3
Sunday, July 9, 12:03 A.M.
Las Piernas
He pulled into his driveway, feeling tired and depressed. He never liked working on cases involving the murders of children. Adding a police commissioner and a homicide detective into the mix made this set of cases even less appealing. The cases were all cold; memories would be hazy. Physical evidence was an even bigger problem.
He looked at his watch. Irene had probably already gone to bed in her hotel room in Sacramento. He wished he had called her earlier, from work. He wanted to hear her voice, to listen to her talk of ordinary things.
As he stood on the porch, he was surprised to hear the dogs scratching at the inside of the front door. He had left the two of them in the care of his next-door neighbor; Jack usually kept them at his house whenever Frank and his wife were away. He hadn’t told Jack that he would be coming back early; Jack would have expected both Frank and Irene to be gone overnight. He wearily wondered what sort of havoc the mutts might have wreaked in the house while he was gone.
But although they greeted him warmly, the two dogs — a shepherd and a Lab mix adopted from the pound — didn’t act as if they had been cooped up all day. The cat was nowhere in sight, but that didn’t mean he was hiding — Cody had probably staked out a place on the bed. Not so long ago, Frank would have come home to an empty house. He smiled to himself, thinking that these were the least complicated strays Irene had brought into his life.
As he made his way down the hall, he saw that a light was on in the living room. His steps slowed — there was no way in hell he had left that light on.
The dogs passed him, trotting back without a care. He relaxed a little, then followed them.
He saw the cat first — the gray giant blinked at him from the armchair.
Then he saw his wife, asleep on the couch, and felt the tension that had been with him since that afternoon ease a little. He quietly moved closer.
She slept on her side, a strand of her dark, straight hair falling over her face. She wore a short, silky, dark blue kimono — if her eyes had been open, he thought the color might have come close to matching them. The kimono fell about mid-thigh on her long, slender legs. He followed their curve and smiled to himself, seeing that this enticing ensemble was completed by a pair of everyday white cotton socks — a toe peeked out of a hole in the left one.
He moved closer still, until he was next to her. He wondered if he should call her name, so as not to startle her. He stayed silent.
She must have sensed his presence, though, because she opened her eyes and smiled drowsily up at him. “Surprise,” she said sleepily.
“Yes,” he said, gently brushing the strand of hair away. “When did you get in?”
She turned her face to his palm and kissed his hand. “About nine. Caught a late flight. I was trying to wait up for you.”
“How’d you know I’d be home tonight?”
“Ben called. I asked him if he wanted to leave a message, but he said he’d talk to you on Monday.”
“Hmm,” he said, bending to taste her mouth. She reached up to pull him closer, making the kiss longer, slower. He stroked his hand along the back of her leg, down to her ankle — and took a sock off.
She pulled away and said, “Damn!”
“What’s wrong?”
“The socks.” She was blushing. “My feet got cold. Real sexy, right?”
He was already pulling the second one off. “I’m the one with too many clothes on.”
“You’re right,” she said, reaching for his belt.
Just after dawn, he awoke with a start from a nightmare in which he was trapped in a small, vine-covered Cessna, unable to get out. Not even Lefebvre had been in such a situation, he knew, but the dream had disturbed him. He tried to fall asleep again, but his thoughts continued to turn to the cases. He watched the room lighten as he debated whether he should try to catch a little more sleep or just get up.
Irene stirred next to him. “Frank? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”
But she turned to study his face and asked again, “What’s wrong?”
He hesitated, then said, “None of this goes to the newspaper, okay?”
She nodded.
“Do you remember a man named Lefebvre?”
Her eyes widened. “Phil Lefebvre?”
“Yes. Used to work Homicide.”
“Yes! Have they found him?”
Again he hesitated, mentally kicking himself for going about this wrong.
“He’s dead,” she said, reading his silence.
“Yes.”
He saw her look of dismay and said, “I’m sorry — I didn’t know you were close.”
“Not close, really. I don’t think anyone was close to Phil — well, I shouldn’t say that. He was just — intensely private.”
