“Why is that good?” he questioned.
“I have my reasons.” Abby got up and moved the table with the drinks and pushed her chaise lounge closer to his. She teased, “If this bothers you, keep it to yourself. I’m feeling particularly good at the moment, and I can be dangerous when I feel this good.”
“I like danger,” he answered, reaching out for her hand and taking hers. “Is this all right?” he asked.
“This is perfect,” she answered, holding a knowing smile on her face. Dart felt suddenly at risk, under her spell-
“You’re not going to freak out, are you?” she asked.
She explained, “I like your company. Especially tonight. I make no claim to ownership. I ask nothing more of you than to relax and enjoy yourself. We’re both adults. We’re allowed this now and then.” She squeezed his hand in hers as a signal. “Okay with you?”
“I needed to hear that.”
“Good. I needed to say it.”
“It doesn’t make me any less nervous,” he told her and they both laughed-she confidently; he as a form of release.
She handed him her drink then, and with his both his hands occupied, she leaned over, her shirt falling away from her, and she kissed him wetly on the lips. She took his breath away, and she bit his lower lip and he felt it to his toes. He returned the kiss, awkwardly juggling the two drinks, and her hand found its way inside his shirt and over his chest and he was immediately aroused. “One thing nice about middle age,” she whispered into his ear in a way that gave him chills, “is that you know what you like … what makes you feel good …”-she stroked his chest-”what turns you on. And even better,” she added, “you aren’t afraid to enjoy yourself.” She helped him set down the drinks, and she climbed over the arms of the chaise lounges and straddled Dart and met eyes with him. “You know?” she inquired.
“It’s been a long time,” he told her, by way of apology.
“I’m a very patient woman,” she said, pulling him forward so that he sat up, and tricking the chair into a full recline. Then she eased him back and lay down atop him, and a heat grew where they touched.
He wrapped his arms around her strongly and held her, and she nuzzled her chin into the crook of his neck, kissed him once lightly, and hummed affectionately. “There’s nothing quite so amazing in this world as a good hug,” she said. “Sex is over before you know it, but the right kind of hug lasts forever.”
“Is this the right kind?” he asked.
“You bet,” she answered.
Thirty minutes later, she took Dart’s hand and pulled him out of the chaise lounge and led him around a Japanese paper screen to a small bedroom that contained a pine chest, two long rows of hanging clothes, and, on the floor, a futon with a down comforter. She turned and faced him and pulled the shirt over her head. Her bra was translucent, her nipples hard. She undid her jeans and stepped out of them, and Dart was reminded of their night in the crib. She said, “Do me a favor and at least take off your shoes.”
She slipped under the covers, her back to him. Dart undressed fully and climbed in beside her, pressing to her back like spoons. He reached around her and cupped her breasts and hugged her, and she hummed. The air trapped in the covers smelled of her arousal and penetrated Dart to his core. They remained this way for several long minutes, Dart stroking her breasts lightly, Abby, head bent, kissing his arms and hands. It felt to him that they had been lovers for a very long time and that they knew each other’s secrets and pleasures. His fingers explored her, and she slipped out of her underpants and bra, and she found a condom in a bedside box and said something about safe sex and rolled him over and put it on him. She kissed him then, and rolled them over together so that Dart lay atop her. “Gentle at first,” she requested, taking hold of him and rubbing him against her in a way that offered her pleasure and made her shudder. “Rough at the end.”
Later, they collapsed in a sweaty embrace, out of breath and spent with exhaustion. She kissed his neck lightly and ran her fingers down his back and giggled approvingly. “I knew it,” she said happily, the only words she offered. She held him tightly and wouldn’t let him off of her, even after they slipped apart, lingering in the glow of the moment.
“Will you stay with me?” she asked.
“Uh-huh,” he answered, kissing behind her ear, working down her neck, and finding her breast and kissing her there too.
“Maybe hugging comes in second,” she said a while later, and Dart dozed off with a smile on his face.
A beeping sound, emanating from Dart’s clothing, awakened them.
He slipped out of bed.
“I protest!” she complained. “You traded out,” she reminded him.
He carried the pager into the light of the other room and read the CAPers phone number off its LCD display. He called in to Jennings Road, speaking with Sergeant Haite. He hung up immediately, sneaked into the room, and collected his things. “Gotta go,” he told her in a whisper, grateful that she, unlike Ginny, would understand such things.
“Will you come back?” she offered. “Please.”
“I’ll try. It’s over in West Hartford. I’ll be a couple hours at least.”
“Why bother with something in West Hartford?” she asked, coming more fully awake. West Hartford was out of their jurisdiction. She answered herself immediately, confirming that even half-asleep she could think faster than most detectives. “Another suicide,” she said.
“Right.” He clipped the pager to his belt and checked his sidearm and holster. “Another suicide,” he confirmed. “West Hartford asked for our help.” Many of the neighboring towns had little more than patrol squads, using either HPD or the State Police for the bigger investigations.
“Any record?” she asked, flicking on the bedside light, with no inclination toward modesty. She had long since passed the age of pinup girl, but she had nothing to hide.
He hesitated, and she asked him a second time.
“A pornography conviction,” he said.
“I’m coming with you,” she announced, throwing the covers off.
Dart knew better than to argue.
Orchard Road climbed high up a hill, offering a spectacular view of the distant city. This was the high-rent district: half a million dollars and up for a three-bedroom on an acre. Woods. Ponds. Views. Beamers. Rolexes. Divorces. And silicon implants.
Dart pulled the Volvo into the curving drive and parked alongside an HPD patrol car in front of the brick-and- stone two-story house. Abby yanked the rearview mirror toward her and ran a brush through her hair. They both hung their badges around their necks and entered by the front door.
“Tuna’s got the wife upstairs,” announced patrolman Benny Webster. Tanya Fische, an HPD patrol officer, referred to as Tuna, was clearly Webster’s patrol partner. “The wife popped a bunch of Valium and is in la-la land. No use to us until morning. We ain’t touched nothing in the study. But it’s a messy one,” he said, eyeing Abby Lang as if she might have trouble stomaching it. “Single shot up through the roof of the mouth. Nine millimeter.”
“Who’s on it?” Dart asked.
“Kowalski and-” he answered.
Dart and Abby met eyes, interrupting the uniformed man.
“Something wrong?” Webster asked, seeing this.
“Everything’s just ducky,” Abby answered.
Webster continued, “And their assistant chief.”
“West Hartford’s?” Dart clarified. “Nolan?” he said, adding the name.
“That’s him. Yeah. Only he ain’t here. Showed up, talked to the K,” he said, meaning Kowalski, “and took off. It being a suicide and all, he didn’t seem too bothered.”
“Wanted to brief his chief and prepare a statement,” came the voice of Roman Kowalski. He looked tired; the buttons on his shirt indicated he had dressed hastily. “What brings
“Sergeant Haite.”
“And you?” he asked Abby.
