Memory of Murder

“So-it’s your policy. Your ethics.”

His laugh was harsh. “God, that makes me sound like such a prick.”

Her hand grew still. “I don’t mean for it to. I’m trying to understand. You’re a man of principle-I understand that. It’s one of the things that makes me…” She didn’t finish it, and instead, after a long pause, drew an unsteady breath. “So, what about when it’s all over? What then?”

“Lindsey…love.”

And there it was, the pet name he’d been looking for. Lindsey-love. And now realized had been there all along, only he’d been too afraid to say it out loud. Why? he wondered. Afraid it might be true?

He took refuge in a tried and true cop-out. “It’s not that simple.”

She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him, her bewitching eyes only smudges in the darkness. After what seemed an endless silence, she said very softly, “You think my father is guilty, don’t you? And you think I’ll blame you…hate you…for bringing him down.”

“Lindsey…”

In a quick, almost violent movement, she sat up, pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her voice sounded breathless and muffled. “I wouldn’t, you know. Even if he were guilty. Which I know he’s not. But if he were, I wouldn’t blame you.” Her head swiveled toward him. “How could I? You’re only doing your job. In fact, doing what I asked you to do. How could I blame you?”

He heard the anguish in her voice as she emphasized the last word and thought, Yes, there it is. “You would,” he said gently, raising himself on one elbow. “Or maybe more than that, you’d blame yourself. Whichever way it goes, it’s always going to be there between us.”

Again, a flurry of movement in the darkness as she shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be. People have overcome worse things. It’s only an obstacle if you let it be. And maybe-”

He heard a sharp intake of breath, as if she’d stumbled, and when she continued there was a new note of breathlessness and pain in her voice.

Which was just what it was like, he thought-stumbling over the truth. Like stubbing your toe in the darkness.

“Maybe you want it to be. Because…maybe what you want is an excuse.”

“An excuse?” he said. “For what?”

“An excuse not to try again.” She paused, and he caught a furtive movement-her hand, brushing her cheeks. “Like me. I know what it’s like, you know-to be so afraid of getting your heart broken, you won’t let yourself take another chance.”

Chapter 11

I had gone there to kill her-to finish the job I started. When I found she had no memory, and then they told me she was pregnant… How could I justify killing a child? And she didn’t know me, didn’t recognize me at all…

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

Alan was a homicide cop; he was accustomed to listening to confessions. He knew not to interrupt with questions at this point, but simply to listen…and wait.

In the neutral, nonjudgmental darkness, Lindsey paused to gather her courage, and after a moment, went on.

“After my baby died, I had an operation-it’s called a tubal ligation. I had my tubes tied, in other words. So I couldn’t get pregnant again-ever. I couldn’t stand to go through that again-the pain. I just couldn’t. Other people seemed to be able to have miscarriages, lose babies, and try again and again. But not me.” Her voice seemed to clog up, slow to a trickle, so she continued in a whisper. “It cost me my marriage…broke my parents’ hearts.” She paused once more, gathering strength. “And I’ve always convinced myself I was right to do what I did. But the truth is, I was just not brave enough. I was a coward, Alan. Afraid to take the chance.” She made that surreptitious little movement again, brushing at tears. “Please…don’t do what I did. Don’t cut yourself off from relationships just because one didn’t work out for you. Give-this-us-a chance.”

What could he say to her? Lie to her? Make her promises he wasn’t sure he could keep?

In the end he said nothing except to murmur her name, and gathered her into his arms even knowing that doing so may have been as much a lie as saying the words out loud. But to leave her to weep uncomforted seemed to him too great a cruelty. And besides, he needed the comfort as much as she did.

He made love to her again. It solved nothing, she knew-and she was fairly certain he knew that, too-but it felt so good, and for a short while, at least, it did make the pain go away. His hand between her thighs…his mouth on her breasts…his big body solid beneath hers, on top of hers…every place he touched her, every way he touched her-a little rough where her body craved roughness, gently, delicately, carefully where any but the lightest touch might have brought pain-gave such exquisite pleasure. There was no room for thought or feeling. He really did make the world go away-and at that moment, it was all she asked of him.

Then, like an uninvited guest, a line from another song, one neither of them had mentioned, popped into her mind. Something about raindrops blowing against windows, and then: Make believe you love me…

Longing sliced through her, sharp and bright and hot as a blade. She gasped; her body arched and opened to him, and he responded to her urgency as if he knew exactly what she needed. He drove himself into her, hard and deep, and her body clenched and tightened at first until he covered her mouth with his, claimed her with his mouth, his hands, his body…filled her completely, and drove everything else from her mind.

Much later, exhausted and hovering on the edge of sleep, she heard him groan, then whisper, “Damn. Forgot the condoms again.”

She laughed, and fell headlong into oblivion.

“I keep coming back to it-the question Holt asked.” Lindsey shook her head, then leaned it back against the headrest but didn’t close her eyes. “Why?”

They were driving south on the 405 Freeway in light Sunday morning traffic. The storm had moved on east. Somewhere off to their right the Pacific was living up to its name, for once. On the left, distant mountains sported caps of new snow. The color palate was crisp and bright, the sky overhead a brilliant blue, dotted with artist’s clouds. A chamber of commerce postcard day.

When Alan didn’t reply, she looked over at him. His profile was sharp-edged, his eyes narrowed and focused on the road ahead. He was all cop this morning, and she was actually glad. It made it easier to put the night that had passed between them into its own compartment in her mind, something rare to be locked away…protected…kept separate from real life.

“I know you think my dad is guilty, that he’s the one who kidnapped the McKinneys-” she still couldn’t think of that young couple as her parents “-and shot them and threw them into the Chesapeake Bay…”

“Your mother says he did,” Alan said quietly. “You want to believe she’s confused, that she made a mistake. But she was right about everything else-having a different husband, a child named Jimmy, being shot, floating-why would she be confused about that one thing? The most important thing, maybe.”

“But, why? It doesn’t make sense. It seems pretty certain my dad was the man who showed up at the hospital and claimed Jane Doe as his wife, Sally Phillips. It’s absolutely certain he’s the man who raised me and made a happy home for me and my mother for the next forty years.” Her voice was tight now, with the anger that constricted her throat and chest. “You tell me-how does it make any kind of sense that he’s the same person who shot her in the first place?”

There was a long pause, and then Alan let out a slow, exasperated breath. “It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t.” He threw her a quick, intense glance. “But, there is an answer to that question, and the only