“Oh yeah. What’s this other stuff ?”
“I bought some things. Here, I’ll—”
“I’ve got it.” He hauled out two shopping bags. “Why do women always come back with more than they left with? And it’s not sexist if it’s true.”
“Because we embrace and enjoy life. Keep it up and you won’t get your present.”
She led the way in, and he dumped all the bags by the base of her steps. “I’ll take them up later. How did you find out?”
She took off her shoes, pointed at her toes.
“Your purple toenails told you?”
“The technician who gave me the pedicure. She was just making conversation.”
Damn it. He hadn’t considered basic gossip.
“So that’s what you people talk about during those rituals? Murder and dead bodies?”
“Let’s put it in the category of current events. And let’s go back, get some wine. I’d really like a glass of wine.”
She saw the flowers when she stepped into the kitchen. The way she stopped cold and stared told him she was just as surprised he’d bought her flowers as he’d been.
“You made me another chair and you brought me flowers.”
“I told you, the chair’s mine. The flowers just happened to be there so I picked them up.”
“Simon.” She turned, wrapped herself around him.
Feelings winged into him, slapped against one another. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to tough it out. It’s been a really long time since a man brought me flowers. I forgot what it’s like. I’ll be right back.”
The dogs followed her out—afraid, he assumed, she’d leave again. He got out a bottle of wine, pulled the cork. She came back with a small box as he poured her a glass.
“From me and the dogs. Consider it a thank-you for helping out with them.”
“Thanks.” It had weight for a small box, and, curious, he opened it. He found a slender doorknocker. The copper would verdigris over time, he thought, and add to its appeal. Raised letters ran down its length, and the knocker itself formed a Celtic knot.
“It’s Irish. I figured Doyle, there has to be Irish in there.
“Welcome. Doyle, remember?”
“Right. I thought if you put it on the door, sometimes it might even be true. The welcome, that is.”
He glanced up to see her smiling. “It might. Either way it’s nice.”
“And you could get one made—I bet Syl could find a metal artist to do it—to put up when you’re not in the mood for company. It could say ‘Go away’ in Gaelic.”
“That’s a pretty good idea. Actually, I know how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Irish, and that might be more interesting.”
“Oh, Simon. I missed you.”
She was laughing when she said it, and as she reached for her wine, he laid a hand on her arm.
“I missed you, Fiona. Damn it.”
“Oh, thank God.” She put her arms around him again, laid her head on his shoulder. “That makes it more balanced, like the two chairs on the porch, right?”
“I guess it does.”
“I have to get this out, and I don’t mean to put pressure on you. But when I dropped Mai and Sylvia off, after I did, all I could think about was that poor girl and what she went through in the last hours of her life. And when I pulled up here, home, and saw you, I was so relieved, so relieved, Simon, that I didn’t have to have all that in my head and be alone with it. I was so glad to see you on the porch, waiting for me.”
He started to say he hadn’t been waiting. Knee-jerk, he realized. But he had been waiting, and it felt good knowing she’d wanted him to be.
“You got back later than I figured, so I—Crap.”
“Last-minute shopping blitz, then the traffic—”
“No, not that.” He’d remembered the FBI and decided he should get it all over with at once. “The feds were here—Tawney and his partner. I don’t think they had anything new, but—”
“A follow-up.” She backed up, picked up her wine. “I told him before I left that I’d be home sometime today. I’m not going to get back to him tonight. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“But I need you to tell me what you know about it. There wasn’t a way for me to find out any of the details, and I want to know.”
“Okay. Sit down. I was thinking about putting something to eat together. I’ll tell you while I do.”
“I have frozen dinners in the freezer.”
He sneered. “I’m not eating those girl diet deals. And before you say ‘sexist,’ look me in the eye and tell me those Lean Cuisine numbers aren’t marketed to women.”
“Maybe they are, mostly, but that doesn’t mean they’re not good, or that guys who eat them grow breasts.”
“I’m not taking any chances. You’ll eat what I give you.”
Amused, as he’d meant her to be, she sat. “What are you going to give me?”
“I’m working on it.” He opened her fridge, scanned, poked into compartments. “Deputy Davey came by to tell me the day you left,” he began.
As he spoke, he tossed some frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet, stuck them in the oven. Bacon went into the microwave. He found a tomato James must have left behind and sliced it thin.
“She was beaten? But—”
“Yeah. It sounds like he’s trying to find his style.”
“That’s horrible,” Fiona murmured. “And it feels true. Was she... she was beaten and trapped and strangled. And still rape puts a clutch in the throat.”
“No, she wasn’t raped. At least that wasn’t part of what Davey told me, or in any of the news reports.” He glanced over, scanned her face. “Are you sure you want this now?”
“Yes. I need to know what might be coming.”
Simon kept his back to her, ordered himself calm as he layered cheese, bacon, tomatoes between slices of bread. “He deviated with the beating, and with keeping her longer. Otherwise, it sounds as if he followed pattern.”
“Who was she? You know,” Fiona said quietly. “You’d have made it a point to know.”
When Simon slid the sandwiches onto the frying pan, the butter he’d spread on the outside sizzled. “She was a student. She wanted to pursue a career in physical education and nutrition. She taught yoga classes and did some personal training work. She was twenty, outgoing and athletic, according to the reports. She was an only child. Her mother’s a widow.”
“God. God.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then scrubbed hard and dropped them. “It can always get worse.”
“She fits the body type. Tall, slender, long legs, toned.” He flipped the sandwiches. “If there’s any more, the press doesn’t have it.”
“Did he mark her?”
“Roman numeral four. You’re wondering what number he plans to put on you. I want you to hear me, Fiona, and to understand I don’t say what I don’t mean.”
“I already understand that.”
She waited, watched as he slid the sandwiches onto plates. Shook the fries from the pan beside them. He pulled out a jar of pickles, tossed a couple onto each plate and considered it done.
He put a plate in front of her. “He won’t mark you. He won’t be able to give you a number any more than Perry could. If the cops don’t stop him first, then we’ll stop him. And that’s it.”
She said nothing for a moment, but rose to get a knife, to retrieve the wine. She topped off the glasses, then cut her sandwich into two neat triangles before offering the knife.
