One Deadly Sin

by Annie Solomon

  Where Holt met Edie yesterday. “I’m interested in what he did after that.” Holt took out a card, handed it to Marydell. “I’d appreciate you making a special effort to find that appointment book. My number’s on the card. Let me know when you do.”

  Marydell held a hand to her heart. “I’ll do whatever I can.” She sniffed. “I just can’t believe…” He left her shaking her head, a round apple of a woman in the core of the mess.

  Back in the car, he drove around to Red’s. The bar was closed, but he wasn’t interested in the bar, only the bartender. He made his way around the back to the alley and stopped dead.

  Edie was wearing a skimpy pair of overalls cut way above midthigh. Some kind of stretchy sleeveless thing covered the exposed areas below the bib but the rest was as God had made her—golden skin covering her arms and legs and shoulders and neck. It was a sight to take a man’s breath away.

  She was busy when he got there, her back turned so she didn’t notice him. Her bike was out, a pail of water, a couple of chamois strewn around. Her hair was piled on her head but as always some of it had floated down her neck giving her that sexy bed head look.

  She was working like a demon, scrubbing the body of the Harley with a sponge the size of her, headphones square on her head. They were large, not those little iPod doohickeys. Hers looked like the noise-canceling kind, which meant he could probably shoot off his weapon and she wouldn’t hear him.

  So he stood there, enjoying the view. She leaned over the bike to get every inch and her ass, as sweet and ripe as any he’d ever seen, stuck out and pulled in, out and in.

  He swallowed. Or tried to.

  She turned to squeeze out the sponge over the pail and saw him. Jumped ten feet. Flipped the ’phones off her head. Glared at him.

  “How long have you been here?”

  He grinned. “Long enough.”

  She frowned, hands on curved hips. “See your fill?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  She tossed the sponge into the pail. Came toward him. “What can I do for you, Chief?”

  If she only knew. “Heard you were at the library the other day.”

  “So?”

  “So you don’t seem like the bookish type.”

  “You shouldn’t go by what people look like. That’s stereotyping. Not what we want from local law enforcement.”

  “Uh huh. What were you doing there?”

  She eyed him. “I like history,” she said finally. “Just wanted to know a little more about the town. Didn’t know it was illegal.”

  He smiled. “Not illegal. Just not efficient. I’ve lived here all my life. You got questions, I probably know the answers.”

  She gave him an arch look. “That some kind of invitation?”

  Holt blinked. Realized it was. “Yeah,” he said, warming up to the idea. “I can show you around.”

  She thought it over. Returned to the pail and the bike without answering. He followed. Nodded toward the headphones.

  “What are you listening to?”

  Another playful look. “What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Metallica? Nine Inch Nails?”

  She laughed. “Now what is it about me that makes you think all I listen to is heavy metal?”

  “I have no idea.”

  A mischievous expression crossed her face. “Want to find out what I’m really like?”

  He should have resisted the opening, but didn’t. Slowly, he ran his gaze down her body and all the way up. “You mean beneath the tattoos and what little else you—”

  “Yeah, Chief,” she said dryly. “Beneath everything.”

  He leaned against Red’s back wall, crossed his arms, and cocked his head.

  “I’m going to a concert tonight,” she said. “Come with me.”

  He straightened, not sure he’d heard right. “You asking me on a date?”

  “A date?” She picked up the chamois and returned to polishing the bike. “Just a return of favors. I take you to a concert, you fill me in on the ins and outs of Redbud.”

  Briefly, Holt watched the swan on her shoulder jiggle as her arm moved up and down. “You got a deal,” he said. “Meet you outside the office.”

  She stopped and shot him a wide-mouthed smile. “Pick you up at seven,” she said, and went back to work.

  Holt was almost at the car before he realized he hadn’t asked her what he’d come to ask in the first place. He jogged back. Her headphones were back on, but he managed to position himself so she saw him before he scared her again.

  She thumbed the ’phones off her head and they curled around her neck. “You’re making a pest of yourself.”

  “About the other day. At the house with Runkle. He say where he was going after he left you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m trying to trace his steps those last few hours.”

  “Last few hours?”

  “You haven’t heard? He ran his car smack into a pole.”

  She inhaled a sharp breath. “Is he all right?”

  “Only if you call dead as winter all right. Found another black angel, too.”

  She paled. Stumbled a little and grabbed the handlebars to steady herself.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I just… just saw him. How could… I mean…” Her voice trailed off in a tone of disbelief.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s been a shock all around. Sure he didn’t say anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right then. See you tonight.”

  Edie watched Holt leave through a fog. Quickly, she finished the bike, doing a half-assed job of it, but no longer caring. She gathered her things, ran up the stairs, shut the door, and leaned against it.

  Water splashed on her leg. She looked down. Her hands were shaking.

  She set the pail on the floor. Thought of Runkle’s sharp, tanned face and practiced smile. A little while ago, she’d been gloating. Hoping the guy was shaken up. Now…

  Dread circled around her. Was some unseen hand weighing in on her search for justice? Who knew what she knew? What secrets she kept? Her heart was beating hard enough to rip through her chest.

  It had to be a coincidence. Two elderly men—the chance they’d kick it one right after the other had to be high. Right?

  And anyone could crash into a tree. It had nothing to do with her. Nothing.

  She crawled onto her bed, wanting to crawl under the covers and hide. Let the world go on without her.

  Then she remembered. Holt. The concert. Her big plan to pump him for information. She groaned. The last thing she needed was a night of fencing and flirting with the town police chief.

  She should call him. Cancel.

  But how to explain? I can’t come because the two men I sent those black angels to—ha ha—turned up dead?

  Her stomach swirled. She rolled over on her side. Drew her knees up to her chest.

  Two men. Two black angels.

  And the third one. Already on its way. Too late to take it back. Too late. Too late.

  14

  Edie picked Holt up in front of the municipal building. For the ride to Nashville, she’d worn a pair of jeans but her concert clothes were packed in her saddlebags. When Holt had told her to pick him up downtown she had a quick thought that he’d show up in his uniform, but he wore a pair of khakis and a white shirt open at his throat. Not exactly Metallica costume, but then they weren’t going to hear Metallica. Of course he didn’t know that.

  “Ready?” she asked when she pulled up to the building. He was waiting for her at the curb.

  “For what?”

  “For whatever.”

  “I didn’t bring my asp with me. Or a can of mace.”

  Her mouth twisted. “I think we’ll be safe.”

  He eyed the portable seat behind her. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Lick ’em and stick ’ems. Suction cups. Come on, get on, they’ll hold you.”

  He looked like he didn’t b
elieve her, but he swung a leg over. “Okay. I’m trusting you, now.”

  Well bravo for him. She zoomed away, glad the noise made conversation impossible. She’d tried to work herself up for this, but couldn’t quite make it. They jogged along, bouncing with the ride, and her insides shook and pounded, which only fit her mood. As if she’d been poured into an industrial mixer and the motor set to an endless “on.”

  She still hadn’t absorbed the shock of Dennis Runkle’s death. Surely it had nothing to do with her. It had to be exactly as it seemed—a terrible, awful accident.

  And if it wasn’t?

  What if she’d set something in motion? Or rather, someone? And how did she tell them this wasn’t what she intended? Her head hurt thinking about that. Because if Runkle’s death wasn’t a giant coincidence that meant there was one more body out there. Two if you counted all the names on her list. And who knew if her list was the master? Maybe whoever was out there had a bigger list. With more names on it. Maybe even… she shuddered. Hers.

  Because if her angels were connected with the deaths she’d be implicated, wouldn’t she?

  She set her face into the wind. What the holy fuck had she started?

  The ride to Nashville was about an hour. Normally, she would have taken the back roads and given Holt a real spin, but now she just wanted to get there and get the whole night over with.

  But she could never resist the magic of the road for long. Fifteen minutes into the freeway, the rhythm of the engine took over like it always did. The standing world sped by and blurred into nonexistence. Angels and death faded away. Wheels and speed were the only things left. As she breathed in the warm summer evening, she relaxed against the body behind her. Holt’s chest walled her in, his strong arms wrapped around her waist, long fingers pressed into her belly. How could she feel nothing?

  She couldn’t. Not with his mouth at her neck, his heart at her shoulder.

  She found herself breathing hard, and not only from the thrill of the ride. And once she pulled off into the downtown exit and parked, she saw he was affected the same way. His eyes shone under the city street lights, and she sensed he was in the same jacked-up mood that hit her every time she got on the bike.

  She grabbed one of her saddlebags, slung it over her shoulder. “Enjoy the ride?”

  He laughed. Full-throated and excited. “Are you kidding? God, I forgot what that felt like.” He shook his head, marveling. “That was fantastic. You’ve got to let me take her home.”

  She eyed him, curious. “You don’t strike me as much of an adrenaline junkie.”

  Something crossed his face. A kind of melancholy look, briefly there and gone. “Used to be. I had a bike. Not a Harley, but it was a pretty decent Yamaha.”

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  “Drove Cindy nuts. I finally got rid of it.”

  “Cindy?”

  “My wife.”

  She’d wondered when he’d tell her about Miranda’s mother. “Divorced?”

  “Dead.”

  She almost tripped, that was so unexpected. Ten thousand questions flooded her head, but Holt tensed. Looked as if he’d rather choke than talk about his wife. So she continued walking up Broadway, past the honkytonks and then south down Fourth Street. How had she ever thought he didn’t know what loss was? That the teasing gleam she liked so much was all there was to him? She felt a rush of shame for misjudging him. Still, the questions, silent and unasked, continued to linger between them.

  “Look, we all have our sob stories,” Holt said at last. “Just to get mine over with, leukemia, five years ago, Memphis. Moved back here because I needed help with Miranda. You?”

  She paused, debating what to say, how to say it, whether to say anything at all. “Can’t compete with that,” she said at last.

  His mouth curved into an ironic smile. “Yeah. I usually win the prize.” He gazed down at her. Exhaled. “So… now we’ve got that over with, when are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  She turned the corner and led him toward the huge neoclassical style building. Nodded toward it.

  “I thought you said we were going to a concert.”

  “We are.”

  “At the courthouse? Or is it a very, very, very big bank?”

  She laughed. Flourished an arm in the direction of the building. “May I introduce you to the new Schermerhorn Center.”

  He looked at the massive building dubiously. “And they do rock concerts there?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He paused when they got closer. Hard not to. The Apollo fountain fired the plaza, its beautiful spray gleaming. Lights around the imposing entrance with its impressive set of steps made the limestone glow. He stared at the pediment over the building.

  “Hades dragging Eurydice out of Orpheus’s arms and back to the underworld,” she told him.

  “Who’s the other woman?”

  At Orpheus’s back a woman sat on her knees, crumpled, devastated, reaching out in anguish. “Grief,” she said.

  They climbed the steps, joining other concertgoers. Once inside, he turned around, taking in the Spanish marble, the mammoth columns, the chandeliers with their round, fat bulbs. Edie smiled to herself, happy that Holt was as affected as she was the first time she’d been here.

  “And the acoustics ain’t bad, either.” She winked and left him to gawk. Disappearing into the ladies room, she changed into the clothes in the saddlebag, packed her jeans and bike boots inside. Then she checked the bag and rejoined Holt in the lobby.

  His eyes widened when he saw her. The black dress was made of a silky material that never wrinkled. It had a knife-pleated skirt that swayed against her hips and legs as she walked, a smoothly tight bodice that showed off her breasts, and a narrow belt that shone at her waist. The sleeveless shoulders were cut so deep they revealed her collarbone on each side. It was her favorite dress. Elegant but sexy. Not to mention the spikes she had on her feet. A far cry from the jeans and leather he’d mostly seen her in.

  She burst out laughing at the look on his face. He tucked her hand firmly on his arm. “We’re not going to a rock concert, are we?”

  “Ever hear of Brahms?”

  He gave her a sardonic look. “Once or twice. I think.”

  She took out their tickets, handed them to an usher, who led them to their seats. “His Fourth Symphony is one of my favorites.”

  He gawped at her. “You weren’t listening to Metallica, were you?”

  “Beethoven. 1812 Overture.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “What?” she said in mock innocence. “Overturning your assumptions?”

  “Surprising people.”

  She put a hand over her heart. “I confess.”

  “So… this Brahms guy.” He returned her mock innocence with false ignorance. “What’s so great about him?”

  The lights dimmed. She nodded toward the raised stage in front of them where the musicians were taking their places. “You tell me.”

  Edie had heard Brahms’s Fourth many times, but she always forgot the way it struck until the lush, passionate waves of the first movement swelled up and over, drowning her in a sensation that was as physical as it was emotional. Enveloped in sound, she forgot about Holt, forgot everything, the same way she forgot on the Harley, immersed, wet, flooded with something unearthly, something she could only grasp when she was deep inside the music or flying down the road.

  And in the midst of this otherworldly haze, as the thick notes seized her chest and belly and made her body shimmer, she felt someone grab her hand. Hold on as if clinging to life.

  Holt.

  And if she didn’t know instantly that he understood, it was there in his glittering eyes, the breathless rise and fall of his chest, the crazed fervor with which he squeezed her fingers.

  And later, much later, after the music had ended and she had her breath back in her lungs and her jeans on, and they were walking back to t
he bike, she knew he’d been moved beyond speech. From the minute the last note sounded he hadn’t said a word. Didn’t seem capable of speaking.

  But just outside the parking garage, he stopped, turned to her, and with a slow, deliberate pull, drew her close. And closer still. He searched her face, a look deep and profound. And slowly, oh so slowly, he kissed her.

  It was like no kiss she’d ever had. Quiet and raging. Hungry and yet, oddly, humble. He took her mouth as if he was taking her soul. Tenderly. Knowing how precious it was. She was.

  Like the music, it made her want to cry. Or to roar with joy. Or both or neither. Only let it never end.

  And when it did and he pulled away, unhurried, lingering, he cupped her face with his slim fingers and strong hands. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Thank you.”

  15

  It wasn’t natural to have a piece of music change one’s life, but Holt woke the day after the concert as if something overpowering and important had happened. The universe had shifted on its axis. The moon had switched places with the sun. Things were no longer as they were, and it was jolting to discover that despite these strange and monumental alterations the world went plodding on. And Sam, straight, by-the-book Sam, was as unaware of it as everyone else, calling him on his day off as if everything was the same.

  “About those black angels,” she said.

  Holt needed a minute to come down out of the stratosphere and tune in to Sam’s channel. Oh, yeah. Black angels. Right. She was supposed to be researching possible retailers. “What’ve you got?”

  “Nothing. Not in Corley County at least.”

  “Okay.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. Could still feel prickles there. “Spread a wider net. Forget the county, go for the bigger markets. Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, Memphis. Hell, try Jackson even. Murfreesboro. Johnson City.”

  “I’ll be dead before I finish all that.”

  “Keep notes and I’ll pick up where you leave off.”

  “Then we’ll both be dead.”

  Sam told him she’d leave her progress on his desk and signed off. Stared at the computer screen but made no move to keep searching. Something in Holt’s voice made her uneasy. She had seen him leaving on that bartender’s bike the night before. Didn’t like the idea of him hanging around her. Talk about messy. That woman always looked like she didn’t own a comb or a brush. Holt deserved better. Not to mention poor motherless Miranda. Sam didn’t like to think of herself as a snob, but that child deserved more than a bartender for a momma.