Kill and Tell cs-1 Read online

  Marc veiled his satisfaction. That harmless, teasing little exchange had firmly shifted their relationship from strictly business to subtly personal, relaxing her. She needed to relax; from the looks of her, she needed to sleep . When she had finished eating the burrito, he took the wrapper from her, brushing her fingers in the process, and stuffed it in the bag with his own discarded wrapper. "Why don't you lean back and close your eyes until we get there?"

  "I'm afraid I'll go to sleep if I do." She watched the traffic. "I work third shift, so I—" She stopped, and he continued the sentence. "So you hadn't had more than a couple of hours' sleep when I called." That explained a lot. She was truly exhausted.

  "I returned your call when I got home, but it was too early for you to be in."

  "Didn't the voice mail pick up?"

  She shook her head. "No, and I let it ring for a long time."

  He smothered a curse and reached for his cellular phone, jabbing in a number with his thumb. Karen watched nervously; she constantly saw patients who had been in car accidents because their attention wandered while talking on the phone while they were driving. Detective Chastain kept his eye on the traffic and his left hand firm on the wheel. He was a very good driver, she thought, his driving style so smooth she scarcely noticed how fast they were moving.

  He broke the connection with another jab of his thumb. "Voice mail isn't working. Sorry about that. I'll check into it when we get back; a detective can't afford to be unreachable. In the meantime, grab a nap if you want. I'll wake you up when we get there."

  She wanted to refuse, but she was too tired, and the temptation too irresistible. She leaned her head back on the headrest of the seat and closed her eyes against the late-afternoon sun, which was glaring through the windshield straight into her eyes. Cold air poured out of the air-conditioning vents, though, washing over her wrists and throat, and she felt her tight muscles slowly ease. Sleep evaded her, but still it felt good to rest. Though she had been braced to endure the identification process, she hadn't expected it to be so difficult. Surely the years of separation and the lifetime of desertion and broken promises should have given her as much emotional detachment as if she had been identifying, say, a neighbor. It hadn't worked that way.

  Though she hadn't seen Dexter in several years, she had recognized him immediately, without a single doubt. His hair had grayed more, but his face, which should have been craggier, had been smoothed by death. She had seen that before, as if the end of life erased some of the lines it had worn into the flesh, giving death a peaceful mien. His broken nose hadn't changed, still listing slightly to the right. That was his jaw, long and narrow, and the straight line of his brows. There were the deep-set eyes and high cheekbones she had inherited, as well as the tapering fingers.

  The neat hole in his forehead was new.

  She had tried to look at it clinically, but everything in her had recoiled. She had wanted to bolt from her chair, get out of that room, go somewhere, anywhere. Instead, she had clenched her hands hard enough to dig her nails into her palms and forced herself to speak calmly. She had hoped identifying him would bring the session to an end, but instead, the doctor continued running the videotape, making comments in a dry monotone.

  Thank God Detective Chastain had stopped him. The tape couldn't have gone on more than a couple of minutes, but it had felt like hours to her. She had been frozen in her seat, unable to speak or move, until Chastain broke the spell by speaking. Dizzied by a flood of relief, she had actually leaned toward him; she hadn't been aware of swaying, but suddenly his face was much closer, his arms opened to catch her if she toppled out of the chair. After she had almost fainted in his office, he apparently wasn't taking any chances. Embarrassed, she had scrambled to her feet to show him she was perfectly all right. He must not have been convinced, though, since he had poured yet another soft drink down her. She wondered if she had completely misread him before, if her own frazzled state had led her to see dislike where none had existed, because now he seemed like a perfectly nice man. If he disliked her, he was hiding it well now, and she was so tired she didn't care. She had needed to eat, and she needed to sleep. Tomorrow, after she had done both, she would be her old self again, but for now she was grateful for Chastain's help.

  Burying Dexter here was the most logical thing to do, until she could get everything arranged back home. She supposed there were places where his body could be stored, but whatever Dexter's failings, and they had been many, he had still been a person, a man, a husband, and a father, not just a lump of dead flesh. He deserved the ritual of a funeral, the prayers said over his remains. She felt a sense of relief and knew she was doing the right thing.

  The detective's radio crackled, rousing her from her drifting, half-asleep reverie, though she didn't open her eyes. He spoke quietly into the radio, and it was like hearing his voice again for the first time. She didn't notice his voice as much when she was looking at him, she realized; he was a physically compelling man, not so much because of his looks as because of the forcefulness of his character. He controlled his intensity, but it was revealed in those narrow, glittering eyes.

  Now, though, his voice poured over her like dark honey. She didn't listen to the words, just the tone. The slur of his drawl was relaxing, as if there was no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. The way he said "where" gave the word two, perhaps three, syllables.

  If he took as much time making love as he did talking, he must be—The sexual thought shocked her, and her eyes flared open. She didn't dare glance at him, though she was abruptly, acutely aware of him sitting no more than a foot away.

  Her cheeks felt hot. Where had that thought come from, and now, of all times? She wasn't in the habit of speculating about a man's sexual skills. She wasn't in the habit of speculating about men, period. In her view, sexual freedom was stupid from the beginning, and now it was dangerous as well. She had never dated much, and not at all since Jeanette's death.

  The truth was, she had always avoided getting emotionally involved with a man because she hadn't trusted any of them. She had been afraid to risk her heart the way her mother had done; she didn't want to waste her life loving a man who never returned that love. Instead, she had been wasting her life not loving a man at all.

  She felt stupid and angry at herself. All men weren't alike; she knew that. Yes, her father had abandoned them, but she also knew men who loved their wives and families, who were faithful and dependable. But emotionally she hadn't moved beyond the quiet fear and desperation of her childhood. Only yesterday…

  no, this morning—God, the day felt as if it had been a year long, and it wasn't over yet—she had decided not to let the past drag her down. She had started making plans for the apartment, for her career, but those plans hadn't included a man.

  How dumb could she be? Why hadn't she seen this before? She refused to cheat herself out of a husband, a family, just because of her father's miserable example. When this was over and she was home again, she would start accepting some of those invitations that occasionally came her way. She knew some nice men, and it was time to give one of them a chance to be more than just a casual friend. In retrospect, she was glad she'd had such a spicy little thought about Detective Chastain, because it had sparked that burst of self-examination. And he probably was good in bed, she thought, feeling defiant. Whatever his personal opinion of her, he was going out of his way to smooth the path for her. One of her friends on the surgical floor, Piper Lloyd, said you could always tell if a man was a good lover or not just by watching him at work. Some of the male doctors—okay, most of the male doctors—thought they were God's gift to women, but according to Piper's theory, they were too arrogant and in too much of a hurry. If they didn't pay attention to their patients, they weren't likely to pay attention to a lover. Piper would approve of the detective, Karen thought drowsily. She would already be batting her eyes at him and fluffing her cap of black curls, but then Piper was a battle-scarred veteran of the love wars. She was careful