High Noon (21 page)

And that, Phoebe decided, made her by way of family.

 

She ended the evening necking with Duncan at her own front door. “I can't ask you in.” More brain cells fried when he changed the angle of the kiss, spun it out. “Which, mmm, is a euphemism for not being able to go up to my room and get each other naked.”

“When?” His hands glided up her, torturing them both. “Where?”

“I…I don't know. I'm not being difficult or coy. I hate that word. Carly. My mother.” She waved a hand toward the house. “It's all so complicated.”

“Have dinner with me. My place.”

Her bones turned to mush as his lips trailed down her neck. Dinner at his place, now that was definitely code for sex.

Thank God.

“You're going to cook?”

“No, I want you to live. I'm going to order pizza.”

“I like pizza fine.”

“When?”

“I…I can't tomorrow. I have to—” She should think it through, of course. Be practical, be cautious. “Tuesday. Tuesday night. I'll drive over after shift. As long as—”

“There isn't somebody on a ledge, or holding hostages. I get it. Tuesday.” He leaned back. “What do you like on your pizza?”

“Surprise me.”

“Planning to. Night, Phoebe.”

“Okay. Wait.” She threw her arms around his neck again, dove headlong into the kiss until the need inside her edged toward actual pain. “Okay.”

She went straight inside before she did something insane like pull his clothes off, then almost dreamily wound her way upstairs. The man could kiss her into a steamy puddle of lust. And, she had to admit, though she was eager for Tuesday night, this anticipation, this not-quite-yet bumped up the pulse and warmed the belly.

If she'd felt this damn near giddy before over a man, she couldn't remember it—or him. That was saying something.

She heard the TV in the family room, and Carly's laughter. Not quite bedtime, she thought. And she wanted a moment, just a moment or two by herself before she took what must have been a dopey smile into the family room.

Because it was a pretty night, she opened her window. Soon enough, she thought, every window and door would be shut tight to hold in the air-conditioning and block out the steamy heat of Savannah in summer.

She decided to change out of the sundress into her sleep clothes before joining her girls.

She was stripped down to her underwear when she heard the whistling. It drifted through the open window, brought a quick chill to her skin.

That tune. That same tune. The man with the camera.

It came to her, the memory, the image of the man standing alone on River Street. But it couldn't be the same man, could it? Compelled, she grabbed her robe, pulled it on. By the time she got to the terrace doors, wrenched them open to go out to look, the whistling had stopped.

No one strolled down the wide white sidewalk of Jones Street.

Female voices
—they always reminded Phoebe of happy birds—chirped and trilled out of the kitchen as she headed in for coffee. Since she could hear Carly's voice, a kind of quick piping, she marveled a bit. That wasn't the usual Monday morning routine.

The kid liked school, she really did, but she rarely liked it on Monday morning.

But when she stepped into the fashion show, Phoebe understood why her little girl was in the happiest of moods. Nothing like a new sweater—or a new article of
any
kind of clothing—to put a smile on Carly's face.

The one she was currently modeling like a finalist on Project Runway was a pale, almost fragile blue. It looked like it was made from clouds, Phoebe thought, the way it simply wisped over shoulders and arms, swirled at the waist.

Doing a practiced pivot, Carly spotted her mother.

“Look, Mama! Look what Gran made me!”

“It's gorgeous.” Phoebe trailed a fingertip down one sleeve. It
felt
like a cloud. “You spoil her, Mama.”

“My job to. But it's a sample. It's what I call market advertising. I'm going to do a few in adult sizes, but thought I'd start out small.”

“Gran said she could make me a purse to match.”

“Might as well surrender,” Ava said under her breath as she handed Phoebe coffee. “You can't beat the two of them. How about a hot breakfast?”

“No, thanks. I'll just grab some toast.”

“How about one of these instead?” Ava held out a basket filled with muffins. “I just made them this morning.”

Phoebe took one, bit in. “And I talk about Carly getting spoiled. Carly, let's get some breakfast into you now. I'll drop you off at school on my way to work.”

“We're supposed to drive Poppy and Sherrilynn today, too.”

“Right. I knew that.” Somewhere, in the back of her mind.

“I can haul them if it'd be easier for you,” Ava offered.

“No, it's fine. Ah, listen, I was thinking about going out to dinner with Duncan tomorrow night, if that's not a problem.”

Phoebe watched Ava and Essie exchange smug looks behind Carly's back as the girl dumped Frosted Flakes into a bowl.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Essie offered the most innocent of smiles. “Of course it's not a problem. Not at all. Ava, I believe you owe me five dollars.”

“You bet on…” Phoebe made herself zip it up because Carly's eyes were on her, and full of speculation.

“Is he your boyfriend now?”

“I'm too old for boyfriends.”

“My third best friend Celene's mother has
two
boyfriends. Celene heard her say how she juggles them so the left hand isn't sure what the right hand's doing.”

“Sooner or later your two hands get together and you end up with bruised knuckles. And that is
not
to be repeated,” Phoebe added. “I'm just going out to dinner with a friend.” And having sex, she thought. Probably a lot of really great sex.

Should she buy condoms? Surely he'd have condoms.

God, something else to worry about.

“I miss going out to dinner,” Ava commented. “Just someone to sit across from for a couple hours, making conversation. You going fancy?”

“Ah, no.” Should she buy new underwear? “Just pizza or something.”

“That's nice. It's friendly.”

“I like pizza.” Carly piped up, with a look of anticipation.

Guilt, guilt, guilt. Great. Just let me get this horniness out of my system first and I'll make it up to you, baby. “Well…”

“We have our regularly scheduled pizza night,” Essie reminded her. That smug smile stayed in place as Essie picked up the pitcher of juice, poured a little more into Carly's glass.

And just when Phoebe was thinking, Nice save, Mama, Essie threw a curve ball. “You ought to ask Duncan over to dinner one night soon, Phoebe.”

“Oh…I—”

“A nice family dinner. From what you said when you got home last night, he took you to his family. Now, you should reciprocate. Why don't you ask him what night's good for him?”

“I guess I could.” Complicated, complicated. Why did it have to be complicated? Couldn't a grown woman just have a simple affair?

The answer, of course, was no. Not with a daughter, a mother and an honorary older sister living in the same house.

“Finish that up now, Carly, we don't want to be late. Oh, I meant to ask. Does anyone know if someone new's moved into the neighborhood?”

“Lissette and Morgan Frye's daughter Mirri's come for a visit—which rumor has is a euphemism for leaving her no-good husband after she found out he was learning more from his mixed doubles partner at the club than a strong backhand.” Ava topped off Phoebe's coffee. “Oh, and Delly Porter's hired herself a French au pair to run herd on those twins of hers. God help the mademoiselle.”

“What's Delly going to do?” Essie wondered. “Is she going back to work?”

“She
says
having the au pair will give her children a cultural influence, and give
her
more time for her volunteer work. What she volunteers for, as everyone knows, is shopping five days out of six.”

“No, I meant a man. Is there a new man in the neighborhood?”

“Looking to juggle after all?” Ava said with a laugh.

“I am not.” Amused, Phoebe shook her head. “I thought I saw a new face around, that's all.” But she hadn't really seen his face, Phoebe thought now. “A whistler—not wolf whistler, tune whistler. What
is
that tune? It keeps sticking in my head but I can't quite place it.”

As soon as she started to hum, Essie broke in. “
High Noon.
You know how I love my old movies. That's the theme from
High Noon
with Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly. God, what a beauty she was. And him—now that was some handsome man. ‘Do not forsake me, oh, my darlin','” she sang in her light, pretty voice.

“Right, right. That's the one. Funny sort of song to whistle. Well.” With at least that mystery solved, she shelved the rest. “Carly, get a move on now.”

The minute they were in the car, Phoebe turned to Carly. “Does it bother you that I'm going out with Duncan? With anyone, really?”

“No. But if you're too old for boyfriends, why are you?”

That one bit you on the ass, didn't it? “I just mean boyfriend's kind of a silly term for a grown woman.” A divorced woman with a child, Phoebe thought. “Just friend's more sensible, I guess.”

“Celene's mother sort of brags about her boyfriends. She used to have three, but—”

“I'm not Celene's mother. And I don't know as I approve of her talking about her
boyfriends
so much around you.”

“She mostly talks about them to her girlfriends, and Celene hears her. Then we talk about it.”

“Oh.” Phoebe blew out a breath as she began to drive. “Does it upset Celene that her mother goes out like that?”

“She likes the babysitter. Terri's fifteen and they do makeovers and watch TV. And the boyfriends sometimes bring Celene presents, and sometimes they take her places. Like one took her to Six Flags.”

“I can
hear
your thinking,” Phoebe said with a laugh. “You're such a little mercenary.”

It wasn't the first time Carly had heard the word, so she grinned, too. “But if you don't ask for a present, and don't say would you please, please, take me to Six Flags, it's not mercenary. Is it? I mean, Gran always says when somebody gives you something, you should thank them and make them pleased they gave it. Even if you don't like it. That's manners.”

“You're a tricky one, Carly Anne. Slippery as an eel. You make me proud.”

 

Phoebe returned from a suicide threat that had amounted to a sad and pathetic bid for attention to find Sykes waving her away from the squad room.

“Just a heads-up, LT. You got the rat squad in your office.”

“IAB's in my office?”

“One of them. Got here about five minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” She should have known it was coming. Had known, she corrected. But it didn't make it any less distasteful.

Lieutenant Blackman from IAB was a salt-and-pepper-headed fifty. He had a sloping belly, a ruddy complexion and thin, dry hands.

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant, to keep you waiting. Did we have an appointment for this afternoon?”

“You didn't keep me waiting. I thought we could have a conversation here rather than a formal interview, at this point. If you'd rather the latter, we can arrange that.”

Like a fashionable suit, the Southern-woman polite slipped onto Phoebe. It generally served her well. “I don't know if I'd rather the latter until I have a better idea what conversation you'd like to have.”

“Regarding statements and accusations made against you by Officer Arnold Meeks.”

“Arnold Meeks is no longer a police officer, as you well know.”

“He was when he made the statements and accusations, as you well know. I hope you're recovering from your injuries.”

“I am, thank you. Lieutenant Blackman, if we're going to be having this informal conversation, would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine. Prior to the attack on your person, you suspended Officer Arnold Meeks?”

“I did.”

“And your reasons for taking this step?”

“Are outlined, perfectly clearly, in the file.” She plastered a cooperative smile on her face. “Do you need a copy?”

“I have one.”

Hard-ass, Phoebe thought, but kept the smile as she tipped her head. “Well then.”

“Officer Meeks disputed your reasons for his suspension.”

Phoebe leaned back, dropped the smile, sharpened her tone. “We both know he attacked me, that he lay in wait and assaulted me. We both know a deal was cut. And I suspect we both know Arnold Meeks has some significant problems with authority—particularly when it's female authority—anger management and control. Why are you pushing this?”

Blackman's dark eyes stayed pinned on hers. “He made serious accusations against you and the captain of this division.”

Her temper wanted to leap and bite. And that, Phoebe knew, would only add fuel to a fire that needed to be stamped out quickly. “Yes, he did. He made some of them right here in this office, to my face.”

“You have a personal relationship with Captain David Mc Vee, do you not?”

“I certainly do. I have a personal and platonic relationship with the captain, whom I've known and respected for more than twenty years. If you've looked into this matter, into me, then you know the circumstances of how I came to know Captain Mc Vee.”

“You left the FBI to work in his division.”

“I did, for a variety of reasons. None of which are unseemly or against departmental regulations. I've worked in this division for nearly seven years, without a single mark on my record. I believe my reputation and certainly the captain's are above reproach. Certainly from accusations made by a disgraced police officer whose answer to being disciplined was to beat the hell out of me.”

Blackman puffed out his cheeks, the first sign Phoebe had seen that he felt anything at all. “I understand you'd find this conversation, the need for it, distasteful, Lieutenant.”

“Distasteful? Lieutenant Blackman, as a police officer and as a woman, I find the
need
for this conversation deplorable.”

“So noted. The officer in question also contends that you made inappropriate sexual advances to him, and used your authority over him to intimidate in a sexual context.”

“So I've heard.” And enough, Phoebe thought, was damn well enough. “I never made sexual advances of
any
kind toward Arnold Meeks. You can take his word or you can take mine. I wonder how much pressure the ‘officer in question's' father and/or grandfather might be putting on IAB to pursue this matter.”

“Complaints were filed against you, and Captain Mc Vee.”

“You ought to consider the source of those complaints. You ought to consider the fact that Captain Mc Vee has served this department and this city for more than twenty-five years, and doesn't deserve even the hint of a smear on his record by the pointing finger of a son of a bitch like Arnold Meeks.”

“Lieutenant—”

“I'm not finished. I want you to put that in your report of this conversation. I want you to put in your report that in my professional and personal opinion, Arnold Meeks is a lying son of a bitch who's trying to cover his disgraceful and criminal behavior by damaging the reputation of a good man, and a good cop.”

She shoved to her feet. “Now I want you out of my office. I have work to do. If you want another conversation with me, it will be a formal one, and my delegate will be present.”

“Up to you.”

“Yes, it certainly is. Good afternoon, Lieutenant Blackman.”

It took Phoebe only about forty-five seconds to admit she was just too pissed, too insulted to sit there doing paperwork. Even the pretense of doing paperwork wasn't possible.

She grabbed her purse, strode out of the office, through the speculative, and sympathetic, glances of the squad. “Lost time,” she said to the new PAA. “I'll be an hour.”

She had to walk. She knew herself and understood air and exercise were two vital components to cooling herself off. She walked fast, before she said or did anything she'd regret later, straight out of the building. Out of the cop, she thought to herself.

She could have chosen an easier career. Psychology, psychiatry. Hadn't she considered both? But no, through all the years, all the schooling, all the choices, she'd kept circling back to this.

She knew it had given her mother more than anyone's share of sleepless nights. God knew it wasn't the best choice for a single mother with a child who needed her. It hadn't been the smart choice, really. She had a family to support, and could have done so with more style charging for fifty-minute hours instead of putting in countless nights on the job.