Now or Never (16 page)

She took home the groceries and put them away in the cupboard. She gave her mother the cigarettes and saw a hint of pleasure in her vacant eyes. “Thanks, Mary Mallory,” she said in a voice that cracked from disuse. And that was all she said for the rest of the night.

Mary Mallory put on a sweater and walked along the cliffs, staring at the heaving green ocean, remembering how thrilled she had been that she was coming to live at the seaside, in Golden pop. 906. She’d bet they hadn’t even changed it to pop. 908 now that she and her mom lived there. They weren’t real citizens like Miss Aurora Peterson; they were just trash living on decent taxpayers’ good money, that’s what.

Down below on the beach, she saw a couple of boys running with a dog. They were having such simple fun, hurling pebbles into the sea while the dog chased them, that she longed to join in. She felt like screaming, “I’m here, can’t you see me? Inside of me is a real person who wants to be like you. I want to laugh and have fun and be friends.”

She wondered what they would say if she did, but she couldn’t do it anyway. Her shyness was like a crippling disease. She was on the outside and always would be.

Except in her dreams. When her mother finally went to bed, she lay awake dreaming of security. She dreamed of having a white-painted house like Miss Aurora Peterson’s, filled with solid pieces of oak furniture. She dreamed she was driving a white Cadillac convertible with the top
down and the wind in her wavy blond hair, instead of the old turquoise Chevy and her straight mousy locks. She dreamed there was chicken on their table for Sunday dinner and fresh-baked apple pie, and of her mother in a new hat and herself in pink lipstick, attending church, stopping afterward to chat with their neighbors, maybe getting an ice cream soda at the drugstore later.

As she grew older, her dreams grew bigger. She dreamed of success. She knew there were other places, other worlds, where people did not live the way she did, or even Miss Aurora Peterson, and she fantasized that one day she would be part of that world. Then she would buy her mother a new home overlooking the ocean, any place she wanted—anywhere except in Golden. She would buy her pretty clothes, diamond earrings, make her smile again the way she had that one time when she had realized she would never have to see her sadistic husband again. Mary Mallory wanted to make all her mother’s dreams come true. And her own.

But the next morning, when she woke, she was still the girl who didn’t exist.

Mal dragged her thoughts back from her painful childhood. She lifted her head and looked at Harry. She saw the sympathy in his nice gray eyes. “I’ve never told that to anyone before,” she said sadly. “I was too terrified to go to a psychiatrist. I just couldn’t verbalize it, admit it. I was afraid if I did, I would revert back to being Mary Mallory again, and everything I’ve fought for, everything I’ve become, would disappear.”

Harry reached out and took her hands. They were cold, and her lovely face looked pinched and pale. He turned her hands palm up and kissed them. “You were brave, Mal. You won,” he said admiringly. “However did you do it?”

She shrugged. “The usual. I was clever, a hard worker.

I studied, got a scholarship to college. That’s all my life consisted of for years—study and hard work.” She sighed, remembering the long, hard, poverty-stricken years. “Then I graduated, and—well, you know the rest.”

She scrambled to her feet, tugging down her pretty lace skirt, hitching the straps onto her shoulders, suddenly afraid she had embarrassed him. “I’ll bet you’re sorry you asked,” she said, managing a smile.

He shook his head. “Oh no, I’m not.”

She was so aware of him standing next to her, she felt she was drinking the air he breathed. “Don’t go, Harry,” she said suddenly, resting her head against his arm. “I’m afraid.”

He pulled her to him, smoothed back her hair. He thought she looked shattered, as though she had just relived her long ordeal. He said reassuringly, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s all over, gone. That’s what the past is. Sometimes we’re sorry we lost it. And sometimes we just thank God we don’t have to live through it again. Believe me, I know.”

She looked at him, big-eyed, wondering what he meant. Then he said, “But I shouldn’t stay, Mal. It’s the wrong moment, wrong timing.”

She clung to his hand—she couldn’t bear to let him go. “I know. It’s just that I’m afraid to be alone.”

He traced the contours of her face with his finger. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mary Mallory, I promise you.”

She looked away. Suddenly, a fat crystal tear rolled down her cheek.

He caught her to him, shocked: The steely wonder woman of television was crying. He held her close, told her everything would be all right, that of course he would stay. He stroked her hair, wiped her tears, gave her his handkerchief to blow her nose.

She smiled shakily at him. Her eyes were swollen, and
her nose red. He guessed he shouldn’t have, but anyhow, he kissed her. Her mouth opened under his and he lingered. He had been right the first time—her lips were like velvet.

He held her away from him, smiled at her. “I guess I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“There’s a guest room, but I don’t think the bed is made up.”

“Just give me a pillow and a blanket and I’ll be in dreamland before you know it.”

He let go of her hand. She hesitated for a moment, then went to her room.

He followed her. “Mmm, cozy,” he said, looking around. “When I’m alone in my own little bed, I can think about you alone in your big one.”

She tossed the pillow at him, and he caught it deftly. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Jordan.”

“It may be tough, but I’ll try not to.” He grasped the pillow to his chest instead of her. “Sleep well, Mary Mallory Malone. And promise me, no bad dreams.”

“I promise.” She crossed her heart with her finger, the way she used to when she was a kid.

“Good night, then.” He dropped a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.

“Good night, Harry.”

As the door closed behind her, he wondered why there was that little purr in her voice again when she said his name. But later, tossing and turning and wide awake, he wondered why he still had the sneaking feeling that she had not told him everything. That she still had secrets she wasn’t yet prepared to let go of.

Mal sat up with a jolt. She looked at the clock: five
A.M.
She closed her eyes, listening. There it was again—the sound of water running. She smiled, leaning back against
the pillows, clutching the sheet under her chin. The detective was an early riser.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, slipped on a short pink cotton robe, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. She stood in the doorway watching him. He was wearing dark blue boxers and nothing else; his body looked lean and hard, his hair was standing on end in cute little spikes, and he was attempting to make coffee in her machine.

“You hair looks as though you’ve slept in it,” she said.

He turned and looked at her. “Sorry, I didn’t think to bring a comb. Nor a toothbrush.”

“I can provide both.”

“Such efficiency at five in the morning. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s okay. I wouldn’t have missed the sight of you in those shorts for anything.”

She grinned. The past was behind her, and she felt like Mal Malone again. Better than that, she felt happy, confident. She took the coffee from him and scooped it into the filter. “I’d have bought bagels, had I known.”

“I would have bought them, if I’d known.”

They looked at each other and laughed. He linked his arms lightly around her waist. “Would this be an appropriate moment, Ms. Malone, ma’am, to ask for a date? A real date this time. No fooling.”

She leaned back, a finger to her lips, considering. “I think we know each other well enough now. Why not?”

“My place or yours?”

“Yours this time. It’s my turn to find out how the other half lives.”

“It will be my pleasure to show you, Ms. Malone, ma’am,” he said. “Unfortunately, first I have to consult my work schedule.”

“Me too.”

“Then I’ll call you later today.”

The coffee machine burped and gurgled. She swung from his arms and took out mugs and milk and sugar.

“Only skim, I’m afraid,” she said, pouring coffee.

“I take it black.”

Her eyes connected with his. “I learn new things about you all the time.”

“True.” He moved closer, took the mug from her. She could smell his freshly showered skin, see the hair curling on his throat and chest. He was definitely dangerous.

“Your stubble is showing.” She turned away, poured milk into her coffee.

Harry ran a hand ruefully across his dark bristled chin. “A dead giveaway,” he said. “Whatever will the doorman think?”

She laughed. “He can think whatever he likes.”

“Then you’re not afraid he’ll sell his story to the
Enquirer?”

“I’m a modern woman.” She shrugged. “I’m not supposed to be celibate.”

He tasted the coffee. “I have to get my things from the hotel and catch the six o’clock shuttle from La Guardia.”

“Then you’d better get a move on.”

“True.” He lingered, sipping the coffee. “Mal, thanks for trusting me last night.”

She nodded. “You’ll miss that flight,” she said, not wanting to remember how much of her private self she had given away to him.

He went back to his room and dressed quickly. She was waiting for him when he emerged.

“I feel like the other man,” he said, “sneaking out into the dawn.”

“Except, thank goodness, there’s no husband.”

“I’m glad. I like my women free and clear of all encumbrances.”

“Just in case you get serious,” she teased.

“Just in case.” He put his arms around her.

She could feel the hardness of his body against hers, and that faint masculine scent was in her nostrils. She leaned against him, wishing he didn’t have to catch the plane. Then he kissed her.

The same long, gentle kiss as last night.

He let go of her and walked to the private elevator. She said jealously, “Lara Havers is going to call you.”

“Too bad my number’s unlisted.” She was smiling as the elevator doors slid open. “I’ll call you,” he said.

The smile was still on her face as the doors slid shut and he disappeared from her sight. She went back to her bedroom to prepare for the busy day ahead, glancing at the basket of violets on the table under the window. Next to it was a creased-looking manila envelope that she had not seen before. Puzzled, she opened it. She stared into the dark menacing eyes of the serial killer in the photo-fit.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, shocked. “You did it after all. You lousy, cheap-trick bastard.”

T
HUNDERSTORMS AND A TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR
with severe winds delayed Harry’s flight back to Boston—the
TV
news said it was a tropical storm. He mooched around the departure lounge at La Guardia, sipping the free coffee and thinking about Mal Malone. She was still an enigma, though now he understood her better. What he still did not understand, because she had avoided it, was about the photo-fit.

He wondered what she would do when she found the picture of the killer. He hoped it would trigger her memory. Or if not, that she would at least come clean and tell him what it was about the man’s image that affected her so deeply.

For the first time ever, he was late for his shift. He didn’t even have time to get home and see Squeeze, who had been left in the tender loving care of Myra, the dogwalker. Myra was a sixties person with a comfortable figure, untended coppery hair flowing past her waist, long skirts, Birkenstocks, and love beads. She looked like a human version of the red setter down the street that she walked every day.

“You sure chose your moment to be late,” Rossetti said when Harry finally walked in. “The chief called a meeting at eight. He was pissed off beyond belief when you didn’t show up. And I got the full brunt of his rage. ‘How can I
expect you guys to catch a moving violation, never mind a killer’ was about the gist of it.”

Harry grinned. The chief knew his record. Sure there were unsolved crimes on it, but his score was good, and the chief knew he was a dedicated cop and a hard worker. And that he never let go of a murder case: he worried at it like Squeeze unearthing a bone in the backyard—carefully, systematically, layer by layer. He wasn’t about to let Summer Young’s killer remain free. Not if he could help it.

“Have a nice vacation, Prof?” Rossetti tilted his chair back. He folded his arms, grinning at him, one bushy dark eyebrow raised in a question.

“You may have perfect teeth, Rossetti, but your mind’s in a rut. A night off hardly constitutes a vacation.”

“In your world it does. She must be pretty special for you to skip town.”

Harry met his brown eyes squarely. “Yeah, she’s special.”

“Do we know her name?” The chair teetered back and forth as Rossetti rocked it, still grinning.

“You don’t. I do.”

“And that’s the way it stays, huh?”

“Yup.” Harry sorted quickly through the mass of paperwork on his desk.

“It wouldn’t be Malone, by any small chance?” Rossetti pushed the chair too far. There was a loud crash, and Harry turned to look at him lying on the floor. He laughed as Rossetti sat up, rubbing his elbows.

“They don’t make chairs the way they did when I was a kid,” Rossetti grumbled.

“They don’t make detectives that way, either. They broke the mold with you, Rossetti. Instead of fishing for information about my private life, why don’t you bring me up to date on the situation with the chief.”

Rossetti did just that, efficiently. Then all hell broke
loose as a call came in about a shooting at a 7-Eleven. They were out of there in seconds, with no time even to think about Ms. Malone.

Uniformed cops were cordoning off the forecourt of the 7-Eleven store when the homicide squad screeched to a halt, sirens wailing. A police helicopter hovered overhead as Harry and Rossetti leaped from the car and surveyed the scene.

The emergency ambulance pulled in right behind, and the paramedics ran past them, carrying their equipment. Behind them came reporters from the
Herald
and the local television news crews, who were filming within minutes. Rossetti went to talk to the cops in the patrol car who had been first on the scene, while Harry made his way through the crowd to the entrance.