Dirty Blonde

Or not. Cate’s mouth went dry. “In the lot across the street, at the hotel.”

Nesbitt held a hand up to stop a station wagon and waved Cate across the street.

“If you’d listen, I could tell you what I learned today, from Sarah Marz and George Hartford.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You might be persuaded.”

“I won’t be. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Cate crossed the median slightly behind Nesbitt, feeling hollow inside. The night had fallen a frigid, starless black, the moon hiding. The massive concrete Civic Center sat on her right, an empty edifice looming in the dark, and the University Museum was on her left, with its ornate dome designed by Frank Furness, oddly exotic in this American cityscape. The Penn Hotel lay straight ahead, a tall column of bright yellow windows, and the garage was off to its right.

Cate said, “You know Micah Gilbert, Simone’s assistant? I think she did it.”

Nesbitt kept walking.

“I think she had an affair with Simone, and he ended it when the trial was over. In fact, the moment the trial was over. And she was hurt and angry, and went and shot him. Then she set Marz up for the murder. He would be the perfect candidate, given what had happened in the courtroom, and he was drunk enough that she could overpower him.”

“How would she know where Marz was?”

“She called him on his cell. Marz had a cell phone and he wasn’t found with it on him. Micah had access to Simone’s files, so she would know Marz’s cell number.”

Nesbitt didn’t respond.

“I think she called Marz and said she had to meet him. That she had something important to tell him, maybe inside information that would help in an appeal. Or just good, old-fashioned dirt on Simone.”

“Can you walk a little faster? I want to get back to Russo, Judge.”

Judge. I’ve been demoted. “What do you think of my theory?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I think you’re wrong and I’m right.”

Hmph. “Well, I think I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Great.”

“Fine.” Cate buttoned her coat against the cold. She must have been crazy to think anything could happen between them. If he had been interested in her, he certainly wasn’t any longer. Anyway, they were too different by nature, and now they stood on opposite sides of the fence. She followed him onto the sidewalk, crossing to the entrance to the parking garage. Nesbitt’s slowing cadence posed a tacit question.

Cate answered, “I’m on the first floor.”

“What’re you driving?”

“A rental.” Cate walked ahead, and Nesbitt let her pass, his features impassive in the semidarkness. A group of businesspeople came out of the lot, laughing and talking, a fluorescent light flickering like an inner-city strobe on their padded shoulders and cashmere topcoats. Cate led the way to her car, digging in her purse on the fly. She found her keys with less rummaging than usual, stopped at the back fender of the Acura, and looked up at Nesbitt, who eyed her, his mouth tilted down unhappily.

“This you?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks for the walk.”

“Stay outta trouble, Judge.” Nesbitt turned on his heel, his trench coat catching a cold blast as he walked away, the soles of his shoes scuffing the gritty concrete of the parking lot.

So be it. Cate didn’t watch him go, keeping the melodrama to a minimum. She chirped the car open and got inside. The interior was freezing, the leather seats chilly against the back of her legs. She turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the space, and went up the ramp to find the exit sign, in that counterintuitive way of parking lots, then drove down to the exit. She stopped at the white kiosk, equipped with crappy TV, paid the fee to a young cashier talking on a cell phone, and was about to drive forward when her headlights swung onto the figure of a man.

Nesbitt.

Cate slowed to a stop, and Nesbitt hurried toward her car, yanking open the passenger-side door, folding himself into the seat, and turning to her.

“I’m sorry I treated you that way,” Nesbitt said, his tone still louder than usual. “I do want to hear what you think you learned, but not now. I’m too pissed off to hear you now.” Nesbitt met her eye in the semidarkness. “If you want, when I calm down, maybe by tomorrow night, I can take you to dinner and we’ll talk all about your theory. How’s that?”

Whoa. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“What do you think? You think I like to follow you all over creation?” Nesbitt threw up his hands. “You think I like driving after you to your friend’s? To the hospital? You think I went up to Centralia for my health?”

Cate felt a warm rush of emotion. Nesbitt was really sweet. And he knew the whole truth about her, all that awful stuff, and he still wanted to date her. For a minute, Cate didn’t know what to say.

“This is more than a job to me, obviously,” Nesbitt said, his tone softer. “You know that. You’re more than a job to me. I care about you. I hate what you’re going through, what you’ve been through.” Nesbitt paused, looking at her. “Maybe we can have some dinner?”

Cate felt her throat catch. “Yes.”

Nesbitt smiled. “Excellent.”

It fell suddenly quiet in the car. They sat together in near darkness. Nesbitt’s face was one foot from hers. Cate could feel him breathe. She suddenly realized she knew nothing about romance. He should be kissing her, but he wasn’t. “Aren’t you gonna kiss me?” she asked, after a minute.

Nesbitt grinned. “Not yet,” he answered as he turned away, opened her car door, and climbed out, leaning over and peeking through the open door, letting in a gust of cold air.

Cate laughed, surprised.

“Pick you up tomorrow night at eight. Good night.” Nesbitt closed the door and gave it a slap, and Cate laughed again, then gave him a wave as she drove away.

She hit the street and turned left, heading back toward the city, feeling happy and excited. She was definitely on to something, after what she had learned from Russo. She knew the next logical step to take. If she could find out more, then she’d have more of a case to present tomorrow night, to get Nesbitt to reopen. She had a lot to do and she felt oddly adrenalized. Maybe because she was getting closer to the real killer, or because she was proving Nesbitt wrong. Or maybe it was Nesbitt’s not-a-kiss.

She hit the gas.

CHAPTER 45

PISTOL RANGE IN REAR, read the blue neon sign, and Cate pulled up in front of the gun shop just as a man was locking the door. She had come straight to the gun shop in Old City and had gotten here just in time. If Micah were going to buy a gun, this had to be the place. The shop was only blocks from her office and apartment.

Cate switched off the ignition and jumped out of the car, shouting, “Excuse me! Please don’t close!”

“What?” The man turned from the door, his steel key ring still in the lock. A security spotlight shone above him, showing an immensely beefy six-footer. The man’s head was shaved, his bumps in bas-relief under the bright light, and he wore only a red Sixers windbreaker, despite the cold.

“Please! Wait!” Cate dashed around the car to the big man. Traffic rushed behind them on four lanes.

“Lady, you need a gun that bad?”