Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (12 page)

"It's Sergeant Burgess," he said, "Portland police." She knew damned well who he was. He could have just said "Joe," but he wanted to keep this formal.

"What's happened? Is Joey okay?" she asked.

"Any reason he shouldn't be?" When she didn't respond, he moved into the purpose of his call. "I'm calling about Reggie."

"I'm not interested in hearing anything about Reggie, Joe. You know that perfectly well."

Even under these circumstances, Burgess was fascinated by her anachronistic use of "perfectly well." Claire might have been her own mother, from whom she had undoubtedly learned that locution. "Then it's your good fortune that this is just about the last time, Claire."

Shifting to his formal "deliver the bad news to the family" voice, he said, "I'm sorry to inform you that your ex-husband, and Joey's father, Reginald Libby, is dead by drowning. His body was taken from the harbor yesterday morning. The department will notify you when the medical examiner releases the body, so funeral arrangements can be made. Please accept my sincere condolences." He barely got those last words out. Such calm, serious, dignified words, when what he felt was closer to a screaming agony that Reggie was dead, and deep disgust at having to use them to deliver news to someone as indifferent as Claire.

She surprised him with silence. He'd expected a brusque brush-off and a click. Instead, she said nothing, though he could hear breathing so he knew she was still there. "I don't understand," she said finally. "You're telling me Reggie's dead? And the medical examiner is involved?"

"Yes, Claire, I am." She had been so sure his call was about Joey that she hadn't listened to his words, which made him wonder what Joey was up to these days.

Another long silence. He tried to imagine what she was doing. Pacing the room? Pouring herself a drink? Raising her fists in silent celebration? Certainly not any acknowledgment of his own loss. He'd expected the usual Claire Libby brush-off, a quick "Thank you and goodbye." This hesitation was puzzling.

After a while he heard the clink of ice in a glass, the audible slosh of liquid. "Oh dear," she said. "Oh dear." He heard the glass lift, the clink and the swallow. Imagined her standing in her elegant living room. Dark wood. Soft colors. The cut crystal glass. "How did he die, Joe?"

"It appears to be a drowning, Claire. We found him floating in the harbor."

"What about Joey?" she said. "Does Joey know? Have you told him yet?"

"The only number I have for him is this one, Claire. So no, I haven't told him yet. I'd like to, though. It seems like it should come from me. Can you give me his cell number?"

"No," she said. Too loud. Too anxious. Delivering a clear message—she didn't want him anywhere near Joey—that much she was too rattled to censor. Another clink, rattle, sip. "No, don't bother," she said, sounding more like herself. "Don't. I'll tell him when he comes back... uh... when he comes in tonight. I'll tell him."

"When do you expect him?" Burgess pushed her a little. "I could come by then. I know they weren't close, but it's still sad news."

"I don't know when he'll be home. Late," she said.

"Have him call me when he gets in. It doesn't matter if it's late. I'd like to talk with him," Burgess said, and gave his number. He could tell by the swish and tinkle of ice and the audible swallow that she wasn't writing it down.

He was about to ask her to read the number back when she pulled in a breath. "Just tell me..." Burgess waited. His job was predicting people's behavior, and he knew this woman, but he couldn't tell whether he was going to get "Did he suffer?" or "Does this mean Joey will get the land?" In the end, she only said, "Never mind. Thanks for the call," like he was some functionary, not Reggie's friend, and put down the phone.

Moving along, he did a search on Star Goodall. She might be just your run-of-the-mill whack job, all bluster and bombast, but he'd be negligent if he didn't take those letters seriously. From the paper trail, it seemed that if Ms. Goodall was a witch, as Clay said she claimed to be, she was no smiling Glinda of the sparkling dress. She was more like the wicked witch, though in a low-key way. Her record was dotted with the signs of a chronic complainer, a bad neighbor, and a terrible driver. He printed out her information, put her number and address in his notebook, snapped it shut and stowed it in his pocket. He raised his arms, and stretched. He'd skipped breakfast and lunch, and now dinner, and he was finally beginning to feel hungry.

He checked his watch. After eight. It was a long shot, but he picked up the phone and dialed his home number. Chris answered on the first ring. A single word. "Joe."

"I know it's late," he said, "but it's a Saturday night and you're answering the phone, so maybe you're free. I'm thinking of steak and red wine. Have you eaten?"

"Just sitting here by the phone, buffing my nails and hoping someone would call."

"I'm lousy at relationships," he said. "Told you that from the start. But I would very much like the pleasure of your company."

"Come get me," she said. "That will give me time to get all gussied up."

All gussied up. That was the kind of thing she said. He drove home through a city with the deserted look it got on weekends when a lot of people went out of town. No one around but a handful of tourists, a pod of the prosperous heading toward one the best restaurants, and the bad guys. He'd spotted three potential troublemakers before he was out of downtown, pleased to see a patrol car already watching one of them. You did that on patrol. Drive around, giving the "watch yourself" nod or the "I see you," wave to the bad guys. Let 'em know you were there.

He took the time to change into a clean shirt and tie. His green shirt. Her favorite. His new jacket. He checked the mirror. My, but he was a fashion plate. It was the scar that did it, he figured. That and the salt and pepper hair made him look devilish.

Chris came out of the spare room, where she'd been checking herself in the full-length mirror. She was wearing heels. A dash of lipstick. Something blue, discreetly low-cut, and clingy. All it took was something blue for her to be gussied up. Blue made her cobalt eyes vibrantly alive, brought out the honey in her long hair. Heels did what they always did for well-built women, made her chest stand out and her legs look like a million bucks.

"You look so good." He shook his head in appreciation. "Guess I lucked out tonight."

Her smile started small, then took over her whole face. "I thought maybe we were done for." A knockout punch to his heart. She opened her arms.

His throat tightened as he stepped forward to meet her. Knee deep in damage and death, when sorrow had its claws deep into him and he was feeling hard-edged and mean, she had a way of sneaking past all that and touching him.

Chapter 8

"We still going out?" she asked, a warm, vibrant voice in the darkness. "Because now I'm hungrier than ever."

He turned on the light and propped himself up on his elbow. She looked so lovely cocooned in the blue sheet, honey hair tangled, eyes heavy-lidded. She wore a "cat that just ate the canary" smile and Burgess didn't mind being the canary. Given time, if this case or two needy kids didn't send him into a cut-and-run tailspin, this relationship might have a chance.

It wouldn't take a detective, studying the trail of clothes leading from the bedroom door, to understand what had happened here. The bedside clock said nine.

"You're still hungry?" he said, putting a hand on the sheet where it covered her breast.

She slapped his hand away. "Not that kind of hungry, Joe Burgess. Steak and red wine hungry. Isn't that what I was promised? Why I got all gussied up?"

"I like you better like this," he said.

"Well, I am not going to a restaurant dressed like this. And anyway, that's a new dress lying there on the floor and I've been dying for a chance to wear it." She jabbed him with her elbow. "So get up and get dressed, before all the restaurants close and we have to settle for takeout burgers."

"You got a chance to wear it. It looked great on you. Look what it made me do."

"Jerk." She shoved back the sheet and reached down to the floor for some underpants. They were blue, too, with a wide band of lace.

He folded his arms under his head and watched her dress. Blue bra. Blue slip. Blue dress. She picked up one stiletto-heeled shoe and brandished it at him. "You'd better get cracking, mister, because I am armed and dangerous."

Reluctantly, he shoved back the covers. He should shower, wash off the sex, their sweat, her perfume. It would be the civilized thing to do. But it was late, that would make them later, and anyway, he liked wearing it. It was good and where Reggie's death was taking him was not good at all. Better to hang on to the good as long as he could. Any minute, the phone could ring and he'd get hauled out into the night to deal with someone's bad news.

He pulled his clothes back on, shirt still crisp, wrinkle-resistant pants doing their job. Tied his shoes. Checked his pocket for a wallet. Badge. Gun. Cuffs. Radio. Cell phone. The radio, cuffs, and gun could stay in the truck, but they were his version of the American Express card. He didn't leave home without them. The one time he did would be when he got a call that there was an emergency he needed to roll up on NOW. And he'd have to tell dispatch, "Sorry, I gotta stop at home and get my stuff." Every time he let down made it that much harder to hold the younger guys to a standard. So his gear came along. Even on a date with a lovely woman, he went prepared for the worst.

At nine-thirty on a Sunday night, the steak place was almost deserted. The hostess seated them almost grudgingly, despite the sign on the door that said they were serving for another hour. The wait-staff behaved better. Almost immediately, a smiling young woman was there, asking if they wanted a drink. Chris grinned and ordered a girly pink Cosmo, what she called "a martini with a tutu." He got a Manhattan with more of the bourbon he'd been craving all day. Where Clay's had been medicinal, this was for pleasure.

They ordered steak. Medium. Retro wedges of iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing and baked potatoes. Yes to butter and sour cream. Enough cholesterol to cause cardiac arrest. Chris didn't mention his weight, or exercise, or healthy eating. When the waitress brought a basket of bread, they fell on it like wolves, Chris no more restrained than he. It was one of the things he liked about her. If she was hungry, she ate. If something was on her mind, she said so. If there was something she needed, she asked for it. After a lifetime of liars and crazies and cheaters, of posers and bad guys and whores, this frank and honest woman was a continuing source of wonder. And if lately she'd been a little difficult, it was nothing to how he could be when he got his teeth into a case.

When their steaks were only some discarded bits and pools of pink juice on their plates, he set down his fork and knife. "About the kids," he said, "Chris. I know you care about them. I just don't think..."

At the same moment, she leaned toward him. "The autopsy this morning... Joe... was it awful?"

"I don't..." he began.

"Let's not..." she said. She put a finger to her lips. "Not now, Joe. That's so complicated. Right now, we're having such a good time. We're lucky to get a time like this in the middle of a case. I'd just like to enjoy it. Think about the good time we just had, and are having, and leave it at that. Would you mind very much?"

He wouldn't mind at all. He was just trying to be a good sport. Didn't women always complain that the problem with guys was they wouldn't talk? There he went. Doing what he hated people to do. Treating Chris like a generic. Putting her in the everywoman box. He put a hand over hers where it rested on the table. "This is nice."

"They have good cheesecake," she said.

"Only if you promise that tomorrow you won't say I'm too big for my britches."

Her smile was like a sunrise. First, a hint, then it grew until it spread like a glow over her face. He realized she hadn't been smiling much lately. Neither of them had. It was just a fact of life. They each got so busy with work and the everyday of their lives that they didn't pay attention to each other. Like a couple old farts.

"We could share," she said.

As they were each eyeing the last bite, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It could wait, he thought. If it was a real emergency, they'd call again.