OF COURSE, I COULDN’T SLEEP. I LAY IN BED, TOSSING, FRAGmented thoughts popping in my mind. The missing nannies’ faces, old Charlie’s hacking cough, the serial killer’s patterns. Snippets of conversations replayed themselves. Nick, saying the killer was local. Charlie, saying evil was close by. Susan, saying people weren’t meant to be alone, that I should “nab” Stiles.
My head was overloaded; images splashed around in a pool of whatever liquor Manhattans are made of. Bourbon? Sweet vermouth? I didn’t know, didn’t care. If the killer was local, did I know him? Did he know me? Who could he be? Faces paraded by, too many too fast, making me dizzy. Stop it, I told myself. Calm down. The scent of Nick’s aftershave drifted in, drenching the parade.
I closed my eyes, trying to let go and sink into sleep. Sleep, I told myself. Think tomorrow. But as I lay back, the room began to swim again, and I sat up waiting for the night to fade.
I thought about Nick. As he’d walked Molly and me to our door, he’d squeezed my hand good night. His touch had been warm, gentle. Warmer and gentler, I thought, than necessary. Certainly more than a compulsory thanks-for-agreeing-to-work-on-the-case squeeze.
This was crazy. What was I thinking about? This was a murder investigation, not a courtship. I wasn’t even his type. Was I? What was his type? I imagined a deranged woman holding a gun. What had she looked like, his wife? I cleared my throat, thinking about a dead wife, a man’s scar. And jealousy.
Not the dead wife’s. Mine. I was, I admit it, suddenly very jealous. It was irrational, but I was jealous anyway. A woman had loved Nick Stiles desperately enough to kill him, enough to die rather than lose him. I was jealous of that kind of all-consuming, desperate, soul-searing love.
By comparison, when my own marriage had fallen apart, I hadn’t felt anything. I hadn’t wanted to kill Michael. I’d simply wanted him to go away. Now, of course, when he’d told me he was remarrying, I’d been stunned. But that was because some woman would put up with him, not because I was jealous.
But Nick Stiles’s wife had loved him enough to kill him and herself. She’d failed, but she’d marked him for life. He’d think of her every time he looked in the mirror. Every time someone noticed his scar. He’d never be free of her or her love. Not ever.
And I’d managed to raise the topic of that love in our very first conversation. I’d asked him about his scar and brought his wife to mind. Hell, I’d invited her to our table.
Hold it, I told myself—the shooting was eight years ago. He must have learned to live with it by now. Must have dated women. Might even have a girlfriend. I wondered what type she was. Great, I sounded like Tim. Which was worse, judging men by their cars or their women? My mind teased me, showing me Nick with various women, searching. And there she was: a self-possessed, leggy brunette, about thirty-five years old, intense, focused. Draped on Nick’s arm, as if she belonged there, balancing his rugged, damaged features with her confident charisma. Yup, she was his type. And she did not in the slightest resemble me. Actually, she was a dead ringer for Beverly Gardener.
Ridiculous, I told myself. I was letting Susan’s comments get to me. Not all men would swoon over Beverly Gardener. Some would regard her merely as a single-minded, ambitious professional. A profiler. Certainly Nick would.
Okay, then. I could forget about Beverly Gardener. The real question wasn’t about her; it was about me. Was I Nick’s type? I got up and, for the second time that day, stood at the mirror analyzing my features. How would I look paired with Stiles? My hair was dark, striped with gray strands. My face was almost, but not quite, exotic. The cheekbones were prominent, the nose definite. The eyes more almond-shaped than round. Looking closer, around the eyes, I saw the unmistakable engravings of time. Not just of time. Of experience. Of humor. Of wisdom. Clearly, this woman had more to offer than some ambitious, brainy brunette. Any man worth being with could see that.
But if I had so much wisdom, why was I standing by the mirror examining myself? Nick Stiles and I had had one pleasant, personable, and mostly professional evening. That was all. True, there was good chemistry, but we were a long way from “nabbing” each other. We were still virtual strangers. More important, there was a killer to catch. Someone local. Someone I might know. Who might know me.
I plopped back on my bed and pulled up the covers. When I closed my eyes, the leggy, confident brunette leaned against Nick Stiles and twined her arms around his neck. My face itched. I scratched my cheeks and tossed but finally gave up and went downstairs, wishing I had someone to talk to. Susan was right about one point: People weren’t meant to be alone, especially at night. I flipped on the television. A car blew up in some old detective show. I changed the channel. A televangelist made an appeal for money. I changed again. A woman ran out of a house, chased by a man with a gun. I clicked the set off, and the house was silent. The StairMaster, ever persevering, offered its companionship.
“Forget it,” I said out loud. Great. I was talking to a machine. I sat down, glaring at it. It glared back, daring me to climb on, silently listing all the reasons I should, including Beverly Gardener’s legs. That did it. I flung an afghan over it and went into the kitchen.
Dawn was still far off. Molly wouldn’t be up for hours. I yearned for morning. The newspaper, coffee, my daily routine. Traffic on the street. Grinding decaf, I gazed out the window. Victor’s house was completely dark, a shadow in the night. Construction vehicles partly blocked my view, but there was a light in Charlie’s basement. I could see his shadow moving around down there, tinkering. Awake, like me.
Phillip Woods’s Santa blinked on and off, beating at the darkness. I turned on the coffeemaker and waited, sniffing the rich aroma. It was strong and familiar, reassuring. I poured a mug and felt its steam on my face. Then, letting my mind wander toward exhaustion, I stared out the window at the frigid night. Crystalline ice still coated the trees, and the glazed streets were bleak and deserted. In the black intervals between flashes of the Santa, I watched the glow of Charlie’s window and sipped warm liquid through aching lips, until finally, sometime after three, I was able to drift off. I lingered, though, wavering between wakefulness and sleep, bothered by images of seduction and murder, while faces of missing women peppered my dreams.