She felt a steadying hand on her arm, and looked up into Eli’s face.
He took her empty champagne glass and set it on a nearby tray. “I think you need some air,” he said.
“… and that is where we find ourselves today, in a nation rapidly being eclipsed by scientific powerhouses now rising in Asia, where…”
The sun burned through her eyelids. Maura turned her head, trying to escape the glare, but it shone down on her face like a heat lamp, hot enough to scorch her skin. Her mouth was dry, so dry, and her head hurt. And the damn phone kept ringing and ringing.
She opened her eyes and squinted at the sunlight blazing through the living room window. Why am I not in bed? She struggled to focus on her surroundings and saw her coffee table, the Persian rug, the bookcase. Everything where it usually was. Except for me. How did I end up falling asleep on the sofa?
The phone stopped ringing.
Groaning, she sat up and immediately had to drop her head as the room seemed to rock. Doubled over, her face resting in her hands, she realized she was still wearing her evening gown from the Museum of Science reception. The silk was thoroughly wrinkled from being slept in, and one high-heeled shoe was lying under the coffee table. Where the other shoe was, she could not remember.
She could not remember a lot of things. How she’d gotten home. How she’d made it through her front door.
Slowly she straightened again, and this time the room stayed steady. She spotted her purse on the floor, with her keys lying beside it. I must have driven myself home, she thought. Unlocked my front door, and collapsed onto the sofa.
Why can’t I remember any of it?
She stood up, reeling like a drunken woman, and stumbled down the hall into the kitchen. There she drank two full glasses of water, gulping it so greedily it dribbled down her chin and splattered her silk dress. She didn’t care. Thirst quenched at last, she propped herself against the countertop, feeling steadier. Stronger. Her head still throbbed, but she was awake enough now to feel the first prickles of fear. The kitchen clock read eleven thirty-five. It was a Sunday, but even on weekends she never slept this late.
What happened to me last night? Why can’t I remember?
She looked down at her dress. Except for the wrinkled fabric and the fresh water stains, it appeared intact. She was still wearing her pantyhose, although a fat run had streaked its way up her left stocking. She hadn’t been robbed, since her purse and keys were in the…
My purse.
She hurried back to the living room and scooped up her evening bag. Inside it, she found her business card case, lipstick, and wallet. The wallet was unsnapped. With a rising sense of panic she flipped it open and was relieved to see all her credit cards; only her driver’s license was missing. No, there it was, lying loose at the bottom of the purse.
The doorbell rang.
She turned, heart suddenly pounding. Could the answers be waiting on her front porch? Though she had just downed two glasses of water, her throat felt parched again, this time from anxiety, as she opened the door.
Detective Jane Rizzoli pulled off sunglasses and frowned up and down at Maura’s evening gown. “Isn’t there some rule about formal wear before noon?” she asked.
Maura lifted a hand to her throbbing head. “Oh God, Jane. I’m so confused.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Jane stepped into the house and shut the door. “You look like you need to sit down,” she said, guiding Maura to the sofa. “I’ve been calling you for the last hour. Where were you?”
“Here.” Maura looked down at the white cushions and suddenly gave a laugh. “ Right here, in fact. This is where I woke up.”
“On the sofa? Must’ve been a wild night.”
Maura closed her eyes against the headache. She didn’t have to look to know that Jane was eyeing her with a cop’s unrelenting stare, exactly what Maura didn’t want to face right now. Head in her hands, Maura said, “Why are you here?”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“It’s Sunday. I’m not on call.”
“I know that.”
“So why were you trying to reach me?” Her question was met with silence. Maura lifted her head and found herself looking straight into Jane’s eyes. It was Maura’s job to wield a scalpel, but now Jane was the one doing the dissecting, and Maura didn’t like being on the receiving end.
“I just came from a death scene,” said Jane. “Olmsted Park. A body was found on the bank of the Muddy River, just south of Leverett Pond.”
“It’s not my case, not today. Why are you telling me about it?”
“Because we have reason to think you might know him.”
Maura sat up straight, staring. “Who?”
“That’s just it, we don’t know. There’s no wallet, no phone on the body. At the moment he’s a John Doe.”
“Why do you think I know him?”
“Because we found your business card tucked into his breast pocket.”
“He could have it for any number of reasons. I give my cards out to anyone who does business with-”
“Your home address was written on the back, Maura.”
Maura sat still for a moment, struggling to think through the cloud of confusion that still hung over her. She seldom gave out her personal information to anyone-not her phone number, and certainly not where she lived. She valued her privacy too dearly. “This man,” she said softly. “What does he look like?”
“Dark hair. In his forties, well built. I guess you’d call him good looking.”
Maura’s head lifted. “What was he wearing?”
“Funny you should ask that,” said Jane, looking at Maura’s evening gown. “He’s wearing a very nice tuxedo. At least, it was nice, until someone sliced him up with a knife.”
Maura lurched to her feet. “Excuse me,” she gasped, and made a run for her bathroom. She barely made it in time and dropped her head over the toilet just as she started to retch. Nothing but water came up, every drop of those two full glasses she’d gulped down so quickly. She was left weak and shaking, and she barely heard Jane knocking on the door.
“Maura? You okay, Maura?”
“I’ll be-I’ll be out in a minute.” Maura rose unsteadily to her feet and stared at herself in the mirror. Her usually sculpted hair was in disarray. Her face was sickly pale, with one bright streak of lipstick smeared across her cheek.
The dead man was wearing a tuxedo.
She turned on the faucet and washed her face twice, scrubbing away every trace of makeup. Bent over the sink, splashing her cheeks with water, all of a sudden she remembered a face. A man with dark hair, smiling at her. She remembered swirls of color, women in evening dresses standing around them. And a glass of champagne.
She stood up straight, water dripping onto her gown. A gown she never wanted to wear again. She unzipped it and shed the silk. Peeled off her pantyhose and underwear, desperate to get it all away from her because it felt dirty. Contaminated. Even as she threw the clothing into the corner, she knew it was evidence, and she could not wash it. Not yet.
Nor could she take a shower.
In her bedroom, she dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but as soon as they touched her unwashed skin, the fresh clothes felt soiled, because she was. Or might be.
When she walked back into the living room, she found Jane talking on the cell phone. Jane took one look at Maura’s face and quickly hung up.
“I want to see the body,” said Maura.
“He’s probably en route to the morgue right now.”
“Do you have a photo?”
