The Darker Side

Atkins has given us a copy of the case file, replete with crime scene photos. Now that our waitress is at a safe distance, I open it up and examine the photographs.

'Ugly,' I observe.

'But neat,' Atkins replies.

It's an insightful comment. He's right. I'm looking at a photo graph of Rosemary. She had been a pretty woman. In the photograph she is nude, lying on her back on her bed. Her legs are closed. Her arms rest on her chest. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are opened wide. A line of dried blood runs from her right nostril at an angle, following her cheek to her jawline. It's a terrible image, but not as terrible as it could be. There's no evidence of sexual abuse. Other than the blood from her nose and the puncture and bruise on her right side, Rosemary's body is almost pristine.

'No rage here,' Alan says.

'Yes,' I reply.

Sexual psychopathy is not an act of simple anger. It is an act of violent, mind-bending rage. Penetration is not enough; it's destruction that is required. I don't see any of that in these photographs. Sex doesn't seem to be the motive. I close the file and take a sip from my coffee cup.

'The Crime Scene Unit found nada,' Atkins says.

'I'm not surprised,' I tell him. 'This perp is very organized and very experienced. He had a job to do and he did it, no muss no fuss. He got in and got out. You always see less transference in those circumstances.'

'Then how do you catch him?'

Sometimes you don't, the cicadas buzz.

'By figuring out why he does what he does. And by hoping, as time goes on, that he'll slip up and leave us a clue.'

'That's not real comforting.'

I give him my bleakest smile. 'We don't do comforting in this line of work, Atkins. You know that.'

He returns the smile, just as bleak, and raises his coffee cup in agreement.

ALAN AND I ARE ON the highway again, headed home. Alan is driving. We had left Atkins with promises, but not much reassurance.

'You want me to take you by my place to get Bonnie?' he asks. I look at my watch. It's almost ten- thirty.

'No. Drop me off at home. I'll come get her tomorrow.'

I consider dialing Callie and James, but realize it's after 1:00 A.M. where they are. If they are asleep--and I hope they are--I don't want to wake them.

'Been a pretty crazy few days,' Alan says.

'Sure has.'

He glances at me. 'Any insight to offer yet?'

I shake my head. 'Not really. I need to get some sleep and let it percolate. There are things that bother me a lot about this one, though.'

'Like?'

'Like I think this perp has been killing for a long time, and I think he's gotten pretty good at it. I think he's methodical and organized and that he's not going to slip up any time soon.'

'He's already slipped up. He let us know he's there.'

'True, but that was purposeful. We're still playing catch-up.'

Alan smiles a faint smile. 'You always start out cynical on a case. We still end up getting our guy when it's all over.'

'Then, by that logic, let me stay pessimistic for now.'

He laughs. My cell phone rings. My heart lifts a little when I see who it is.

Tommy Aguilera has been my boyfriend for a little over two years. Tommy is an ex-Secret Service agent who now does private security and investigation work. I had met him when he was still in the Service. He'd been assigned to guard someone who turned out to be a serial killer. Tommy had found it necessary to shoot the young man at one point and in the ensuing firestorm, my testimony kept him from being hung out to dry. He'd been very grateful and had told me to let him know if I ever needed anything.

He left the Service a few years later. I still don't know why. He would probably tell me if I asked, but I have never asked, and he has never offered. It's not that Tommy's cold, he's just laconic in extremis. I had taken him up on his offer of help during a case. He'd come over to my home to sweep for bugs (which he found, along with a GPS tracker on my car). It wasn't planned, but I ended up kissing him, and he'd surprised me by kissing me back.

My husband had only been dead for six months, my body was scarred, I felt ugly inside and out, and I hurt. Tommy took me in his arms and made me feel desirable again. This was satisfying on levels both spiritual and venal. Tommy is a lovely man; he's also a hunk and a half.

He's Latin, with the requisite dark hair, tan skin, and brooding eyes. He is not a pretty boy; he has a scar at his left temple and a strong jawline. He has the rough hands of a construction worker and the body of a dancer. Tommy is a delicious sight when his clothes are off, and sex with him can be rough or gentle or languorous; he's a sweaty joy beneath the sheets.

'Hey,' I answer.

'Hey,' he replies. 'You still out of town?'

'Nope. I'm heading home right now, as a matter of fact.'

'Want company?'

'Yes, please. Are you up for giving me a foot massage? I need to unwind a little.'

'Sure. See you soon.'

I hang up and find myself humming a little. I stop, mortified, and sneak a glance at Alan. It looks like he has all his attention on the road, but then he speaks.

'That guy seems to make you happy.'

'He's okay,' I say.

'Hm.'

I look at my friend. 'What, 'hm'?'

'It's not my business, Smoky, but you might want to consider taking the qualification off that. You deserve to be happy, and he probably deserves to know that he makes you feel that way.'

I am surprised at the sudden surge of annoyance running through me. I feel a retort ready to trip off my tongue, but I manage to choke it back.

'I'll take it under advisement,' I mumble.

'Hey.' It's a soft rebuke, like a friendly hand under the chin lifting my reluctant gaze to his. 'I'm just talking here. I like seeing you smile over a guy again, that's all.'

The annoyance vanishes. I sigh.

'Me too, I think.'

14

I TURN THE KNOB AND OPEN THE DOOR AND FIND WHAT I'D expected: the stillness and quiet of an empty house. This is the home that Matt and I bought together. It is the home where I learned about being a wife, a mother, and where all of that was lost to me. This is the home where I was destroyed and where I rebuilt myself again. Three years have passed since my Matt and my Alexa died. I no longer wake up screaming, I no longer stare at my gun in the middle of the night wondering if it would hurt when the bullet took the top of my head off, I no longer walk through my life with my soul in a deep freeze. I have Bonnie now, and Tommy, and of course I have my team. I have learned to start enjoying life again. The cynic in me hesitates to say that life is good, but I am allowed to say that life is better. Even so . . . loss can come at oblique angles. It is the contrasts that still have power.

Matt was a perfect fit for me, for us, for the way our life was. It wasn't unusual for me to arrive home at nine o'clock in the evening, soul-tired and smelling of the dead. I'd hesitate before opening the door then too. I'd stop, key in the lock, and I'd try to shake off the dark stuff, to make sure I didn't drag it into the light and love of my home. It didn't always work, but I always tried. I'd open the door and all the lights would be on because Matt liked light. He'd usually have the TV going or maybe the stereo because he was comforted by the background noise. The