Crush

ROBBY PULLED THEIR NISSAN MURANO into the parking lot of Bistro Don Giovanni. Vail was busy thumbing the keyboard of her BlackBerry, texting a message to her fourteen-year-old son, Jonathan. Vail’s Aunt Faye was visiting from New York and staying at her house with Jonathan while Vail was on vacation.

Vail hit Send, then slid the phone into its pouch.

They left the car and headed toward the restaurant. Vail saw clots of people sitting on an outdoor veranda that rimmed the bistro under a covered awning. They hovered in close quarters over flickering candles. Couples holding hands, friends laughing. Vail and Robby walked in and gave their name to the host, who had a thick Italian accent. The restaurant swelled with chattering conversation and clinking plates. It smelled of garlic, tomatoes, and olives.

“I think that may’ve been Don Giovanni,” Robby said, as they walked back outside onto the deck. He flagged a waiter heading toward him. “Hey, is that Don Giovanni?”

The server, who had an olive complexion and spoke with an Italian accent, grinned. “There is no Don Giovanni, sir. Donna Scala owns the restaurant with her husband, Giovanni. And yes, that man is Giovanni.”

“Got it,” Robby said. “Don, Giovanni.”

“Tell Giovanni his restaurant smells heavenly,” Vail said.

Robby thanked the man and turned away. “Just a guess, Karen, but I’m sure he knows.”

Vail’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, read the text, and smiled.

“Jonathan?” Robby asked.

“He’s gotten his sense of humor back, which is good to see.”

They continued on down the wood steps into a gardenlike setting, an expanse of grass surrounding a fountain sprouting surreal brass sculptures that towered above the ground: a frog, hind legs in the air as it landed on a square pedestal; an Italian soldier balancing on a tall pole with one hand while supporting a large white boulder in the other; and a chef ascending an angled ladder with the flag of Italy in his outstretched hand, as if he were reaching to place it in a holder.

Vail and Robby crunched gravel as they walked to the fountain’s edge, then stood there examining the artwork.

She cocked her head to the side. “Interesting.”

“Not sure what to make of it,” Robby said.

“That soldier is balancing the delicate choices of life and death. Precariously suspended above the ocean, he holds a large boulder, which in reality he shouldn’t be able to support, as he keeps himself horizontal. A metaphor for staying afloat.”

Robby studied the scene before him. “Not sure how you got that, but okay.”

“I tend to get a little philosophical after seeing a serial killer’s handiwork while on vacation.” She turned and sat down at one of the small nearby tables that were arranged around the fountain’s periphery. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. Bad enough seeing it, no need to talk about it in such a beautiful setting.”

Robby reached out and took her hand. “Violence is all around us, Karen. It’s a fact of life. We see it all the time. That’s our job. Can’t escape it.”

“What do you make of Brix?” she asked.

“Strange name.”

“Strange guy. But that’s not what I mean. There’s more to this murder than Brix is telling. I saw his face, his reaction when he looked at the body. Like he’s seen this before.”

“You got that from his reaction?”

“Body language. Then he sends us on our way.”

Robby lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. But it’s not our investigation, Karen. We’re not even in the mix here.”

A woman from the restaurant approached them in silhouette from the bright restaurant lights against the garden’s relative darkness. “Robby, your table is ready.”

“I’m leaving this talk out here,” Vail said as she rose from the chair.

Robby reached out and took her hand. “No argument from me.”

FIVE

Vail and Robby sat at the bed-and-breakfast’s rectangular table as the hostess announced what she would be serving: stuffed French toast with fresh fruit preserves and maple syrup, orange juice squeezed this morning, and Greek yogurt.

Joining them were a young couple who looked like they’d enjoyed the firmness of their mattress, and an older couple who appeared to be looking forward to retirement.

“I’m Chuck,” the gray-haired man said, “and this lovely lady here is Candace. Married thirty-five years tomorrow. And we lived to tell about it.” He elbowed his wife, who took it in stride and bumped him back with her shoulder. “And that’s Brandy, and her husband, Todd,” Chuck said. “Second anniversary is next week. Boston, right?”

“They can speak for themselves,” Candace said. “Sorry, Chuck sometimes likes to dominate conversations. Trick is to kick him in the shin.” Chuck gave her a look. “What?” Candace said. “It’s worked for thirty-five years.”

“We met Chuck and Candace a couple days ago,” Brandy said.

“Karen and Robby,” Vail said. “Virginia.”

“So what do you and Robby do?” Todd asked.

“Us?” Vail said. “I’m with the FBI—an agent out of a special unit you may have—”

“FBI,” Todd said. “Really? You know, I’ve always wanted to ask a cop what it’s like, but, well, I’ve never been in the right setting. Know what I mean? You can’t walk right up to a cop on the street and just ask.”

“Ask what?” Robby said.

Todd began nervously bouncing his left leg. “Well, what it’s like. What it’s like to shoot someone. Have you? Shot someone?”

“I have,” Vail said, flashes of Danny Michael Yates momentarily blinding her thoughts.

Todd leaned forward slightly. “Ever killed anyone? I mean, what does that feel like?”

“Todd,” Brandy said under her breath. “That’s rude.”

“Yes,” Vail said, looking into Todd’s eyes. “I have. But it’s not something that comes up often in my line of work. Actually,” she said with a chuckle, “that’s not true. I killed a bank robber and then almost killed my ex- husband a couple months ago. And then, last week, right in front of the White House—”

Robby leaned forward and cleared his throat. He forced a laugh, then said, “Karen’s got a very dry sense of humor . . .”

Apparently, Robby had taken Candace’s advice seriously, because Vail felt a kick beneath the table, a not so subtle signal for her to cut it out. The others at the table looked at each other, apparently trying to ascertain if Vail’s comments were something they should laugh at or take seriously.

“Joking aside,” Robby quickly said, “Karen’s a profiler.”

“Like on those shows?” Brandy asked. “What was that one, it was on years ago, we used to watch it right after we met,” she said, poking Todd in the arm.

“Profiler,” Todd said. “I loved that show.”

Brandy leaned back in her seat with folded arms. “You just thought the actress was hot.”

“No, I really liked it, the way she could touch the clothing and see the killer. That was cool—”

“That was a lot of bullsh—a lot of nonsense, is what it was,” Vail said. “We don’t have special powers. Real life isn’t usually as cool as Hollywood.”

“But it is pretty interesting work,” Robby said.

“What about that show Criminal Minds?” Candace asked.

“More like it,” Vail said. “Except we don’t have our own private jet. It was actually proposed about thirty years ago but it didn’t fly because it cost too much.”

“Good one,” Todd said. “The private jet didn’t fly.”

“And what do you do?” Chuck asked.

“I’m a detective,” Robby said.

“Sounds like you both see a lot of violence in your lives,” Chuck said.