Natalie was willing to bet that Det. John McLean didn't have an album with clippings of his own exploits.
But even knowing Stuart was egotistical, almost childishly selfish, having discovered that his interests were narrow and his observations about others cruel, she would never have imagined him a killer.
He had taken such pride in being a police officer. Not just an officer, but a detective and a hero. Knowing that he had crossed the line so completely for money made her reexamine her memories, wonder if he had ever taken pride in the job or what his badge stood for. Maybe instead the pride was all for himself, for being somebody people looked at with respect and even fear. Maybe liking to be looked at with fear had become more pleasurable. Or maybe, as John had suggested, growing anger at the city and the department had twisted his pride into vengeance.
Or maybe, ultimately, he was just selfish. He'd had enough of being a low-paid cop and wanted big bucks, so he felt he had the right to grab it any way he could. Which made him a psychopath. A conscienceless shell of a man who had fooled her into thinking him decent, sexy and even noble.
Curled under the covers in bed, Natalie flushed with humiliation at her own gullibility. How earnestly she had worked at her marriage, convinced she was somehow at fault when his interest waned, not understanding yet that his interest never strayed far from himself.
What kind of idiot did John think she was? Either she'd had some grain of intelligence and therefore knew her husband was a crook, or else she was naive beyond deserving sympathy. He did genuinely seem to think she hadn't known what Stuart was, which suggested that he didn't rate her intelligence very high.
So why was he interested in her?
Was he really? Or had the one night been an impulse? With kids, he couldn't possibly have much of a swinging social life. How often did he even get the chance to date? There she was, ensconced in his guest bedroom, ripe for the plucking.
Natalie threw off the covers to cool herself. The flush of humiliation spread from her cheeks to her toes. She was imagining true love, and he was scratching an itch.
Only it hadn't seemed that way.
She heard his voice, ringing with sincerity. You're a woman of integrity. I'd trust you with my life.
And low and gritty. Stuart was crazy. The son of a bitch didn't deserve you.
And he'd claimed that she had been keeping him awake nights and appearing in his dreams when he did sleep. He'd as good as admitted that he had wanted her even when she was married.
None of that sounded as if making love to her was an impulse. And it had felt … well, she wasn't that experienced, but his every touch, the groans she'd awakened, the heavy beat of his heart and the shiver of muscles, none of that had felt like a man scratching an itch.
It felt more like a man who might be falling in love along with her.
Or was she, once again, fooling herself?
Natalie flopped onto her back, moaning.
How could a woman who had made such a monumental mistake ever trust her judgment again?
What she needed to understand, she realized, was why she had been so gullible. Why had she needed so badly to believe that Stuart was everything he appeared to be? Why had she wanted to be married so desperately, she had closed her eyes to everything that was wrong?
And how, she thought wretchedly, shutting out the sight of the bright green numerals on her digital clock, was she ever going to get up and go to work tomorrow on so little sleep?
The restaurant was popular, an airy, former warehouse that now had wood floors and lush ferns enjoying the light from the glass that enclosed what had once been a shipping dock looking out over the strait. Outside, seagulls soared, and a departing ferry left a rough wake on the gray water.
John would rather have been at the local hamburger joint with his kids. Hell, he'd rather be just about anywhere else, with anyone but his mother.
Unpleasant tasks couldn't be put off forever.
The pleasantries out of the way, lunch ordered and the waitress departed, John cleared his throat. "Mom, I want to talk to you about something."
His mother raised her eyebrows. "Yes? Do you need me to take the children an extra day?"
Oh, good. Make this harder. That was the trouble with his mother. Damn it, she was always willing to help him out. She believed in family, that the members should be able to depend on one another. She'd been there unfailingly, in her own way, for him and his brothers. She still was.
He didn't want her ever to know how bitterly he resented the stern way she'd raised her sons. Maybe it had been necessity; it had to have been tough for her on her own—no life insurance, no marketable skills, having to work two jobs to put food on the table. No surprise that she'd needed them to grow up fast. Now he could see that maybe she hadn't had any energy left to show affection. Probably it was petty of him to wish she had been able to be softer sometimes, to let them know that she loved her boys even when they didn't live up to her expectations. Sometimes he wondered if she even remembered the woman she'd once been, the mother his childish eyes had seen.
The silence had stretched too long while he wallowed in guilt.
Irritated with himself, he thought, Enough already! However much he depended on his mother and respected how she'd coped after her husband's murder, he couldn't let her squelch Evan's joy and spontaneity. John didn't even fully understand why she was trying. Because Evan was a boy, and therefore required to live to a higher standard than his sister? Why was that? John's determination hardened. Was his son, too, supposed to dedicate his life to justice and protecting the innocent because of a long-ago tragedy?
She'd molded all three of her boys—screwed them up, in John's opinion, which he sometimes thought was harsh but believed nonetheless. He wasn't going to let her do the same to Evan.
"No," he said. "It's Evan I want to talk to you about."
She looked coolly back at him. "You really should be firmer with him, you know. I wouldn't say this in his hearing, but he's really become something of a brat lately."
John gritted his teeth. "In what way?"
"He interrupts constantly. You boys were taught not to interrupt adults. And the way he and Maddie bicker—"
"Maddie is the older. Why is their fighting his fault?"
"It isn't altogether, of course! Her manners lack something, too." His mother's voice softened. "I understand why you've been indulgent, considering the trauma of losing their mother the way they have. It seems to me the time has come, however…"
Levelly he said, "But I'm their father, and I don't think the time has come."
Her only visible reaction was a flaring of her nostrils. She waited.
"They do bicker a lot, and it is tiresome."
"I'm glad you see at least that much," she said, a snip in her voice.
He fought the anger that he knew had its roots in problems other than this one. He didn't want a rift; he just wanted to get through to her.
"What you don't seem to notice is how much they also depend on each other and how close they are, how much they care about each other." Not giving her a chance to respond, he continued, "Maddie, for example, is worried because Grandma has been so mean to Evan lately."
She jerked as if he'd struck her. Her mouth worked several times while she sought words and failed to find them.
He hadn't meant to be so blunt. Renewed guilt softened his voice. "It's pretty obvious to everyone but you how hard you've been coming down on Evan." He hesitated. "Mom, he's a little kid. A kindergartner. Suddenly you're trying to hold him to some standard of maturity that he's not even close to being at."
She found her voice. "Is it so unreasonable to expect decent manners and some help when I ask for it?"
"He's five years old, Mom."
"Hugh wasn't much older than that when his father died."
How many times had he heard that? "I know," he said, with sparse patience. "Hugh had to grow up fast. You needed him to. Evan doesn't have to."
The wa
itress brought salads. His mother inclined her head in regal thanks and unfolded her napkin. She did not, however, pick up her fork when the waitress left.
"I can assure you," his mother said stiffly, "that my intention was not to—"
John interrupted. "Mom, you don't have to tell me your intentions. You love the kids. You've showed that in a million ways. But it seems to me that your attitude toward Evan has been changing lately. When Maddie noticed, too, I figured we'd better talk about it."
Her chin stayed up, her gaze level. She was big on pride, something she'd drummed into her own sons. "If you feel I'm not a good influence…"
Oh, damn. "Don't be ridiculous," he said brusquely. "The kids know you love them. I just want you to go a little easier on Evan. Please. Let him be a little kid."
"Even when he's rude or quarrelsome?"
"He's a little kid. He plays with trucks! He's not ten or twelve or twenty." John hesitated. "He's more or less lost his mother, as you pointed out. He could use your affection. He needs that a lot more than discipline."
Spots of color touched her elegant cheekbones, and he realized he had—what?—embarrassed her? Angered her? As always, it was hard to tell.
After a moment, she gave her head an acknowledging dip. "Very well." She reached for her fork and uncharacteristically fumbled before picking it up, looking at it as if she had no idea what it was, and setting it back down. Still gazing down at the fork, she said stiffly, "Affection, in the way you mean, doesn't come naturally to me."
John was startled and uneasy. They never talked about things like this. Not once, either as a teenager or an adult, had he expressed his quiet resentment, and not once in all these years had she attempted to explain why she had been something closer to a boot camp sergeant than a mother. Dipping even a toe in these waters made him shift in his seat.
"Your praise means a great deal to him. Physical affection isn't really what I'm talking about."
His mother nodded. For a moment she said nothing, her dignity intact, her carriage proud. But then she surprised him yet again.
"I've noticed how comfortable you are hugging your children. I'm well aware I wasn't demonstrative. How is it that you can be?"
Only long practice at taking the stand to be grilled by defense attorneys allowed John not to show his discomfiture.
"I've made a conscious effort," he said quietly. "And also…" He paused, briefly undecided, then gave a mental shrug. She was the one who'd opened the door. "Unlike Connor and Hugh, I remember the days before Dad died. He was … easier with touches than you were. But I remember you hugging me and kissing owies to make them better and reading to us, with all three of us squeezed up against you and draped over your shoulder. It wasn't until after—" he didn't have to say after what "—that you became more remote."
Now she did bow her head, and he was shocked to realize that he'd seen a glint of tears.
Impulsively he reached across the table. "Damn. I'm sorry, Mom."
A handclasp was beyond her, but she gave his hand a quick, nervous pat, took a deep breath and looked up. "Those were hard days." Explanation? Or apology?
"I'm well aware," he said. "I wasn't criticizing."
Her expression was more troubled than he remembered seeing in a woman of unshakable resolve. "I hardly knew I'd changed."
John mused, "I wonder what we'd all be like, if Dad was still with us?"
Her back straightened and her mouth firmed. "Well, he's not. Thanks to a madman who shouldn't have been in a position to hurt anyone."
She'd found a familiar chord. Any weakness was behind her. He knew what was coming next.
"You haven't arrested whoever murdered that man in Natalie's house." His mother's tone said, Why not?
Understanding that she was done discussing the past, John said, "No, and we're pretty much stymied. If we don't get a break soon, the case is going to end up on the back burner."
Officially, it might be in the inactive file. Unofficially was another story. He, Hugh and Connor were going to move heaven and hell if that was what it took to find out what cop had committed a brutal, drug-related murder and then been willing to kill again to get his hands on his take. But John wasn't about to tell his mother something he couldn't even tell his partner.
She sniffed. "Can you really bring yourself to tell that nice young woman she may have to live in fear from now on?"
"Live in fear?" John snorted. "She insisted on moving home again yesterday. Insists my fears are unfounded."
"Then perhaps you'd best insure that they are. Since—" her gaze was unexpectedly penetrating "—I have the feeling you're fond of Natalie."
Fond. Oh, yeah. That was one way of putting it.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm fond of her."
"As I'm sure she is of you."
"We're good friends."
His mother opened her mouth, then closed it.
"What?" he asked.
She gave a dry chuckle. "I was simply thinking better of something I was tempted to say. Since I seem not to have been doing as well as I thought I was with Maddie and Evan, I'm hardly the person to be dispensing advice."
Intrigued, he leaned forward. "Mom, asking you to go easy on Evan doesn't mean you—or your advice—aren't valuable. Spit it out."
She raised her brows at the vulgarity but gave a small nod. "Very well. It's just this—doing what you feel you must for Debbie does not mean you're still married to her."
Surprised to realize she'd noticed more undercurrents than he had guessed, John said after a moment, indirectly, "You never remarried. Or even considered it, as far as I know."
"But then, your father and I were deeply in love. As I doubt you and Debbie ever were." Apparently done with the subject, she signaled the passing waiter. "I'd like some tea now. Please do see to it that the boiling water is poured directly on the tea bag." She nodded, dismissing him. "Thank you."
Glancing regretfully at his nearly untouched lunch, John put out a hand to stop the waiter. "Coffee for me, please. Black is fine."
He might not have had a chance to eat, but he'd seen some of his mother's emotional walls crumble. No—too strong a word. Crack? Tremble, and escape unscathed? Probably the latter, but interesting nonetheless. If he wasn't imagining things, she'd expressed at least a hint of regret, a first as far as he knew.
Did that mean something to him? He didn't know. He'd have to think about it. If it turned out to mean something for Evan, that was what counted.
As for her "advice," that was something he'd have to think about, too. If his mother had taught him one thing, it was a sense of duty. It was keeping his word.
Till death do us part.
But he was grateful every time he saw Debbie that he wasn't still married to her. So maybe what he really needed to find out was whether Natalie understood that he couldn't turn his back on his ex-wife if she needed him.
Shaking his head, he thought, Whoa. He was making some mighty big assumptions there. Especially since Natalie had fled his house the moment that damned security system was installed. So maybe what he needed to find out first was, what did he mean to Natalie?
Trouble was, John knew that was one question he couldn't come right out and ask.
Alarm flared in his belly. Here they'd always been able to talk about anything and everything, and now when it counted, he could kiss her but he couldn't ask a straight question. Did that mean all his qualms about what would happen once he touched her had been dead-on?
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
The commentator gazed solemnly at the camera. "Tonight, the only three survivors of the fatal sinking of the Greek ferry are all in critical condition at Athens hospitals. A spokesman reports that one has described a scene of utter horror…"
Click. An extremely young Alan Alda donned a surgical mask as camouflage-clad MASH staff rushed a gurney with a thrashing, bloody patient to him. "More incoming wounded," someone intoned.
Wasn't there anything c
heerful on television anymore? Natalie wondered irritably. Click. Sesame Street, with puppets singing about the letter A.
One more click, and the TV screen went blank. So there. She didn't like to watch television anyway.
Only, the bright, flickering images and the human voices were company. She just wished they wouldn't go on and on about death and destruction.
The clock on the VCR said 7:40. Nowhere near bedtime. The kitchen was clean, the laundry done. She could sew—she'd washed the fabric Sasha had shed on, and she could cut it out. With only the pinafore finished, she needed to get moving—the wedding was fast approaching and her sister was counting on her to get her niece's dress done. But tonight she felt too restless to be careful, to concentrate.
A book, then. Except that a perusal of her shelves didn't turn up anything that interested her. She should have gone to the library on the way home from work. Tomorrow, Natalie promised herself. She glanced disinterestedly through some catalogs that had arrived in the mail, then, caught by a photograph of a model in the kitchen, decided to bake. She could make cookies, and drop them off tomorrow at John's. For Maddie and Evan, and in thanks to him for his help.
Of course, he would say she was trying to even the score. Get herself out of debt.
Well, this time he was wrong. Natalie made a face. This time all she was trying to do was think of an excuse to see John.
Momentarily she paused with the cookbook in her hand. He wouldn't have to know why she was stopping by. He might not even be there. And it was only courteous, wasn't it, to take them something?
Why hadn't he called? He'd said he would. She sighed, looking at the clock on the stove. He might yet—he often did phone later, after the kids were in bed.
And what was wrong with her, anyway? She'd never minded living alone, either before her marriage or after. Again she made a face at her own pronouncements.
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