Memory of Murder

“that’s fine.”

There was an odd, tense moment, then while Richard Merrill paused in the doorway of his office, still smiling, clearly expecting them to leave with him, and Alan stayed planted where he was, badly wanting to stay behind and check out that middle desk drawer. And while Lindsey trembled with impotent fury, nestled close to his side.

“Hon,” he said, aiming a toothy smile at her-and “hon” didn’t seem any better than “babe.” “You were going to show me some albums, remember?”

Lindsey’s mouth popped open, but it was Richard who spoke. “Albums?”

“Yeah,” Alan said, “you know-old photo albums. All the embarrassing baby pictures. She’s been promising me for weeks.”

Richard chuckled. “Aha-gotcha. Well, the photo albums are in the den. Lindsey knows where they are-in the big cabinet, honey, right where they’ve always been. But hey-if you want your steaks rare, better get on out there. Otherwise, I’m making no promises. Lindsey? You coming?”

What could Alan do but follow the man? And when they got out to the hallway, there was Chelsea, coming down the stairs, looking for him. So he had no choice but to join the group on the patio and eat and be sociable and try not to think about what might be hidden in that desk that Richard Merrill didn’t want him to see.

But he was for damn sure going to get another look at the desk, first chance he got.

Lindsey made it through dinner. She wasn’t sure how, because she was certain she was too upset to eat, but she knew if she didn’t, Dad would surely notice and wonder what was wrong. He would notice, of course he would. Because he loved her and knew her so well.

I should never have done it. What was I thinking, to involve the police?

Recriminations played over and over in her head like a bit of song that wouldn’t go away. She blamed herself more than Alan. How could she be angry with him for behaving like the cop he was? And he was in full cop mode, she could tell by the hard cold glitter of his eyes, the way they took in everything, analyzing, dissecting, scrutinizing everything. Everything about her home, her family. My life.

She got through the meal by concentrating on anything except her father. Anything except Alan and his sharp cop eyes. She concentrated on Chelsea, taking a lot of time making sure the little girl didn’t feel self-conscious and shy and was getting acquainted with the other kids. She had a nice long conversation with Barbara Norwood, catching up with all her kids and grandkids and their various achievements at school and dance class and sports, and of course Barbara wanted to know how her dear old friend and neighbor Susan was doing, so Lindsey spent quite a bit of time filling her in on how her mother spent her days. It was a beautiful day for November, so she thought about that, and about the fact that Thanksgiving was coming up soon, and what she was going to do about dinner this year. She laughed and smiled and chewed, and around her the friendly chatter of people she’d known since childhood rose into the autumn evening like the sounds of a midsummer garden: insect hum and birdsong, water sounds and laughter. She thought about that, and what nice people they were, and how lucky-

“Lindsey?”

She jumped and spilled iced tea into her lap. Alan’s hands were on her shoulders, his lips close to her ear. His hair, close-cropped as it was, tickled her cheek. “Oh, God, you startled me,” she said, and remembered to smile. Remembered it was all for show.

“Sorry.” His hands moved up and down her arms, raising goose bumps. “Getting chilly?”

“A little-dumping ice in my lap doesn’t help.” She was brushing vigorously at the ice chips on her pants, hoping it would disguise the bumpiness of her voice.

“Sorry,” he said again, but it was obvious his mind wasn’t on it.

She could hear a slight roughness in his breathing. His chin rasped her cheek like sandpaper. His breath smelled of barbecue, but not, she noticed, of beer. He was on the job; of course he wouldn’t be drinking. Somehow, that fact made everything snap into focus.

“The albums,” she said, her voice flat. “I suppose you want to see them now.”

“Yeah, I do, if you don’t mind.” And she felt his lips brush her cheek, nuzzle warm and moist into the sensitive places-her ear, her neck, her throat.

A wave of sensation rolled through her, along with a veritable tsunami of emotions, most of which were too complex to identify, just then. Anger, of course-that one she had no trouble recognizing-but anger of so many different shades and levels, it seemed there should be separate names for them all.

Chagrin, shame, frustration with herself, for experiencing desire-for that’s what the sensation was, she had to be honest about it-in response to caresses that meant nothing, that were all part of a charade. A lie.

Anger with him for casually choosing such a cover, apparently without giving a thought to her feelings. Resentment toward him for being able to carry off the pretense without a qualm. He could be calm and cool, feeling-she was certain-absolutely nothing for her personally. To him she was simply a means to an end. A cover.

Humiliation at the thought that he might somehow know how his touch affected her. That could not happen. She made up her mind she wouldn’t let it. It was all part of a job to him, one she'd asked him to do. For her.

He's doing this for me. The least I can do is try to help him.

Chapter 6

If the bodies were ever found there could be no connection with the missing couple. So, I went south. If I had not done that, if I had stayed in the north where the water was colder… But then, so many things would have been different.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

“What do you hope to find?” Lindsey asked. She had paused in the open sliding-glass door to look back at her father, but he was laughing and trading tales with the Norwoods, apparently oblivious to any undercurrents of betrayal and suspicion.

“Anything that might help us figure out where your mother lived before she lived here. I don’t know what, exactly, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

She gave him a questioning look, which he thought was probably due to the note of grim frustration she heard in his voice. He couldn’t blame her for wondering about him, even feeling uneasy in his company, but he couldn’t muster a smile to reassure her. The truth was, he was beginning to wonder about himself, too.

It was becoming a problem, this pretense of an intimate relationship with Lindsey. And it shouldn’t be. He’d started it, grabbed it as a solution to a spur-of-the-moment problem, and it shouldn’t have been a big deal. He’d had occasion to use similar cover tactics before, and it had never bothered him. But this was definitely bothering him, in a lot of different ways.

Aside from a vague sense of guilt, just an itchy-twitchy feeling there was something fundamentally wrong about using a woman, a civilian in this way, the main problem was… Dammit, she was getting to him. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. When he wasn’t with her, images of her played in a montage on continuous loop in the background of his mind. When he was with her, he wanted to be closer to her; when he was close to her, he wanted to touch her; when he was touching her, he wanted to touch her in many more intimate ways.

The truth was, he wanted to make love to her. He could see himself making love to her in all sorts of ways, ranging from the first tender, breath-stopping discoveries, to sheet-clawing, mattress-pounding, sweaty, noisy all- night sex. And no matter how much self-discipline a man might possess, it was awfully damn hard to shut down thoughts like those.

So, if she thought his manner a bit abrupt and his scowl a mite intimidating, so be it. It beat the hell out of her knowing what was really going on inside his head.

“The albums are in here,” she said, and slipped past him, being particularly careful-it seemed to him-not to