Convincing Alex
Page 49
She'd waited for him. The sweetness of that speared through him as he crouched beside her. For so many years now, he'd come home alone, to no one. Gently he brushed the dark red curls from her cheek and replaced them with his lips. She stirred, murmuring. Her eyes fluttered open.
"I'm just going to carry you into bed," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."
"Alexi." She lifted a hand to rub over the cheek he hadn't shaved that morning. Her voice was thick with sleep, her eyes glazed with it. "What time is it?"
"It's late. You should have gone to bed."
She made a vague sound of disagreement and pushed up on one elbow. "I was waiting up, but the movie was so bad." Her laugh was groggy, and she rubbed her eyes like a child. "It zapped me." She circled her shoulders before leaning forward to kiss him. "You had a long day, Detective."
"Yeah." And maybe, because she was half-asleep, he could put off the rest. "So have you. I'll cart you in."
"No, I'm okay." She sat up, yawning. "Did you eat something?"
"I caught a sandwich. I'm really sorry, I tried to call."
"And got the machine," she said with a rueful nod. "Because I'd forgotten the paprika and had to run back out to the market."
"You cooked?" The idea both touched him and accented his guilt.
"I amazed myself." It felt good to settle against him when he joined her on the couch and slipped an arm around her. Cozy, right, and wonderfully simple. "Your mother's recipe for chicken and dumplings—Hungarian-style."
"Csirke paprikas?" Normally it would have made his mouth water. "That's a lot of work."
"It was a culinary adventure—and the cleaning lady will probably quit on Monday, after one look at the kitchen." She laughed up at him, then scrubbed her knuckles over his cheek when she caught the look in his eyes. "Don't worry. It'll heat up just fine for tomorrow's lunch. Then again…" She snuggled closer. "If you're feeling really guilty, I'll take you up on that ride to the bedroom—and whatever else you can think of."
But instead of chuckling and scooping her up, he pushed away to pace to the television and snap it off. "We have to talk."
His tone had nerves skittering in her stomach, but she nodded. "All right."
He thought it might be best—for both of them—if they had some of the brandy she had offered him during an earlier crisis. Trying out the words in his head, he walked to the lacquered cabinet.
"It's bad," she murmured and pressed her lips together, hard. Her first thought was that he had changed his mind about her. That he had finally taken that good look she'd been afraid of and realized his mistake.
"It's bad," he concurred, then brought the snifters to the couch. "Here. Drink a little."
"It's all right. I don't make scenes."
He tilted the brandy toward her lips himself. "Just a little, milaya."
She closed her eyes and did as he asked. He couldn't say that sweet word to her in that loving tone if he'd changed his mind. "Okay." A deep breath, and she opened her eyes again.
"There was another murder last night."
"Oh, Alexi." Instantly the image of Crystal LaRue's mangled body flashed behind her eyes. "Oh, God." She caught his hand in hers and squeezed. "Last night?"
"The desk clerk found her this morning. They had an arrangement. She only used that room for work, and he was ticked that she hadn't checked out and slipped him his usual tip." He was taking it slow, deliberately, so that the general horror would pass before he hit her with the specifics. Again he tipped the brandy up to her lips. "She'd rented the room three times last night. He caught a glimpse of the third John when they went up, so we've had him looking over mug shots most of the day."
"You'll catch him."
"Oh, yeah. There's no doubt about it this time. He didn't find the guy in the books, but he gave the police artist a fair description. We'll be broadcasting it. This time we should have his blood type, too. DNA. Couple of other things."
"You'll have him soon."
"Not soon enough. Bess, the woman…" His fingers tightened on hers, but he told her the worst as gently as he knew how. "It was Rosalie."
She only stared, and he watched, helpless, as the color simply slid out of her face. "No." She was tugging her hand from his, but he only held tighter. "You're wrong. You made a mistake. I just saw her. I just talked to her a couple of days ago."
"There's no mistake." His voice toughened, for her sake. "I ID'd her myself. Rechecked that with prints, and the desk clerk's ID. Bess, it was Rosalie."
The moan came out brokenly as she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. "Don't," she said when he tried to gather her close. "Don't, don't, don't."
She sprang up, needing the distance, desperate to find something to do with the helpless rage that was building inside her. "She didn't have to die. It isn't right. It isn't right for her to die like that."
"It's never right."
It was his tone, the cool detachment of it, that had her whirling on him. "But she was just a hooker. Don't get involved, right? Don't feel anything. Isn't that what you told me?"
He went very still, as if she'd pulled a gun and taken aim. "I guess I did."
"I wanted to help her, but you told me I couldn't. You told me it was a waste of my time and energy. And you were right, weren't you, Alexi? How fine it must be to always be so right."
He took the blow. What else could he do? "Why don't you sit down, Bess? You'll make yourself sick."
She wanted to break something, to smash it—but nothing was precious enough. "I cared, damn you. I cared about her. She wasn't just a story line to me. She was a person. All she wanted was to go south, buy a trailer." When her breath began to hitch, she covered her mouth with her hands. "She shouldn't have died like that."
"I wish I could change it." The bitter sense of failure turned his voice to ice. "I wish to God I could." Before he realized the glass was leaving his hand, he was heaving the snifter against the wall. "How do you know what I felt when I walked into that filthy room and found her like that? How the hell do you know what it's like to face it and know you couldn't stop it? She was a person to me, too."
"I'm just going to carry you into bed," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."
"Alexi." She lifted a hand to rub over the cheek he hadn't shaved that morning. Her voice was thick with sleep, her eyes glazed with it. "What time is it?"
"It's late. You should have gone to bed."
She made a vague sound of disagreement and pushed up on one elbow. "I was waiting up, but the movie was so bad." Her laugh was groggy, and she rubbed her eyes like a child. "It zapped me." She circled her shoulders before leaning forward to kiss him. "You had a long day, Detective."
"Yeah." And maybe, because she was half-asleep, he could put off the rest. "So have you. I'll cart you in."
"No, I'm okay." She sat up, yawning. "Did you eat something?"
"I caught a sandwich. I'm really sorry, I tried to call."
"And got the machine," she said with a rueful nod. "Because I'd forgotten the paprika and had to run back out to the market."
"You cooked?" The idea both touched him and accented his guilt.
"I amazed myself." It felt good to settle against him when he joined her on the couch and slipped an arm around her. Cozy, right, and wonderfully simple. "Your mother's recipe for chicken and dumplings—Hungarian-style."
"Csirke paprikas?" Normally it would have made his mouth water. "That's a lot of work."
"It was a culinary adventure—and the cleaning lady will probably quit on Monday, after one look at the kitchen." She laughed up at him, then scrubbed her knuckles over his cheek when she caught the look in his eyes. "Don't worry. It'll heat up just fine for tomorrow's lunch. Then again…" She snuggled closer. "If you're feeling really guilty, I'll take you up on that ride to the bedroom—and whatever else you can think of."
But instead of chuckling and scooping her up, he pushed away to pace to the television and snap it off. "We have to talk."
His tone had nerves skittering in her stomach, but she nodded. "All right."
He thought it might be best—for both of them—if they had some of the brandy she had offered him during an earlier crisis. Trying out the words in his head, he walked to the lacquered cabinet.
"It's bad," she murmured and pressed her lips together, hard. Her first thought was that he had changed his mind about her. That he had finally taken that good look she'd been afraid of and realized his mistake.
"It's bad," he concurred, then brought the snifters to the couch. "Here. Drink a little."
"It's all right. I don't make scenes."
He tilted the brandy toward her lips himself. "Just a little, milaya."
She closed her eyes and did as he asked. He couldn't say that sweet word to her in that loving tone if he'd changed his mind. "Okay." A deep breath, and she opened her eyes again.
"There was another murder last night."
"Oh, Alexi." Instantly the image of Crystal LaRue's mangled body flashed behind her eyes. "Oh, God." She caught his hand in hers and squeezed. "Last night?"
"The desk clerk found her this morning. They had an arrangement. She only used that room for work, and he was ticked that she hadn't checked out and slipped him his usual tip." He was taking it slow, deliberately, so that the general horror would pass before he hit her with the specifics. Again he tipped the brandy up to her lips. "She'd rented the room three times last night. He caught a glimpse of the third John when they went up, so we've had him looking over mug shots most of the day."
"You'll catch him."
"Oh, yeah. There's no doubt about it this time. He didn't find the guy in the books, but he gave the police artist a fair description. We'll be broadcasting it. This time we should have his blood type, too. DNA. Couple of other things."
"You'll have him soon."
"Not soon enough. Bess, the woman…" His fingers tightened on hers, but he told her the worst as gently as he knew how. "It was Rosalie."
She only stared, and he watched, helpless, as the color simply slid out of her face. "No." She was tugging her hand from his, but he only held tighter. "You're wrong. You made a mistake. I just saw her. I just talked to her a couple of days ago."
"There's no mistake." His voice toughened, for her sake. "I ID'd her myself. Rechecked that with prints, and the desk clerk's ID. Bess, it was Rosalie."
The moan came out brokenly as she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. "Don't," she said when he tried to gather her close. "Don't, don't, don't."
She sprang up, needing the distance, desperate to find something to do with the helpless rage that was building inside her. "She didn't have to die. It isn't right. It isn't right for her to die like that."
"It's never right."
It was his tone, the cool detachment of it, that had her whirling on him. "But she was just a hooker. Don't get involved, right? Don't feel anything. Isn't that what you told me?"
He went very still, as if she'd pulled a gun and taken aim. "I guess I did."
"I wanted to help her, but you told me I couldn't. You told me it was a waste of my time and energy. And you were right, weren't you, Alexi? How fine it must be to always be so right."
He took the blow. What else could he do? "Why don't you sit down, Bess? You'll make yourself sick."
She wanted to break something, to smash it—but nothing was precious enough. "I cared, damn you. I cared about her. She wasn't just a story line to me. She was a person. All she wanted was to go south, buy a trailer." When her breath began to hitch, she covered her mouth with her hands. "She shouldn't have died like that."
"I wish I could change it." The bitter sense of failure turned his voice to ice. "I wish to God I could." Before he realized the glass was leaving his hand, he was heaving the snifter against the wall. "How do you know what I felt when I walked into that filthy room and found her like that? How the hell do you know what it's like to face it and know you couldn't stop it? She was a person to me, too."
