Through The Grinder

committed a murder in broad daylight in front of witnesses, which was another break for us. Now those witnesses didn’t give us much to go on, but it’s enough for us to treat Sahara McNeil’s death as a homicide instead of an accident, and I’m sure the murderer never thought that would happen either…It’s sloppy, it’s reckless, and I think this killer is unraveling. The next time, the killer may not worry about witnesses or evidence or trying to make it look like anything in particular. The next time, the killer may just compulsively want to kill first and worry about consequences later. And that’s when I’ll nail the son of a bitch.”

“But another woman has to die first.”

Quinn’s eyes met mine.

“Stay away from him, Clare. Though I’ll grant you I can’t prove a thing yet, certainly nothing that would hold up in court, there is one fact that is indisputable: the women who get close to Bruce Bowman end up dead.”

“But, Mike, it makes no sense. Bruce is an accomplished, successful, seemingly well-adjusted architect. What in the world would motivate him to murder these women?”

“If I had to guess? I’d say the man’s looking for Ms. Right. And when she turns into Ms. Wrong in some way, he takes the disappointment very badly.”

Quinn turned and reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said over his shoulder.

And then he was gone.

Damn you, Quinn, I thought. Damn you and your messed-up marriage.

I didn’t go back downstairs right away. I spent the next half hour pacing my office, trying to process everything Quinn had just told me — and my feelings about it…and my feelings about Bruce…and Quinn.

I liked and respected Mike Quinn, but I couldn’t for a second believe what he was saying about Bruce. What I could believe, however, was that Quinn had become a bundle of raw nerves, operating on the edge. Obviously, the breakdown of his marriage was getting to him as much as his inability to find evidence to support his theory linking all of these supposed “push” murders of women.

For a fleeting second I even considered maybe, on some remote level, this whole “stay away from Bruce” thing of Quinn’s was the twisted result of his feelings for me.

He and I never dated, but we’d certainly flirted enough — and with his marriage going down the tubes, he might have been conflicted about the fact that I was out looking for a date instead of waiting around for him to make a decision about whether to break things off with his wife or work things out.

Okay, so Quinn had been eyeing Bruce as a suspect even before he knew I’d met him — and before he found out about the Sahara McNeil connection. He’d said Bruce’s name had turned up on background checks for both Valerie Lathem and Inga Berg. But it sure seemed to me he’d upgraded Bruce’s suspect status the second he realized I was seeing him.

I didn’t believe Quinn was a dishonest cop. In fact, in my opinion, Mike Quinn had the morals of a freaking Arthurian knight. (Notwithstanding my ex-husband’s assertions that no police officer could be trusted — an unfortunate result of Matt’s frequent experiences with corrupt officials in banana republics.)

In any event, I certainly wanted to think Quinn would be the last cop in the world to frame a man, if for no other reason than the fact that he knew the real criminal was still out there.

But if Bruce Bowman was a murderer, that sure didn’t say much for the process I’d used to screen my daughter’s dates.

Could I be misjudging men that badly? First mislabeling Mr. Mama’s Boy, now finding out “Mr. Right” is on Quinn’s list as “Mr. Dial M for — ”

No.

No, no, no, no, no!

Since Sunday evening, I’d laughed with the man. I’d kissed the man. And I’d spent long hours getting to know him. In my heart I knew Bruce Bowman was not a murderer. He wasn’t.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Clare,” Tucker called. “Your pride named Joy is here. And she’s brought a gentleman caller.”

“Thanks, Tuck. I’ll be right down.”

I smoothed my slacks again, tied my apron over my pink long-sleeved jersey, ran my fingers through my hair, and opened the office door.

Downstairs, I spied my daughter near the counter. Curiously, I looked around, trying to find Joy’s mystery escort. Then I noticed a man was crouched down, examining the selection in the pastry display. Finally, he straightened up. He was tall, and his face was turned away from me.

He said something to my daughter and Joy laughed.

Then the man turned, and I saw his face.

It was Bruce Bowman.

Thirteen

“Hey, Mom,” my daughter waved. “Guess who I ran into on the street after class?”

“It was hard to miss her,” said Bruce, his smile dazzling. “Especially with that coat.”

I nodded. Barely an hour ago I had unwittingly implicated this man in a series of murders to an exhausted New York detective. I was feeling a dozen different emotions — none of them remotely resembling delight. Nevertheless, I lifted the corners of my mouth in what I thought was a pretty game smile.

“I hate this thing,” said Joy, unzipping the big bulky parka.

“It keeps you warm, doesn’t it?” I reminded her tightly — and not for the first time.

She frowned. “But, Mom, just look at it! The thing’s bright yellow with black stripes.”

“Yellow’s the traditional color of rain slickers, isn’t it?” I pointed out.

“This isn’t a rain slicker. It’s a way heinous too-puffy parka,” complained Joy.

Bruce laughed. “It’s not that bad.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Joy, rolling her eyes. “I look like a pregnant bee.”

My daughter hadn’t stopped complaining about the coat since I’d bought it for her three weeks ago on the clearance rack at Filene’s. I knew Joy didn’t have the money for another coat — and I had yet to find the time to shop for anything else. So, for now, she was stuck with it.

“Hang in there till Christmas, honey,” I said. “I’ll get you another.”

“You know what my classmates do when I pass them on the street?”

“No.”

“They buzz.”

“There’s a solution for that, you know,” said Bruce.

“What?” asked Joy.

“Well, doesn’t that thing come with a stinger?”

“Just shut up,” she told him, punching his arm. “You’re not helping.”

Bruce laughed.

And my heart broke. How could a man who laughed so genuinely, who kissed so sweetly, and who acted so considerately be a murderer? How?

Forget the fact that he also looked good enough to put in my pastry case. His own fleece-lined leather coat emphasized broad shoulders and tapered down to lean, jean-clad hips. Beneath it he wore a caramel cashmere sweater that matched his eyes. His face was rosy from the cold air and he exuded an air of confident high spirits.

Since our Sunday night dinner, he’d been intensely busy with his various restoration jobs, checking on crews and projects during the day, and tied up with business dinners or official meetings at night. Yet every day this week he’d found ways to steal time away from his work schedule and stop in to see me — sometimes three times in one day.

I’d take breaks when he stopped by, of course, and lead him up to the second floor, which we kept closed until evenings. He’d light a fire and we’d just relax and have coffee and talk for an hour or two before we’d both part