The Search

by Нора Робертс

  Which, like most normal members of his species, meant when there were no more clean socks, towels or dishes.

  Not that she asked him to pick up his socks or hang up his wet towels or stick his dishes in the dishwasher. That was her brilliance. She said nothing, so he felt obligated.

  He was being trained, he realized. No doubt about it. She was training him as subtly and consistently and effortlessly as she did the dogs.

  To please her. Not to disappoint her. To develop habits and routines.

  It had to stop.

  He should throw the stupid flowers out before she got home.

  When the hell was she getting home?

  He looked at the stove clock again, then walked outside so he’d stop looking at the clock.

  He didn’t wear a watch for the very specific reason he didn’t want to be bound up in time.

  He should’ve stayed home working until she called—or didn’t call. Instead he’d stopped, went into town to buy some supplies—and the christing flowers—and didn’t forget the couple bottles of the red wine she preferred, then came here to check the house.

  To make sure, he was forced to admit, that James had picked up his socks and so on. Which, of course, proved unnecessary.

  James was either as insanely tidy as Fiona, or well trained.

  He hoped it was the latter, at least.

  To get his mind off the time, he grabbed a load of tennis balls and thrilled the dogs by throwing them. And when his arm went to rubber decided she needed one of those ball shooters they used for tennis practice.

  He changed it up, giving the dogs the stay command, then walking out of sight to hide the balls in various places. He went back around, sat on the porch steps.

  “Find the balls!” he ordered.

  He had to admit, the stampede and search had its entertainment value, and passed the time he wasn’t paying any attention to.

  He ended up with a pile of dog-slobbered balls at his feet, then repeated the routine. But this time he ducked inside for a beer.

  The pile of balls waited, but the dogs had gone into their sentries-on-alert stance, facing the bridge.

  About damn time, he thought, then deliberately leaned against the post. Just out having a beer with the dogs, he decided. It wasn’t like he was waiting for her, watching for her.

  But it wasn’t her car that bumped across the bridge.

  He straightened from the post, but waited for the man and woman who got out of the car to come to him.

  “Special Agents Tawney and Mantz. We’re here to speak with Ms. Bristow.”

  Simon glanced at the IDs. “She’s not here.” The dogs, he noted, were looking to him for direction. “Relax,” he told them.

  “We were told she was coming back today. Do you know when she’s expected?”

  Simon looked back at Tawney. “No.”

  “And you are?”

  Simon shifted his gaze to the woman. “Simon Doyle.”

  “The boyfriend.”

  “Is that an official FBI term?” It stuck in his craw. “I’m helping look out for the dogs while she’s gone.”

  “I thought she had three dogs.”

  “The one sniffing your shoes is mine.”

  “Then would you mind telling him to stop it?”

  “Jaws. Back off. Fiona told me you were the agent in the Perry case,” he said to Tawney. “I’ll tell her you came by.”

  “You don’t have any questions, Mr. Doyle?” Mantz wondered.

  “You wouldn’t answer them, so I’m saving us all time. You want to talk to Fiona. I’ll tell her, and if she wants to talk to you, she’ll get in touch.”

  “Is there any reason you’re so anxious for us to leave?”

  “Anxious isn’t the word I’d use, but yeah. Unless you’re here to tell Fiona you caught the bastard who picked up where Perry left off, I don’t want you to be the first thing she sees when she gets home.”

  “Why don’t we go inside?” Mantz suggested.

  “Do you think I’ve got her tied up or held against her will in there? Jesus, do you see her car? Do you see her dogs?” He jerked a thumb to where Jaws was currently humping a disinterested and patient Newman while Bogart and Peck played tug with one of the ropes. “Don’t they teach basic observational skills in the FBI? And no, I’m not letting you in her house when she’s not here.”

  “Are you looking out for her, Mr. Doyle?”

  “What do you think?” he said to Tawney.

  “I think you have no criminal record,” Tawney said easily, “you’ve never been married, have no children and make a good living, enough to own your own home—which you purchased about six months ago. The bureau also teaches basic data-gathering skills. I know Fiona trusts you, and so do her dogs. If I find out that trust is misplaced, you’ll find out what else the bureau teaches.”

  “Fair enough.” He hesitated, then went with instinct. “She doesn’t know about the last murder. The friends with her kept her away from the paper and the TV the last few days. She needed a break. I don’t want her coming back and ramming face-first into it. So I want you to go.”

  “That’s fair enough, too. Tell her to contact me.” With his partner, he walked back to the car. “We haven’t caught the bastard yet. But we will.”

  “Hurry up,” Simon muttered as they drove away.

  He waited nearly an hour more, relieved now as every passing minute decreased the chance of her passing the agents on the road home. He gave some thought to putting a meal together, then spooked himself at the image of welcoming her home with a dinner and flowers.

  It was just too much.

  The bark of the dogs sent him back outside moments before she drove over the bridge. Thank God, he mused, now he could stop thinking so much.

  He strolled casually down the porch steps, then the damnedest thing happened. The goddamnedest thing.

  When she stepped out of the car, when he saw her standing in the fading sunlight, the fragile blooms of the dogwoods behind her, his heart actually leaped.

  He’d always considered that sheer bull—just an overworked phrase in poetry or romance novels. But he felt it—that surge of pleasure and emotion and recognition inside his chest.

  He had to restrain himself from rushing her, as the dogs did, bumping one another in their joyful hurry for strokes and kisses.

  “Hi, guys, hi! I missed you, too. Every one of you. Were you good? I bet you were.” She accepted desperately loving licks while she rubbed wiggling, furry bodies. “Look what I’ve got.”

  She reached inside the car for four huge rawhide bones. “One for everybody. Sit. Now sit. There we go. Everybody gets one.”

  “Where’s mine?” Simon demanded.

  She smiled, and the quieting sun flared off her sunglasses. As she walked to him, she opened her arms and just took him in.

  “I was hoping you’d be here.” He felt her breath—the deep in, the deep out. “You made me another chair,” she murmured.

  “That’s for me. You’re not the only one who likes to sit. Not everything’s all about you.”

  She laughed, hugged tighter. “Maybe not, but you’re just what I need.”

  He eased back until he found her mouth with his—and found it was just what he needed.

  “My turn.” He shifted to knee and nudge the dogs back, and caught it. Just an instant as the change of angle let him see through the tinted lenses and into her eyes.

  He slipped them off her face. “I should’ve known women couldn’t keep it shut down.”

  “You’re wrong—and sexist. They didn’t tell me, and I returned the favor by not letting them know I heard.” Her eyes changed again. “Did you tell them not to say anything to me? To make sure I didn’t read about it in the paper, catch it on the news?”

  “So what?”

  She nodded, laid her hands on his cheeks, kissed him lightly. “So thanks.”

  “That’s just like you, slipping around the normal reaction of being pissed and telling
me I didn’t have the right to butt in and decide for you.” He opened the back of her car for her suitcase. “It’s how you get around people.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh yeah. What’s this other stuff ?”

  “I bought some things. Here, I’ll—”

  “I’ve got it.” He hauled out two shopping bags. “Why do women always come back with more than they left with? And it’s not sexist if it’s true.”

  “Because we embrace and enjoy life. Keep it up and you won’t get your present.”

  She led the way in, and he dumped all the bags by the base of her steps. “I’ll take them up later. How did you find out?”

  She took off her shoes, pointed at her toes.

  “Your purple toenails told you?”

  “The technician who gave me the pedicure. She was just making conversation.”

  Damn it. He hadn’t considered basic gossip.

  “So that’s what you people talk about during those rituals? Murder and dead bodies?”

  “Let’s put it in the category of current events. And let’s go back, get some wine. I’d really like a glass of wine.”

  She saw the flowers when she stepped into the kitchen. The way she stopped cold and stared told him she was just as surprised he’d bought her flowers as he’d been.

  “You made me another chair and you brought me flowers.”

  “I told you, the chair’s mine. The flowers just happened to be there so I picked them up.”

  “Simon.” She turned, wrapped herself around him.

  Feelings winged into him, slapped against one another. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

  “Sorry, but you’ll have to tough it out. It’s been a really long time since a man brought me flowers. I forgot what it’s like. I’ll be right back.”

  The dogs followed her out—afraid, he assumed, she’d leave again. He got out a bottle of wine, pulled the cork. She came back with a small box as he poured her a glass.

  “From me and the dogs. Consider it a thank-you for helping out with them.”

  “Thanks.” It had weight for a small box, and, curious, he opened it. He found a slender doorknocker. The copper would verdigris over time, he thought, and add to its appeal. Raised letters ran down its length, and the knocker itself formed a Celtic knot.

  “It’s Irish. I figured Doyle, there has to be Irish in there. Fáilte means—”

  “Welcome. Doyle, remember?”

  “Right. I thought if you put it on the door, sometimes it might even be true. The welcome, that is.”

  He glanced up to see her smiling. “It might. Either way it’s nice.”

  “And you could get one made—I bet Syl could find a metal artist to do it—to put up when you’re not in the mood for company. It could say ‘Go away’ in Gaelic.”

  “That’s a pretty good idea. Actually, I know how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Irish, and that might be more interesting.”

  “Oh, Simon. I missed you.”

  She was laughing when she said it, and as she reached for her wine, he laid a hand on her arm.

  “I missed you, Fiona. Damn it.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She put her arms around him again, laid her head on his shoulder. “That makes it more balanced, like the two chairs on the porch, right?”

  “I guess it does.”

  “I have to get this out, and I don’t mean to put pressure on you. But when I dropped Mai and Sylvia off, after I did, all I could think about was that poor girl and what she went through in the last hours of her life. And when I pulled up here, home, and saw you, I was so relieved, so relieved, Simon, that I didn’t have to have all that in my head and be alone with it. I was so glad to see you on the porch, waiting for me.”

  He started to say he hadn’t been waiting. Knee-jerk, he realized. But he had been waiting, and it felt good knowing she’d wanted him to be.

  “You got back later than I figured, so I—Crap.”

  “Last-minute shopping blitz, then the traffic—”

  “No, not that.” He’d remembered the FBI and decided he should get it all over with at once. “The feds were here—Tawney and his partner. I don’t think they had anything new, but—”

  “A follow-up.” She backed up, picked up her wine. “I told him before I left that I’d be home sometime today. I’m not going to get back to him tonight. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “But I need you to tell me what you know about it. There wasn’t a way for me to find out any of the details, and I want to know.”

  “Okay. Sit down. I was thinking about putting something to eat together. I’ll tell you while I do.”

  “I have frozen dinners in the freezer.”

  He sneered. “I’m not eating those girl diet deals. And before you say ‘sexist,’ look me in the eye and tell me those Lean Cuisine numbers aren’t marketed to women.”

  “Maybe they are, mostly, but that doesn’t mean they’re not good, or that guys who eat them grow breasts.”

  “I’m not taking any chances. You’ll eat what I give you.”

  Amused, as he’d meant her to be, she sat. “What are you going to give me?”

  “I’m working on it.” He opened her fridge, scanned, poked into compartments. “Deputy Davey came by to tell me the day you left,” he began.

  As he spoke, he tossed some frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet, stuck them in the oven. Bacon went into the microwave. He found a tomato James must have left behind and sliced it thin.

  “She was beaten? But—”

  “Yeah. It sounds like he’s trying to find his style.”

  “That’s horrible,” Fiona murmured. “And it feels true. Was she... she was beaten and trapped and strangled. And still rape puts a clutch in the throat.”

  “No, she wasn’t raped. At least that wasn’t part of what Davey told me, or in any of the news reports.” He glanced over, scanned her face. “Are you sure you want this now?”

  “Yes. I need to know what might be coming.”

  Simon kept his back to her, ordered himself calm as he layered cheese, bacon, tomatoes between slices of bread. “He deviated with the beating, and with keeping her longer. Otherwise, it sounds as if he followed pattern.”

  “Who was she? You know,” Fiona said quietly. “You’d have made it a point to know.”

  When Simon slid the sandwiches onto the frying pan, the butter he’d spread on the outside sizzled. “She was a student. She wanted to pursue a career in physical education and nutrition. She taught yoga classes and did some personal training work. She was twenty, outgoing and athletic, according to the reports. She was an only child. Her mother’s a widow.”

  “God. God.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then scrubbed hard and dropped them. “It can always get worse.”

  “She fits the body type. Tall, slender, long legs, toned.” He flipped the sandwiches. “If there’s any more, the press doesn’t have it.”

  “Did he mark her?”

  “Roman numeral four. You’re wondering what number he plans to put on you. I want you to hear me, Fiona, and to understand I don’t say what I don’t mean.”

  “I already understand that.”

  She waited, watched as he slid the sandwiches onto plates. Shook the fries from the pan beside them. He pulled out a jar of pickles, tossed a couple onto each plate and considered it done.

  He put a plate in front of her. “He won’t mark you. He won’t be able to give you a number any more than Perry could. If the cops don’t stop him first, then we’ll stop him. And that’s it.”

  She said nothing for a moment, but rose to get a knife, to retrieve the wine. She topped off the glasses, then cut her sandwich into two neat triangles before offering the knife.

  “No, thanks.”

  She picked up her wine, sipped, set it down. “All right,” she said, meeting his eyes. “All right.”

  She lifted half of her sandwich, took a bite. And smiled. “It’s good.�
��

  “A Doyle staple.”

  She took another bite and brushed his leg under the table with her sexy purple toes. “It’s good to be home. You know, one of the things I have in those shopping bags is this incredible honey almond scrub they use at the spa. After dinner, and after I give the dogs some more play and attention, we could take a shower. I’ll exfoliate you.”

  “Is that code?”

  She laughed. “You’ll have to find out.”

  “Do you know why I don’t cut my sandwiches into triangles?”

  “Why?”

  “For the same reason I don’t want to smell like honey and almonds.”

  She gave him a wicked look as she picked up a french fry. “Or eat Lean Cuisine. I bet I could change your mind on the scrub. Tell you what. I’ll just do your back. Your big, strong, manly back, and we’ll see how it goes from there. They also had this shop that sold very interesting lingerie. I bought a little something. A very, very little something, which I’d be inclined to model for you, if you try the scrub.”

  “How little?”

  “Minuscule.”

  “Just the back.”

  She smiled and nibbled on a fry. “To start.”

  She played with the dogs for an hour, endlessly tossing balls, letting them chase her through the obstacle course, then taking turns playing tug with each of them until he wondered that her arms didn’t pop out of their sockets.

  But he could see, even when he left the games and sat on the porch to watch, she used the activities, the dogs, the connections to focus. To block out what they’d spoken of before dinner.

  She’d deal, he thought, because that’s what she did. For now, she channeled her energy, and whatever nerves brewed under it, into the dogs and somehow transformed it into joy.

  “Now I need that shower.” She swiped at her damp face with the back of her hands.

  “You wore them out.”

  “Part of the plan.” She held out a hand. “I never asked what you were up to while I was gone.”

  “Work. And after work, James and I took in some strip clubs.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We took the dogs,” he said as they walked upstairs.

  “Naturally.”