Death at the Wheel (12 page)

Without being asked, he fixed me bourbon on ice, fixed one for himself, set them both on the coffee table, and seized me. "You need kissing," he said.

I didn't argue. "That's not all I need," I said, when I came up for air.

"First," he said, plunking himself down on the couch, "tell me about your week. Any further developments in the suburban wife racing car murder?"

"I'm trying to drag you off to bed and you want to chat about murder? Where are your priorities?"

"I can prioritize just fine," he said, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on over here and set a spell and tell me about this Julie Bass business."

He looked good enough to eat and there was a teasing glint in his eye that I'd seen often enough to know he wasn't going to budge from the spot until he made me talk. "I think this is cruel and unusual punishment," I said, sliding in close to him and putting my head on his shoulder. "But all right. First I will tell you about the angry red giant."

He shook his head. "Nope. No sex talk until we get this other stuff off the table."

"Idiot," I said, "the angry red giant is a person."

"I thought only men felt that way."

"Are you going to let me talk?" He nodded.

Until I began to talk about it, I hadn't realized that my encounter with Duncan Donahue had upset me so much. Seen from a safe distance, his irrationality and anger were even more frightening. Andre is a good listener and a thoughtful questioner, and when I was done telling him about Julie and Cal Bass, Donahue, and the people at the bank, I felt much better. It's one of the things I love about him. He can be as hard and pigheaded and macho as anyone and sometimes he drives me to distraction when he closes down and refuses to talk, but most of the time, I find my respect renewed and realize how lucky I am to know him. If I tell him I'm scared, he won't think I'm a wimp; I can admit I'm confused and he knows I'm not scatterbrained.

When I finished spitting out Duncan Donahue, he shook his head. "Jesus, Kozak, you sure know how to pick 'em. Promise me you won't go near him again."

I promised. I was glad to. Duncan Donahue scared me. I wondered if he had scared Cal Bass. It didn't sound like it.

"Close your eyes," Andre said. I closed them and felt his hands gently massaging the muscles at the back of my neck, moving up my neck to the back of my head and slowly down to my shoulders, pressing out the tension. "You're very tense," he murmured. If I'd been a cat, I would have purred. I was beginning to dissolve into a big, relaxed heap when he resumed the questions, but it wasn't so hard this time.

He took me through a description of my meetings with Julie, of my visit to her house and encounter with the police, Cindy at the Kwik-Stop and the details of my interview with Julie's brother. "You have considered the possibility that she might be guilty, haven't you?"

"Try suggesting that to my mother."

"I'm suggesting it to you," he said with an edge in his voice. "Think about it. You've told me the guy was an insufferable bastard and his wife was probably having an affair... and that while she seemed helpless to you, others have suggested she wasn't helpless at all, especially around cars. You ought to be prepared for the possibility that she killed him."

I considered what he'd said. "Yes and no."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he was an abusive SOB who made her life miserable, so I can imagine her thinking about getting rid of him. But she struck me as genuinely sorry that he was dead."

"Which she might have been even if she did kill him."

"And extremely helpless."

"That's not what everyone says."

"I'm not naive, Andre. But people can change. They can be intimidated into believing they're helpless, even when they aren't."

"I know that."

"And she wanted a father for her kids."

"A role the lover might have fit into nicely. He married?"

"I don't know," I said impatiently. "I don't... didn't want to know any of this stuff. I think I'm letting myself be drawn in..."

"...because your mother told you to."

I gave him a dirty look. "Will you let me finish?"

He put his hand on my thigh. I could feel the heat right through my skirt. "Did you start without me?" he asked.

I sighed. Now I was the one who wanted to talk. "I've been trying to start. You're the one who's been holding back," I said. "Anyway, as I was saying... hey! Stop that! It tickles. I got started on this thing because Julie reminded me of Carrie... that lost quality she had... a sort of stubborn helplessness that kept her from taking sensible care of herself. Carrie was like that and Julie is like that. But what keeps me involved is curiosity. It's more complicated than just a husband-and-wife thing."

"
Just
a husband-and-wife thing?" Andre said.

"Yes, dear," I said patiently. "The whole business is a true mystery, with a lot of questions that need to be answered. There's a story there. Something was going on with Cal Bass...."

His hand drifted farther up my leg. "Why do you care?"

"Because motive or not, lover or not, miserable life notwithstanding, I don't think she did it."

"What if she did? Say she did have motive, opportunity, and the ability to commit the crime. Are you prepared to accept that?"

"You already asked me that." We were back where we'd started.

"You never answered so I'm asking again. Look, I know that loyalty and friendship can keep you from seeing..." He raised his hand to make a gesture but I captured it and put it back on my leg.

"I'll be disappointed," I interrupted. "And I don't think I'm being foolish or naive here. Though if Julie is found guilty my mother will never speak to me again."

"Which wouldn't be all bad." He stroked the inside of my thigh in a way that was terribly distracting.

"Right. Did you get that information for me?"

"Information?"

"Information. You remember. I asked you to find out about the accident."

"Find out about the accident?" His hand stopped moving and pulled away. He looked like I'd just asked him to shovel out a barn.

"Relax, trooper. I don't mean wave your badge in people's faces and ask penetrating questions. I mean a little favor. Use your contacts. Find out the details of the crime from the Connecticut police?"

"I can't do that."

"You already said you would. The other night. On the phone." Instead of pressing the point, I leaned over and nibbled on his ear. "Of course you can," I whispered. "You guys do it all the time. Use the old-boy network. I'll make it worth your while."

"Ma'am," he said, "are you aware that I am a sworn officer of the law?"

"You're not in uniform."

"On an undercover assignment."

"Just where I want you, trooper. Under the covers."

"Detective, not trooper." He slipped a hand back between my thighs. I closed them tightly, trapping it there.

"Mmm," he said. "Thighs like a steel trap."

"Blame it on Aaron."

"Aaron?"

"My aerobics instructor. Will you help?"

"I don't think Aaron needs any help. These thighs feel fine to me."

"Andre..."

"I'll see what I can do."

"I already know what you can do, but I'll sit through another demonstration."

"Sit?"

"If you want. Or stand. Or lie. Lean against the wall. Tie myself in knots like a pretzel. Shall I suggest other possibilities?"

"And you'll be very careful?"

"During the demonstration?"

"Thea..."

"Very, very careful."

"No heroics," he said. "No dramatic interventions. No more entering the premises of crime suspects."

"No," I agreed.

"That was really stupid," he murmured.

"Thanks," I said. "I know."

"I mean it," he said. "You have to be more careful. This is not your problem."

I was so weak with desire I would have promised anything. "I promise," I agreed. "If things look the least bit dangerous, I'll call my favorite cop."

"And who might that be?"

I unbuttoned his shirt and rubbed my face on his chest. In my honor, he'd omitted the undershirt. "Of course, his line might be busy, or he might be out of the office. Then I'll call my second-favorite cop."

"Florio?"

"Who else?"

"I mean it. About being careful."

"Shut up," I said, stopping his talk with a kiss. "I've been missing you." He buried his scratchy face between my breasts. Andre has such an aggressive beard he has five o'clock shadow by three. Too much testosterone or something.

"You want me to shave?"

"I want you to leave whisker burn over my entire body."

"Masochist."

"You say the most romantic things."

"This blouse must have at least a hundred buttons," he muttered.

"Rip it. Tear it. Pretend we're posing for the cover of a bodice-buster novel."

"Having Fabio fantasies, are we?"

"Andre Lemieux fantasies are good enough for me."

"Only eighteen," he said. "There!"

"Thirty. I'm thirty, not eighteen."

"Buttons, dammit. Oh, God, look at those luscious pillows of flesh...."

"I love it when you talk dirty."

"That's not dirt, that's trash."

"Shut up and kiss me, you big oaf." I wrapped my arms and legs around him and clung like a burr.

Some time later, one of us suffering from whisker burn and both of us suffering from rug burn, we dragged ourselves into the kitchen and made dinner. The wine had had enough time to breathe and steaks and salad tasted like ambrosia. There's nothing like a little exercise to work up an appetite. We took our decadent chocolate cake to bed with two forks and managed to make quite a dent in it. Neither of us is petite and we don't have dainty appetites.

Eventually I snuggled into his arms and went to sleep. I only woke once, from a dream where Dunk Donahue was chasing me through a cemetery with an ax. Just as the ax was descending toward my head, Andre muttered some soothing sounds and pulled me close and Dunk Donahue vanished.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

We always have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning despite being slaves of duty. The temptation to stay is just too great. Why would I want to leave the embrace of a warm, sexy man to walk across a cold room, pull on cold clothes, get in a cold car, and drive off into a cold gray dawn with three and a half hours of driving ahead of me? When our watches beeped, we only snuggled closer. Finally we managed to drag ourselves into the shower and make ourselves fit for the workplace. It took awhile. There's something awfully seductive about hot water and soap. Especially in proximity to a body like Andre's.

When we got to the kitchen we discovered that the cupboard was bare, except for leftover chocolate cake and salted nuts. We were in the mood for your basic lumberjack and Jill breakfasts, so we headed for Benny's Diner. Good food, plenty of it, and someone else does the cooking and the dishes. We'd just pounced on our poached eggs and hash and home fries and three buttermilk pancakes when a trooper Andre knew came in and asked if he could join us.

"Thea Kozak, this is Roland Proffit." Proffit had a grip like an unpegged lobster. When he finally gave my hand back, I felt like I should stick it in a bucket of ice.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, sliding in beside Andre. "I heard Lemieux'd got himself a good-looking girlfriend, but they didn't half do you justice."

I could feel the heat of a blush coming up my neck. "Thank you," I muttered.

"She's very shy," Andre explained. "Smart, too."

I tried to kick him under the table and got Proffit instead. Proffit gave me a smile so broad it narrowed his gray eyes almost to slits. It was a pleasant, friendly smile, but something about Proffit suggested a cat about to pounce on its prey. Genial on the surface but with a restless undercurrent in the way he watched everything, his pale eyes jumping continuously to us, the other patrons, and the street, and in the tense set of his wide shoulders. Unlike Andre, who, as a detective, gets to wear civvies, Proffit was in uniform, every inch a state trooper, everything starched and pressed and shined.

"I hear you've got another moose story," Andre said.

"It's a peach," Proffit said. "Human nature's a funny thing, you know? Every time I think I've seen it all, someone does something even stupider. Goes like this. Police get a call from this woman on her car phone. Says she's hit a moose and needs help. They send out the cops, send out the ambulance, all that stuff. We know what a moose can do. They're not petite creatures," he said, watching me closely to see if I needed things explained. One of those to-the-bone Mainers who distrust people from away.

"When they get there, they find this drunken babe—no offense, ma'am, but she was a babe—in a little red sports car. Convertible with the top down even though it was colder than a bastard and she's wearing about enough clothes to cover my little finger. She's practically blue and too drunk to notice it. And she's got a moose in the backseat."

"In the backseat?" I said, knowing that was my line.