Memory of Murder

swallowed, visibly fighting back her own tears. “Anyway, that’s when we started talking about putting her in a care facility.”

Alan frowned. “A nursing home? Seems kind of fast. Doesn’t Alzheimer’s usually progress more slowly than that?”

She nodded. “That’s what makes this so strange. According to everything I’ve read about the disease-and I’ve read everything I could look up on the Internet, believe me-this sort of paranoia and erratic behavior doesn’t normally happen until later stages. And what’s even stranger, when we mentioned the idea of moving her into a care facility-it’s more of an assisted-living situation, rather than a nursing home, but it’s gated and controlled access-instead of being upset, as we’d expected, she actually seemed…relieved.”

Alan nodded, then they both waited while the waiter presented the first of their orders, artfully arranged on lacquered trays.

He watched, fascinated, as Lindsey poured soy sauce into the shallow bowl provided for the purpose, plucked up a glob of green wasabi paste with her chopsticks and stirred it into the sauce, then deftly selected a round of spicy tuna roll, dunked it into the sauce and popped it into her mouth. Whole.

She gave a happy little gasp and made fanning motions with her hand while her eyes watered, and when her mouth was free again, said, “Whoo. I always love that first hit. Really clears your sinuses.”

A peculiar lightness bubbled up through his chest, and he found himself smiling back at her. “You make it sound like taking drugs.”

Her eyes widened and a hint of a flush warmed her cheeks. “What? Oh-God, no. That never-I mean, I’ve never-”

“Never?” he teased her, as he doctored his own soy sauce, with a much smaller-wimpier?-dab of wasabi. “Not even when you were a kid?”

“Never, I swear. I told you-I had an idyllic childhood. I had perfect parents. I was the perfect child. It never occurred to me to take drugs-it would have broken my parents’ hearts, for one thing. And for another, why on earth would I want to?” Almost angrily, she plucked up another round of spicy tuna and swirled it in the sauce. “I was happy.”

“Lucky girl,” Alan said, and earned himself a brief, startled glance.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I was.” The slice of sushi roll went into her mouth and her eyes teared up-from the wasabi, he wondered, or something else?

“You’re not married?” He nodded toward the hand wielding the chopsticks-she was a lefty, he realized-as he attempted to capture a sushi morsel with his own awkwardly skewed chopsticks.

“Hmm…no, like this,” she said, laying down her chopsticks and placing her hands on his.

Her fingers felt cool and sure and smooth as silk on the backs of his, and he felt a curious sizzle under his skin that rode in waves through his arms and into his chest. A purely physical response to a woman’s touch, and one he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. Or, if he had, it had been so long ago he’d forgotten what the sensation felt like.

When she had his chopsticks placed correctly and to her satisfaction, she picked up her own and demonstrated the proper way to pinch the tips together. “See? Like this.”

He copied her dutifully, wondering whether she was using the teaching moment to evade his question and whether or not she’d answer it. And whether she’d felt the same jolt he’d felt when she touched him.

“Sorry, none of my business,” he said as he concentrated on picking up a segment of California roll. When he had it captured and reasonably secure, he glanced up at her and smiled in what he hoped was a winning way. “Just wondering, because of your name, and the fact that you don’t wear a ring. I’m a police detective-comes with the territory.”

A hint of an answering smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Divorced-took back my maiden name. You?”

He chewed, swallowed, nodded…thinking he wasn’t getting that horseradish “hit” she’d mentioned, and maybe he’d try adding a bit more wasabi next time. “Divorced. Kids?”

And the lashes came down-lights out. Okay, so that was a tender spot, obviously. Although her voice sounded completely normal when she said, “No. You?”

“One daughter. Chelsea. She’ll be ten in January. Lives with her mother. And is growing up way too fast. I get her every other weekend, unless the job interferes.”

She gave him her eyes again, smiled, nodded in sympathy. “That must be tough.”

The waiter brought another round of sushi and they talked casually as they ate it, talked of things like his daughter’s school and sports and the Internet, the pitfalls of parenting, and why it was a job made tougher by the fact that he was a cop. Being unable to commiserate from the parent’s point of view, Lindsey offered insights on Chelsea’s, the ways they were alike-as only children-and the ways they weren’t-Chelsea’s parents being divorced.

“But we’re close, Chelse and me-although she’s decided she wants to be called CeeCee, lately. I mean, what’s that? I don’t even know how it’s supposed to be spelled! Initials? Like the Spanish for ’yes yes’? Come on! But… yeah, we have a pretty good thing going-so far. Knock wood.”

Lindsey had been smiling, laughing with him. Now, she pushed the platters with the few remaining slices of sushi away from her and leaned forward, forearms on the tabletop, eyes bright and fierce.

“Okay, now imagine it’s twenty or thirty years from now, after you’ve cheered at Chelsea’s graduations, danced with her at her wedding, held her and let her cry until your shirt was soaked when her baby died, and again when her marriage ended. After you’ve given her the money to start up her business and you wouldn’t take a dime when she wanted to pay you back. Imagine her mom suddenly out of the blue one day telling Chelsea you’re not her father, that you’re a monster and a murderer. Imagine how she’d feel.”

Chapter 2

They did not try to run or fight back when I took them. They seemed more bewildered than afraid. They said I had made a mistake. Of course, I did not believe them.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

Lindsey knew she sounded pathetic, and didn’t care.

She thought it probably didn’t matter anyway, doubted even tears would make any difference in whether this life-hardened police detective believed her or not. Oh, he was a good listener, and seemed friendly enough-kind… even charming. The blue eyes reflected sympathy at times, speculation at others. And at others, something else, something she couldn’t even put a name to. But the key word, she realized, was reflected. Eyes, she’d heard, were supposed to be the windows of the soul, but his reminded her of windows in a dark house, mirrors that revealed nothing of what was inside.

“It must be upsetting,” he murmured, his eyes resting on her now with what looked like genuine compassion. “Alzheimer’s-”

“If I thought it was just the Alzheimer’s, I wouldn’t be sitting here,” she said, and was unable to keep an edge out of her voice.

His eyebrows rose. “So, you think there’s something to it? That your father-”

“No! Of course not.” That was twice she’d interrupted him. What was the matter with her? That was something she would normally be too polite to do, too well-schooled in effective ways of selling, whether an insurance policy, or herself. Reminding herself that she had a selling job to do right now, she took a breath and started again, this time in a calm, measured tone.

“I’m sorry. But…no, Detective Cameron-”

“Alan.”

Thrown off guard by his interruption, she caught another breath, a reflexive breath. “Alan-obviously, I don’t think my father killed anyone. The idea is insane. But I do think something must have happened to my mother, probably some time in her far distant past.