the day before she was killed she was at the clinic,
wasn't she?"

"So you knew that she was our patient?"

"I knew that she'd been artificially inseminated. You're not
divulging any confidential information. My twin and I had no secrets."

"The resemblance between you is uncanny," the woman observed. "When I saw you in the chapel, it took my breath. I

thought the news about her murder must have been a dreadful mistake."

"If only it were."

Linda Croft reached out and touched her arm. "I'm very sorry for you. It's a dreadful loss."

"Yes, it is." Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Jem. He was waiting impatiently in the parking lot, waving her toward the car. It had begun to sprinkle. He popped open an umbrella. A bright red one. She would never see the color again without thinking about words written in blood. Staving off a
sudden chill, she said, "Thank you again for coming, Ms. Croft."

"I thought we'd had our share of tragedy at Waters. After what happened to the Anderson baby. Oh, dear. I hope I haven't been monopolizing you." To explain her abrupt switch of subjects, Linda Croft nodded toward a tall, retreating figure. "I'm afraid I kept him from speaking to you. He'd been hanging back, waiting for me to finish. I shouldn't have rambled on."

Christopher Hart was moving along the sidewalk. He was taking no precaution against the light rain falling on him. In fact, he seemed not to notice it, but was intent only on leaving. Ignoring Jem as he moved past him, he didn't break stride until he reached the drivers' door of a snazzy, sleek, two-seater sports car. He unlocked it with a remote control on
his key ring, then slid into the low seat. The engine roared to life and he drove away.

"...kidnapping a few months ago, Ms. Lloyd?"

"I'm sorry?" She brought the woman back into focus.

Christopher Hart had been waiting to speak to her? What would he have said?

"The newborn taken from the hospital?" After having pointed out Christopher Hart to her, Linda Croft had picked back up where she'd left off. "The Andersons were our patients, too. I'm not divulging anything private here, either. It was in the news. The couple had tried to conceive for years and finally resorted to artificial insemination. Our excellent doctors were successful on the second try. I've never seen two people happier. Then a day after their baby was born, he was kidnapped."

"I remember now. Was the child ever found?"

"Not last I heard." Looking worried, Linda Croft said, "I shouldn't have brought it up. You've got enough grief in your own life. God bless you, Ms. Lloyd."

"Who was that?" Jem asked as he assisted her into his car. "I thought she was never going to let you go."

"Her name is Linda Croft."

"Friend of yours?"

"She works at the Waters Clinic. She said she thought highly of Gillian and wanted to come and tell me how sorry she was for my loss."

Jem nodded absently. "Did you see him?"

"Him, meaning Chief?"

He cut his eyes toward her. "So he's `Chief' now?"

Wearily she rolled her head around her shoulders, trying to
work some of the strain from her muscles. "Everybody calls
him Chief, Jem. Even the media. I didn't speak to him." "He was lurking."

"But he gave up and went away, which is probably for the best. We don't have anything more to say to one another. The way he tore out of the parking lot, he's probably halfway to Houston by now."

Which was unfortunate. In fact, it had been a crushing disappointment that she hadn't been able to speak to him before he left. She wo
uld have liked to apologize for
... well, for everything, beginning with the switch and including her bitchy behavior the last time they met.

But an apology was only one of the reasons she wished she'd
had an opportunity to pass time with him, and she wouldn't allow herself to acknowledge any of the other reasons. So to Jem she said, "No, it was
definitely
for the best that he left without our speaking."

They rode with only the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers to break the silence. Finally he said, "I got a call from Lawson. I assume you did, too." He waited for her nod, then said, "He told you he'd wrapped up the case?"

"He seems satisfied."

"He seems satisfied? You aren't?"

She was disinclined to talk about this now. She was disinclined to talk at all. But Jem was looking at her as though waiting for elaboration, so, with a sigh, she said, "I guess I can't be as objective about my sister's homicide as a veteran detective can be. To him, she was a case number. She represented a pile of paperwork he wished he could get through quickly in order to meet the guys for beer, or watch a football game, or make love to his wife."

"Lawson's married? I got the impression he was a bachelor." "You get my point," she said crossly. "He maintained a professional detachment I almost envied."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'd like to regard the murder with a practical eye. I wish I could remove all the emotion from the equation and analyze it the way Lawson did."

"To what end, Melina?"

To dispel my doubts. To be convinced that it happened exactly the way Lawson said it had. To be satisfied that there wasn't something more to Dale Gordon's motivation. To be certain that something important hadn't been overlooked.

But she didn't share her troubling thoughts with Jem. "To no end, I suppose. The case is closed."

"Speaking for myself, I'm glad the guy who killed Gillian killed himself."

"That was my initial reaction."

"By slashing his wrists, he saved the taxpayers the cost of a
trial and imprisonment and saved us the emotional wear and tear of having to relive it. I'm just sorry I wasn't the one to give Gordon what he had coming to him."

She had made a similar statement to Lawson yesterday. But now she wished she'd had an opportunity to talk to Dale Gordon and ask him why he'd done it.
Why?
Was it only a misplaced sexual obsession, the act of a terribly disturbed individual?

Dale Gordon was dead, but there'd been no accountability. That was at the crux of her discontent. Gordon's motives were still up for speculation. That's why Lawson's summary hadn't given her any closure. It had all been too pat, too neat, and, for her, unanswered questions remained. She wouldn't rest until all had been answered.

As though reading her mind, Jem said, "You should be glad it's over, Melina."

"I am." She smiled weakly. "I'm just very tired."

"I've got a remedy in mind."

"So do I—a sleeping pill."

"Ultimately, by all means," he agreed. "But first a hot meal. One I prepare, not the leftovers of all the food brought to the house. Following a good dinner, a long, hot bath. Then I'll give you one of my famous neck and back rubs. I'm sure Gillian told you about my specialty. Finally the sleeping pill."

"Would you be terribly hurt if I said I could skip all the rest and go straight for the sleeping pill?"

"Yes, because Gillian's ghost would haunt me forever if I didn't take care of you."

"Jem—"

"I won't take no for an answer."

Chief didn't know why he'd felt compelled to attend the memorial service and was a little perturbed with himself because he had. Sure, it was the decent thing to do. He'd even intended to express his condolences to Melina personally. But considering their last conversation, it was probably better
that he had changed his mind and left before he had an opportunity to speak to her.

What he couldn't understand now was why he was still here. He'd cooperated with Lawson's investigation, even providing the lead that had served up Dale Gordon. He had attended the memorial service. Melina had seen him there. He'd fulfilled his moral and social obligations. That should have been the end of it. That
would
be the end of it. That was his resolve as he entered the bar.

"Bourbon and water."

The bartender poured his drink. "Say, aren't you—" "No, I'm not. But I get that a lot."

It was a happening bar, in a happening neighborhood. It was frequented by professional sports stars, the nouveau riche, and the city's bold and beautiful. The bartender was accustomed to celebrities and honored their privacy when they asked him to. He gave Chief a knowing nod. "Next one's on the house."

"Thanks. But this is it for me."

As it turned out, Chief did have the second drink, wishing the alcohol would have a more anesthetizing effect than it was having. He would gladly take a cab back to The Mansion and retrieve his car later if only he could get a little tight, slightly drunk, reach a level of intoxication where he no longer gave a damn what Melina Lloyd thought of him.

But the only effect the bourbon had on him was to make him feel more of a shit heel than he already felt.

Melina's admonishment outside Gordon's apartment had hit home. He
had
wanted to disassociate himself from the murder investigation. He
had
lied about sleeping with Gillian. Melina had nailed it squarely on the head—he tried not to get too involved. Not just with this, with everything. Especially people. He supposed psychologists would have a field day analyzing why as a rule he kept people at arm's length, why his safety zone was wider than most.

He was hardly a recluse. In fact, he liked being with people.

He was social. He was good in a crowd. His knees didn't knock when he had to speak before an audience, and he wasn't camera shy.

But there was a limit to the accessibility he allowed to
himself
. The public persona was one thing; the private person was quite another. He put on the brakes whenever someone probed Chief and began scratching the surface of Christopher.

From a professional standpoint, his detachment was an asset. He'd flown fighter jets with a cool, clear head, never allowing himself to think about the potential destruction they could wreak. A
certain neutrality was necessary when commanding a shuttle crew and making hard decisions that could mean the difference between success and failure, even life and death.

But in his private life, that neutrality had caused problems. It was why he'd never had a long-lasting or meaningful relationship with a woman, why he'd never married. To be what it should be, marriage required an emotional susceptibility that he was unwilling to grant. He'd been brutally honest with Longtree and Abbott when he told them that he preferred to remain independent. Anything other than independence was too costly.

He acknowledged the character trait. Some might term it a flaw. But in spite of it, he couldn't possibly feel any worse than he did over what had happened to Gillian, apparently as a consequence of being seen with him. What did Melina think he was made of, stone? His sympathy ran deep. He'd even been repulsed by Alan Birchman's relief after getting the all-clear from Lawson.

"You're off the hook, Mr. Hart," the attorney had told him cheerfully. "You're free to go on your merry way. Your night with Gillian Lloyd could have cost you dearly, but thanks to Mr. Gordon, you can consider it a freebie."

He'd found the lawyer's words distasteful. They were talking about two deaths. One innocent. One pathetic. Both tragic. He was glad to be unencumbered, free of a police investigation and all that it entailed, but he didn't share the attorney's
blasé
attitude.

Besides, what the lawyer didn't know, what nobody knew, was that his night with Gillian
had
cost him dearly. He wasn't going to forget her. Not for a long time. She'd spent the last few hours of her life with him. That lent their time together a special poignancy.

Although—
okay, let's let it all hang out, Chief. No one can read your thoughts, so for God's sake be honest with yourself
—it already had been meaningful, and not just because of the sex. He'd had terrific sex before, but he'd never begged the woman to stay when she'd tried to leave.

He remembered waking up when Gillian had tried to dislodge him. "I hate to disturb you." He'd fallen asleep with his head tucked beneath her biceps, his cheek on her breast. "I've got to go," she'd whispered, running her fingers through his hair once before trying to lift his head.

He'd mumbled a sleepy protest and burrowed his head closer against her side.

She'd laughed softly. "Chief, I've got to go."

Coming more fully awake, he'd raised his head. "How come?"

"It's late."