Paul walked her to the door when she left, but Emma barely waved, completely preoccupied with rolling a ball to the gurgling, happy baby. For a moment, Amy fantasized that this was her house and her family with her handsome and supportive husband saying goodbye as she headed out to work.
The chaste peck on the cheek he gave her dispelled that notion, but she wondered. He was a nice, attractive man, a good father and had a good job. She wished she felt something more for him.
There was a bottle of wine tied in a red silk bag sitting on her desk. The attached note said simply, “A glass of good wine with a good friend. These are the things you never want to end.” It was signed just as the note with the chocolates, “An Admirer.”
Amy slipped the bottle out of the gift bag, smiling as she saw the Quinta Do Crasso label. She’d shared a bottle of this rich red wine with Chris the night she graduated from art school. Only he knew how special this was to her. She thought again about calling him, but as her hand touched the phone the intercom buzzed. Bev’s voice told her that someone was up front to see her.
For a moment Amy didn’t recognize the dark-haired man sifting through magazines in the reception area. He stood up and smiled when he saw her and then she knew him.
“Ryan Grogan,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m the paramedic who helped your daughter?”
“Of course!” She shook. “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”
He was wearing a short leather jacket over a black Henley shirt and blue jeans and this casual look suited him. Very well.
She didn’t realize he’d said something until she saw him grin. Amy blushed and stopped staring.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said I needed to talk to someone about selling a house, can you help?”
“Absolutely.”
Amy could see Bev listening and making no pretense about it, leaning her head on one hand and gawking at them.
“Why don’t we go back to my desk,” Amy said, leading the way through the door. Ryan followed.
“It’s my mom’s house,” he said, taking a seat next to her desk. “She’s getting older and she can’t take care of things like she used to.”
“So she’s ready to sell?”
Ryan made a face. “That’s just it—she isn’t. She thinks she’s fine and she wants to stay there. But she’s getting weaker and I’m afraid she’s going to fall.”
“Are you a co-owner of the house?” Amy said.
Ryan shook his head. “No. It’s all hers. And I know that means I can’t sell it out from under her, but I was wondering if you could talk to her. See if she’ll change her mind.”
Amy was skeptical. “I’ll try, but chances are she’ll refuse to talk with me. What’s her name?”
“Louisa.” He wrote it down on a notepad along with the number. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” He smiled, but made no move to leave.
“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” she said. “Another property?”
“No, nothing like that.” He gave a nervous laugh and slapped his hands against his knees. “I’m trying to think of some clever way to do this, but I don’t have one, so I’ll just ask you straight out. Would you like to have lunch some time?”
Amy’s jaw dropped. A man was asking her out on a date. She hadn’t been asked out since she was in college. She pulled herself together. “Okay, I mean, yes, that would be fun.”
He beamed at her. “Great. Great. Well, how about tomorrow?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Let me check my schedule.”
She felt lighter then she had in days when he left, humming to herself as she gathered her papers. A feeling that lasted all the way to the parking lot, only to fade abruptly when she saw the short figure of Detective Black leaning against her car.
“How you doing, Mrs. Moran?” Detective Black straightened up as Amy approached, smiling in a predatory way, the air around him tangy with the smell of the yellow mustard staining his tie.
“Busy,” Amy said, walking around him to open the car door. He moved a hand against hers.
“Wait.”
Amy jerked her hand away. “What do you want?”
“To talk to you.”
“I’ve told you everything I know—”
“You didn’t tell me that you hated Meredith Chomsky.”
“Find me someone who liked her and that’ll be news.”
“She was hassling you about selling her house.”
“So I killed her to make the house sell faster?” Amy laughed.
“You killed her to make sure you held onto the commission.”
Amy hesitated and Black smiled with satisfaction. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, but it sounded weak and Black leapt on it.
“Your colleagues don’t seem to think so.”
“Who would that be?”
Black ignored her. He pulled out a notebook and flipped through it. “According to some of them you’ve been desperate for a big sale since you arrived at Braxton.”
“I’m a real estate agent, detective—we’re all desperate for the big sale.”
“Are all agents photographers?”
“I’m sure you know they aren’t,” Amy said, but her heart quickened, knowing where this was leading.
“You took those pictures, didn’t you, Ms. Moran?”
“No.”
“And you were planting them in Meredith Chomsky’s car when that officer stopped you.”
“No!”
“Do you have a darkroom in your house?”
“Yes.”
“And you develop all your own work?”
“Yes, mostly.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to get a search warrant.”
“You do that.”
Black frowned and stepped closer to Amy. “You don’t want to piss me off, Ms. Moran, you really don’t.”
Amy’s eyes tingled from the smell of mustard. “I need to pick up my daughter,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “So if you’ll excuse me.”
She stepped around him and this time he didn’t try to stop her when she opened the car door.
As she pulled out of the parking lot she saw Douglas sitting in his white BMW, watching her. He smiled triumphantly as she roared past.
Chapter 21
The motel room was sterile: a bed with a thin aqua spread, two cheap wood-grain nightstands, threadbare carpet and a TV bolted to a stand. The woman, Cathy, with a last name he’d forgotten, was flipping through the channels. “Don’t they have any porn?” she said, winking at Mark.
He was very drunk and yet he raised the beer bottle and took another deep swallow. He was sitting back against the headboard and Cathy was near his feet. So far, he’d shed only his shoes, jacket and tie. She was in a lilac bra and panties. He tried to remember what she’d been wearing when he met her in the bar, but he couldn’t get beyond a fuzzy sweater.
The initial surprise of his dad rejoining them at the supper table had quickly been overcome by the purgatory of watching this once strong, hulking man dribbling food out of the slack side of his mouth.
His mother attempted to wipe it clean with a napkin, only to have Oscar Juarez swipe at her, with the scythelike claw that had been his left hand. During pauses in the laboriously long meal, he’d scribbled questions with his good hand on the white board he’d brought downstairs with him, demanding to know “what the hell” the press conference had been about and “what were you thinking?”
Mark answered with nonanswers, trying to assure his parents that all was well, that he wasn’t in any trouble, that he wasn’t the only one in the department to believe in his theory. In other words, he lied.
His mother had accepted this, the wrinkles in her forehead caused by concern for his well-being, but there wa
s skepticism in his father’s eyes, the only part of his face that could show much expression. He’d kept those steady, dark eyes on his son throughout the rest of the meal.
That was why Mark had gone to the bar. He needed to escape and he kept telling himself this as the second beer became a third, then a fourth. He’d become a fixture at the counter, settling onto a favorite stool, the red vinyl faded and cracked from years of use but pleasingly close to the door and a fast exit if he wanted it.
He convinced himself that the fact that he could feel the sudden burst of cold air whenever the bar door opened meant he wasn’t drinking too much. He convinced himself that you couldn’t be an alcoholic on beer alone. He listened to the women who managed to find him, their eyelids glittery with powder, their lips frosted with sweet-smelling gel, and he pushed out of his mind the feel of that soft hair between his fingers, the weight of another’s skin against his, the sweet, almost shy smile that had made it easy to wake in the morning.
Cathy had a full head of tousled blond hair, a harsh color in the motel room. It had looked different in the soft light of the bar.
“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” she said, faking a pout.
“Yeah, okay.” He put the bottle down on the nightstand and started on his shirt.
“Let me,” she said, crawling up the bed to him, her breasts dangling in the bra. He put his hand out to feel one and she let him, placing her hand over his and applying pressure so he was massaging her. “That’s it, baby, don’t be afraid,” she whispered, leaning close to his ear. Her breath was smoke and whiskey laden. She pressed soft kisses on his cheeks and then he felt her small hands unbuttoning his shirt.
He tried to relax, tried to enjoy the sensation of her soft skin, of her soft hands. She pushed the shirt from his shoulders and pulled it off his arms one at a time. Then she started on his pants, pushing his hands away when he went to help her.
“Let me,” she said again, caressing the crotch of his slacks. He closed his eyes and let her work, feeling himself harden as hands brushed against him, once, then again. His pants came off and when he sat up to help, she pushed him back on the bed. So he lay down and kept his eyes closed, even when he felt his boxers sliding off his hips, even when he felt hands on his cock and balls. All the stroking, tickling, sucking—his eyes flew open.
She’d taken him in her mouth and the sudden wet stunned him, such a wonderful sensation. Then he made the mistake of looking and there she was, kneeling between his legs, smiling up at him as much as she could with his cock filling her mouth.
Mark squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself just to feel, but the feelings were flagging and so was his erection. He shifted, reaching blindly for her, taking her in his arms so that she released him and returned his embrace.
He crushed her breasts against his chest and kissed her hard, searching her mouth with his tongue, willing himself to enjoy the sensation of skin against skin. But then he ran her hair through his fingers and it felt sticky, not soft.
She knew the impossibility of it before he did, pulling away, eyeing his penis, which was shrinking.
“You’re drunk,” she said and then she laughed, just a little laugh, but he hated her for it. Suddenly he didn’t know what he was doing there at all and he reached for his boxers, pants, shirt, scrambling to get his clothes on and get out.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Please. It’s okay. We can still have fun. We can do other things.” She dipped her voice on the last two words, but he didn’t want to know what that meant. He buttoned his shirt wrong and tucked it into his pants anyway. Zip, button, and buckle the belt. He searched for his shoes and she threw them at him from the other side of the bed.
“Here, asshole!”
One of them hit him on the shoulder and he blocked the other with his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, stooping to pull them on, his fingers fumbling with the shoestrings.
“Yeah. Whatever.” She had her back to him, dressing with a jerky rapidity that reminded him of a bird.
“Well, um, take care,” he said, stepping past her to the door, trying to avoid making eye contact.
“Go to hell.”
He was too drunk to drive, he knew that, but he couldn’t stay here. He drove his car only as far as the parking lot to the strip mall next door, doused the lights, locked the doors and curled up in the backseat to sleep.
High-pitched whining woke him at dawn. He struggled upright, head throbbing, neck aching, and peeled his eyes open only to close them immediately against the harsh, gray light. The whining stopped, then started again. He realized it was his cell phone.
Two rings to extricate it from his pocket. One ring to get it to his ear. “Juarez,” he croaked.
“Where the fuck are you?” It was Black and he sounded like he’d passed pissed-off an hour ago. “Boss has been by every ten minutes looking for you, so you’d better get your ass in here or he’s going to eat your balls for breakfast!”
The phone slammed down before Mark had a chance to respond. He rubbed his eyes and peered at the clock on the dash. It was after eight.
“Shit!” Mark climbed into the front seat, groaning as all his joints protested. His head hit the rearview mirror and he caught a glimpse of himself as he adjusted it, barely recognizing the man with the bloodshot eyes and puffy gray skin.
Peeling out of the empty parking lot, he burned rubber all the way home, making it to his parents’ house in ten minutes. His mother was in the kitchen fixing breakfast for his father and still dressed for work. Her uniform still looked pressed, and there wasn’t a hair out of place on her graying head. She gave him a hard look, lips tightly compressed, but didn’t comment as he ran upstairs, undressing as he went, and jumped in the shower.
The water felt like an assault, but he kept the spray turned up and washed as fast as he could, shaving at the same speed, then getting into the least wrinkled clothes he could find. He took his damp towel and ran it down any visible creases.
Lacing his shoes reminded him of the night before and he had to fight hard to drive those unpleasant images out of his mind.
He clattered down the steps and collided with his mother, who was coming up.
“Whoa!” she said, quickly lifting his father’s tray out of danger.
“Sorry.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m late for work. Thanks for taking care of Dad this morning.”
“Late night again?” she called after him, sarcasm evident in her voice.
“Yeah,” he said, ignoring her tone. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He was seconds from leaving, had his hand on the front door, when her voice stopped him. “Mark. Wait.”
Crap. He turned, watched her hustling down the steps in waffle-weave nursing shoes. She called them her “ugly shoes.” “I’m running late, Mom.”
“Did you have breakfast?”
“I’ll grab something on the way.”
“Come in the kitchen, I can make something for you quick.”
“Mom, I don’t have time,” he said, but she gave him a look that silenced him.
He salvaged his pride by standing in the doorway of the small kitchen, refusing to sit down at the chrome-legged table they’d had since before he was born. He watched as she whipped out a frying pan, eggs, cheese. The smell of frying eggs was nauseating, but he couldn’t tell her that.
“I want to know what’s going on.”
He considered pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about, but the looks she was shooting from the stove made it clear she wasn’t buying. “I’ve just been working a lot.”
“And?”
“And?” he repeated stupidly, shifting his gaze ever so slightly so it looked like he was meeting her eye when he was really looking at the refrigerator. There were pictures on the fridge. His two older sisters. Their husbands. His nieces and nephews. When are you going to get married, Mark? You need some nice woman to come home to. Got to have someone to carry on the Juarez name
.
“And is that why you’re drinking so much,” his mother’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “or is it because you quit the NYPD and came home?”
“No, well, not exactly.”
“Because you didn’t have to come home. Your father and I are managing just fine.”
“I know, Mom, I know. I wanted to come home. I wanted to help.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then deftly assembled a fried-egg-and-cheese toasted sandwich, wrapped it in aluminum foil and ushered him to the door. She stopped him there, her hand on his arm.
“Mark, I know you’re unhappy.”
“I’m not—”
“Ssh.” She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t lie to me. Please. I’m your mother. A mother always knows about her children.” She tightened her grip, looking into his eyes as if she were trying to look inside his soul. “A mother always supports her children. No matter what choices they make.”
At the station at last, fresh cup of coffee in hand, Mark parked himself at his desk and made dozens of phone calls, scribbling notes on white steno pads as he went, his investigation becoming a diagram of concentric circles and little spokes.
“I’ve already talked to Poppy Braxton and Douglas Martin,” Black said in early afternoon, his phone balanced against his ear while he pried open another can of Diet Coke. “You want my notes or my theory first?”
“I know your theory,” Juarez said, holding out a hand for Black’s notes. He skimmed them and handed them back without comment.
Black took a swig of Coke and smiled. “C’mon, I know you’ve got something to say.”
“I’m too polite to say it,” Juarez replied with a grin, stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked. He tossed over his own notepad. “Any names look familiar?”
Black took his time reading, fiddling with the godawful-shade-of-green tie he’d chosen, no doubt, for how it clashed with his pale skin.
“Well?” Juarez prompted him.
“You don’t seriously think these are real possibilities, do you?” he said at last.
“No more far-fetched than your theory.”
“Christ, Juarez,” Black said, drawing out the name like he always did, “I know you’re attracted to this woman, but c’mon.”
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