She answered him anyway. “Why should he? He doesn’t have anything to hide.”
He had pulled out the wide center drawer. “It’s been my experience,” he murmured absently, “that everyone has something to hide.”
Lindsey yanked a yearbook off of a shelf and turned with it clutched to her chest, biting back a new surge of anger. “You don’t get it, do you? My dad is a good man. I keep telling you-” She stopped, cold clear through, as her father’s voice came from just down the hallway.
“Lindsey? You guys in here? I’m putting the steaks on the grill…”
Alan slid the drawer closed without a sound and in two long strides was across the room. In the next moment, she felt his arms come around her and at the same time he turned her so that her back was against him and he was looking over her shoulder. His hands covered hers and he opened the yearbook she was holding in her hands. “Laugh…” he whispered with his lips touching her ear.
Laugh? But I can barely breathe.
It wasn’t even a thought, just a feeling, maybe panic. She couldn’t breathe, the air seemed to have grown too warm and thick. Her heart was pounding, so hard her chest hurt. So hard she thought he must be able to hear it.
“Laugh,” he said again, a growl this time, and she managed a weak titter that was more pain than amusement.
The heat from his body was soaking into her back. She could feel his heartbeat, firm and steady, not helter-skelter, like hers. She wanted to close her eyes and lean into the heat and the heartbeat, and let the strong arms around her take over for her weakening knees. Mortified, she thought: This is terrible. Terrible, how good it feels. Can I be so hungry for a man’s touch? “Lindsey? Honey-”
Alan turned, unhurried, to smile at Richard Merrill as he stuck his head through the doorway. He kept his hands on Lindsey’s upper arms because the way she was shaking, he wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand up if he let her go. And maybe because, while professionalism had taken over his conscious mind, making it aware of every nuance of voice and expression-his own, Lindsey’s, Merrill’s-his body was operating on another wavelength entirely. All its senses and instincts were tuned to the woman’s warm body so abruptly separated from his own, which was shrieking like a disappointed child: No! Wait! I want…
Meanwhile, his conscious mind was ignoring that voice and on full alert. There-did his eyes flick, just for an instant, toward the desk? Not a trick of the light, or a nervous tick. No-he looked at the desk. I’m sure of it. Something there. Something… The thrill of the hunt shivered through him, and goose bumps roughened his skin.
“Oops,” he said, with just the slightest note of apology, “hope you don’t mind. Your daughter’s been showing me your old high school yearbooks. You had some sports career.”
Merrill’s grin was wry, his shrug self-effacing. “Very small town. I was a big frog in a little bitty puddle.”
“Still. Pretty impressive. So, you played pretty much all the sports?”
“Well, the big three, anyway. Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. Everybody did. Like I said-small town. You know how it is.”
“Not really,” Alan said easily. “Grew up in Philly.”
“Ah.” Merrill nodded as if he understood.
Keeping his arm around Lindsey but holding the book in his other hand, Alan hefted it in a thoughtful way. “Must be nice, knowing everybody. Clifton. That’s in…Nebraska, right?”
“Right.” Merrill gestured with the tongs he was holding and seemed about to say something-most likely what he’d come there to say-but Alan interrupted.
“You still keep in touch with the gang?” Does he seem tense? Edgy? Imagination…no. Again, no. He’s definitely not comfortable with this subject. “Go back for class reunions?”
“Wish I could.” The other man’s smile was regretful, sad. And, Alan had to admit, now seemed completely genuine. “I’m afraid there’s not much there to go home to.” His glance flicked to Lindsey. “Clifton was destroyed by a tornado in nineteen fifty-six.”
Alan said, “Oh, man, that’s terrible,”
And Lindsey added in a faint, shocked voice, “Daddy, you never told me about that.”
Merrill gave an apologetic shrug. “I was away in college when it happened. My folks survived, thank God we had a storm cellar, but our house was destroyed. The whole town was leveled. A lot of people were killed. It was a bad time.”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry,” Alan said. “Surprised they didn’t rebuild. What happened to everybody?”
“The town was dying anyway-you know how it is, those little midwestern towns. The young people all go off to school, find jobs in the big city. Like I did. By the time the tornado hit, half the businesses on Main Street were empty.” This time the man’s shrug was dismissive. “Tornado just put the town out of its misery, I guess.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“Moved to Chicago. I was going to the University of Illinois in Springfield, but I transferred to the Chicago campus so I could help out. Things were tough. My dad never did really recover-died of a heart attack five years later. Mom passed away the next year.”
“Sorry,” Alan muttered.
Merrill waved the tongs as he turned away, with the abrupt manner of someone who finds the subject too painful to discuss. “Happens. Hey-just came to tell you two, I’ve put the steaks on the grill. If you like ’em rare, better get out here pretty quick. Honey-” he threw Lindsey a quick look “-I know you do, and I’ve got your favorite hot sauce. Son, how ’bout you?”
“Uh…same here, only hold the hot sauce. And,” Alan added, “Chelsea won’t eat much-she can have some of mine.”
Merrill smiled and again waved the tongs, once more the genial host. “Oh, we’ve got hot dogs and hamburgers for the kids, if she’d rather have that.” He turned to go, missing the dirty look his daughter shot at Alan as she tugged herself free of his encircling arm.
“Sure,” Alan said agreeably, reeling Lindsey back into his half embrace just as her father glanced back at them, “that’s fine.”
There was an odd, tense moment, then while Richard Merrill paused in the doorway of his office, still smiling, clearly expecting them to leave with him, and Alan stayed planted where he was, badly wanting to stay behind and check out that middle desk drawer. And while Lindsey trembled with impotent fury, nestled close to his side.
“Hon,” he said, aiming a toothy smile at her-and “hon” didn’t seem any better than “babe.” “You were going to show me some albums, remember?”
Lindsey’s mouth popped open, but it was Richard who spoke. “Albums?”
“Yeah,” Alan said, “you know-old photo albums. All the embarrassing baby pictures. She’s been promising me for weeks.”
Richard chuckled. “Aha-gotcha. Well, the photo albums are in the den. Lindsey knows where they are-in the big cabinet, honey, right where they’ve always been. But hey-if you want your steaks rare, better get on out there. Otherwise, I’m making no promises. Lindsey? You coming?”
What could Alan do but follow the man? And when they got out to the hallway, there was Chelsea, coming down the stairs, looking for him. So he had no choice but to join the group on the patio and eat and be sociable and try not to think about what might be hidden in that desk that Richard Merrill didn’t want him to see.
But he was for damn sure going to get another look at the desk, first chance he got.
Lindsey made it through dinner. She wasn’t sure how, because she was certain she was too upset to eat, but she knew if she didn’t, Dad would surely notice and wonder what was wrong. He would notice, of course he would. Because he loved her and knew her so well.
I should never have done it. What was I thinking, to involve the police?
Recriminations played over and over in her head like a bit of song that wouldn’t go away. She blamed herself more than Alan. How could she be angry with him for behaving like the cop he was? And he was in full cop mode, she
could tell by the hard cold glitter of his eyes, the way they took in everything, analyzing, dissecting, scrutinizing everything. Everything about her home, her family. My life.
She got through the meal by concentrating on anything except her father. Anything except Alan and his sharp cop eyes. She concentrated on Chelsea, taking a lot of time making sure the little girl didn’t feel self-conscious and shy and was getting acquainted with the other kids. She had a nice long conversation with Barbara Norwood, catching up with all her kids and grandkids and their various achievements at school and dance class and sports, and of course Barbara wanted to know how her dear old friend and neighbor Susan was doing, so Lindsey spent quite a bit of time filling her in on how her mother spent her days. It was a beautiful day for November, so she thought about that, and about the fact that Thanksgiving was coming up soon, and what she was going to do about dinner this year. She laughed and smiled and chewed, and around her the friendly chatter of people she’d known since childhood rose into the autumn evening like the sounds of a midsummer garden: insect hum and birdsong, water sounds and laughter. She thought about that, and what nice people they were, and how lucky-
“Lindsey?”
She jumped and spilled iced tea into her lap. Alan’s hands were on her shoulders, his lips close to her ear. His hair, close-cropped as it was, tickled her cheek. “Oh, God, you startled me,” she said, and remembered to smile. Remembered it was all for show.
“Sorry.” His hands moved up and down her arms, raising goose bumps. “Getting chilly?”
“A little-dumping ice in my lap doesn’t help.” She was brushing vigorously at the ice chips on her pants, hoping it would disguise the bumpiness of her voice.
“Sorry,” he said again, but it was obvious his mind wasn’t on it.
She could hear a slight roughness in his breathing. His chin rasped her cheek like sandpaper. His breath smelled of barbecue, but not, she noticed, of beer. He was on the job; of course he wouldn’t be drinking. Somehow, that fact made everything snap into focus.
“The albums,” she said, her voice flat. “I suppose you want to see them now.”
“Yeah, I do, if you don’t mind.” And she felt his lips brush her cheek, nuzzle warm and moist into the sensitive places-her ear, her neck, her throat.
A wave of sensation rolled through her, along with a veritable tsunami of emotions, most of which were too complex to identify, just then. Anger, of course-that one she had no trouble recognizing-but anger of so many different shades and levels, it seemed there should be separate names for them all.
Chagrin, shame, frustration with herself, for experiencing desire-for that’s what the sensation was, she had to be honest about it-in response to caresses that meant nothing, that were all part of a charade. A lie.
Anger with him for casually choosing such a cover, apparently without giving a thought to her feelings. Resentment toward him for being able to carry off the pretense without a qualm. He could be calm and cool, feeling-she was certain-absolutely nothing for her personally. To him she was simply a means to an end. A cover.
Humiliation at the thought that he might somehow know how his touch affected her. That could not happen. She made up her mind she wouldn’t let it. It was all part of a job to him, one she'd asked him to do. For her.
He's doing this for me. The least I can do is try to help him.
Chapter 6
If the bodies were ever found there could be no connection with the missing couple. So, I went south. If I had not done that, if I had stayed in the north where the water was colder… But then, so many things would have been different.
Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.
FBI Files, Restricted Access,
Declassified 2010
“What do you hope to find?” Lindsey asked. She had paused in the open sliding-glass door to look back at her father, but he was laughing and trading tales with the Norwoods, apparently oblivious to any undercurrents of betrayal and suspicion.
“Anything that might help us figure out where your mother lived before she lived here. I don’t know what, exactly, but I’ll know it when I see it.”
She gave him a questioning look, which he thought was probably due to the note of grim frustration she heard in his voice. He couldn’t blame her for wondering about him, even feeling uneasy in his company, but he couldn’t muster a smile to reassure her. The truth was, he was beginning to wonder about himself, too.
It was becoming a problem, this pretense of an intimate relationship with Lindsey. And it shouldn’t be. He’d started it, grabbed it as a solution to a spur-of-the-moment problem, and it shouldn’t have been a big deal. He’d had occasion to use similar cover tactics before, and it had never bothered him. But this was definitely bothering him, in a lot of different ways.
Aside from a vague sense of guilt, just an itchy-twitchy feeling there was something fundamentally wrong about using a woman, a civilian in this way, the main problem was… Dammit, she was getting to him. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. When he wasn’t with her, images of her played in a montage on continuous loop in the background of his mind. When he was with her, he wanted to be closer to her; when he was close to her, he wanted to touch her; when he was touching her, he wanted to touch her in many more intimate ways.
The truth was, he wanted to make love to her. He could see himself making love to her in all sorts of ways, ranging from the first tender, breath-stopping discoveries, to sheet-clawing, mattress-pounding, sweaty, noisy all-night sex. And no matter how much self-discipline a man might possess, it was awfully damn hard to shut down thoughts like those.
So, if she thought his manner a bit abrupt and his scowl a mite intimidating, so be it. It beat the hell out of her knowing what was really going on inside his head.
“The albums are in here,” she said, and slipped past him, being particularly careful-it seemed to him-not to touch him.
As she led him through the house to the living room-or den, or whatever-he cast a frustrated look down the hallway to the door of Richard Merrill’s office, which was closed now. Dammit, more than anything, he wanted-needed-to get another shot at that desk. Preferably when Lindsey wasn’t around, since his invasion of her father’s private space seemed to upset her. He was well-aware that any kind of unauthorized search could cause more problems than it would solve, down the road. But he knew himself. And knowing there was something there that Merrill didn’t want him to see was going to be like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
While Lindsey selected a couple of large and heavy-looking photo albums, Alan seated himself on the couch, leaving plenty of room on either side for her to join him. Instead, she placed the albums on the cushions, but went on standing, looking down at him, arms folded in a self-conscious way. He slid one of the albums onto his lap, then patted the empty cushion beside him and said casually, without looking at her, “Come on-sit down.”
She didn’t move. He heard only a small sound, and looked up to find her gazing down at him with a curious, set look on her face.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook her head slightly and shifted her gaze to a spot somewhere across the room, beyond his head.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he said evenly, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Her eyes jerked back to him, and it seemed to him they were especially, unusually bright. He saw her throat work to produce a swallow, and his own breath thickened in his throat. The moment and the tension stretched until his eyes burned and her image began to shimmer around the edges.
He took in a sip of air. “Look-I’m going to need you to identify these for me.” He managed a half smile. “Not to mention, if someone comes in, it’s going to look a little odd, you standing there like a condemned prisoner in front of a sentencing judge.”
She gave a little strained-sounding laugh, then reluctantly nodded. As she seated herself beside him-but maintaining a few inches distance-she ran her hands down the backs of her thigh
s in a way that reminded him of a little girl being careful not to wrinkle her Sunday-best dress.
He tried to concentrate on the photos, but it wasn’t easy. He thought if he looked hard enough at pictures of Lindsey as a little girl it would distract him from the fact that the grown-up Lindsey was sitting right there beside him. But it didn’t. Once again there seemed to be a complete disconnect between his mind, which was carefully scanning each photo, searching for the detail that would give him a clue to Susan Merrill’s background, and his senses, which were wallowing in the scent of the warm, desirable woman only scant inches away, her bare arm so close to his he could feel its heat. He found himself listening for her breathing, and timing his own to hers, as if they were finding each other’s rhythm in a dance. And at the same time trying not to breathe too deeply lest he inadvertently brush her arm and thus violate his promise not to touch her.
Why had he made such a stupid promise? Touching her was the one thing he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.
She reached across him suddenly, touching him in several places at once, and his skin flinched as if she’d given him an electric shock. “There,” she said, tapping one of the pictures, a square one in the style of the early nineteen seventies. “That’s me playing in the snow. Big Bear, I think it was.” She turned her head slightly to look into his eyes. At close range.
His head swam. He pulled back a little, frowning as he brought the rest of her face into focus, noting a little pleat of frown lines between her eyes, and the fact that her lips were slightly parted, as if she’d just drawn a sip of breath. Hungry juices pooled at the back of his throat, and his jaws creaked with the effort it took him not to give in to the desire to kiss her.
Apparently oblivious to the effect she had on him, she sat back with a sigh. “That’s what I mean-Mom remembering her ‘Jimmy’ playing in the snow doesn’t mean anything. It could just as well have been Southern California as anywhere.”
Memory of Murder Page 8