She sat back, dipped that same finger in her wine. “For once, I am. You mumbled things about-well, about your father, I guess. And your mother. I’m sure about her. You loved her.”
“I sure as hell didn’t love him.”
“Grew not to love him would be my take.”
“Same thing in the end.”
He looked out the window. Broody, unapproachable- maybe it was time she said something, pried just a little.
Wearing only his T-shirt, she curled her legs on the rug in front of him and set an arm on the wine crate. “You look out, Jacob, at other people and their lives. But how often do you look in? You’re not your father. You’re not your mother or your grandparents or some barbaric ancestor. You’re you. You’re what you’ve made of yourself. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in my family, including Grandma Grey, swears I’m the reincarnation of her mother.”
“The one with the winter-lake eyes?”
“That’s her. But you know what? I’m not her, and no one’s going to convince me I am.”
“You don’t believe in reincarnation?”
“I’m open to the possibility. But in the case of my great-grandmother Rostov, she was alive when I was born. So it wouldn’t be reincarnation so much as spiritual possession, and, whether by a good spirit or an evil one, I absolutely will not buy into that. I am who I am, you are who you are, and I’m really, truly sorry for what you must have gone through as a child.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He glanced into his wineglass, then back up at her. “I could have killed her. It’s possible.”
He wasn’t talking about his mother. Romana’s heart gave a tiny stutter that settled the second she felt it. “You can’t account for your whereabouts at the time of Belinda Critch’s death, is that right?”
“I was on duty. It was one of my first night shifts.”
“What part of the night don’t you remember?”
“About half of it. O’Keefe and I were partners back then, but as you know, partners don’t spend every minute of their shift together.” “You separated.” She rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers and thumb. “When? What time?”
“Close to midnight. O’Keefe had personal business to take care of. Problems with his wife. He went home. I went looking for Durphey-an informant.”
“I’ve heard the name. Did you find him?” “Yeah, I found him, around 1:00 a.m.” “The medical examiner pinpointed Belinda’s death between
1:00 and 4:00 a.m. How long were you with Durphey?” “Ninety minutes.” Amusement sparked. “That long? With someone who smells like a sewer and drools when he speaks?” “The drooling’s an act. Keeps people at arm’s length.” “The sewer smell would do that no problem. He must have had some valuable information to impart.” “He did. We spent most of those ninety minutes in a dockside warehouse, searching for an outgoing shipment.” “Of drugs?” “Homicide division,” he reminded her. “You were searching for a corpse?” “Two. Drug related. They weren’t there.” “So you split at the warehouse?” “He left, I stayed, searched a bit longer. I remember lighting a cigarette, looking at the moon, then-nothing.”
“Well, okay, hmm. So from, say, 2:30 to 4:00 a.m. you don’t know where you were or what you did. When did you-” she rocked her hand back and forth “-wake up, so to speak?”
“Dawn.” His features darkened as his mind traveled back. “It was starting to snow. I woke up in my car-literally woke up, so I must have been asleep.”
“Where were you?” When he didn’t answer, Romana tapped his leg. “Where, Jacob?”
“Three houses away from O’Keefe’s place, parked by the curb.”
“Did you go inside?”
“I used my cell to call first. There was no answer, so I went to McDonald’s and had breakfast. I heard about Belinda after I checked in with Harris. O’Keefe was in the captain’s office when I got to the station. They said Critch was freaking in his holding cell, accusing me of killing his wife. He kept screaming that I’d done it and they should have let him shoot me when he had the chance.”
“
“And so began the Christmas card parade.”
Romana’s brow knit. “That’s right, the cards. I’d almost forgotten about those. Carefully worded portents of doom. Until the last one. Well-or actually no, the one before it was quite vicious as well.”
The ghost of a smile appeared. “Prison guards get complacent after a while. Critch was a model prisoner. They’d have stopped checking his outgoing mail after the first few years. He’d have known that and reacted accordingly.”
With an elbow propped on the wine crate, Romana slid her fingers through her hair. “So, going back to the morning after, no one could vouch for you except an informant whose testimony wouldn’t have been worth anything anyway. You didn’t see O’Keefe after the two of you separated, or you wouldn’t have woken up in your car. Critch was behind bars at the time, so he didn’t kill her. Where was Barret?”
“At home, asleep, he said.”
“And Shera?”
“Couldn’t alibi him because she was in Columbus at her sister’s place, working out the details for an upcoming family reunion. Allegedly.”
Romana opened her mouth, but at his last word, closed it again. “What do you mean? Was Shera in Columbus or not?”
“Her sister says she was.”
Romana tipped her head for a better view of his shadowed face. “And you think what? That her sister’s covering for her?”
“It’s possible.”
“Most things are, but why this particular thing? Come on, what do you know that you’re not sharing?”
“A tip I got tonight.”
“From Canter?”
Again that ghost of a smile. “Source isn’t important. I talked to Shera Barret’s sister earlier tonight. She lives in Cincinnati now. She admitted that Shera went to bed with a migraine at 6:00 p.m. the night before Belinda Critch died. She didn’t come out of her bedroom the next morning, and her sister, knowing what migraines are like, didn’t disturb her. She went to work as usual and came home to a note Shera had left on the nightstand. It said she had to go back to Cincinnati, and she’d call soon.”
“Did she call?”
“The sister doesn’t know. She left on a buying trip to Mexico that evening. When she got back after Christmas, she was in the middle of a business war and never thought to ask Shera for an explanation.”
“Well, that’s convenient. Doesn’t mean Shera had anything to do with Belinda’s death, but it sounds like the opportunity was there.” A shrewd eyebrow went up. “Was it? Did your tipster say?”
“Yeah, he said.” Jacob’s gaze slid to the window. “Five days after Christmas, the investigating officer received a phone call and the offer of a substantial amount of money if he’d be willing to make the case go away. Whether the call was intended to protect her husband or the caller herself, he didn’t know. But it was made by Shera Barret.”
ROMANA KNEW THERE WAS MORE to the Gary Canter story than Jacob was telling, but since it didn’t appear to relate to the Belinda Critch investigation, she didn’t press for details. He’d tell her what he wanted to when he wanted to. It was Jacob’s custom to hold back and hers not to push. Which might, she reflected, be the reason she hadn’t been the most effective officer on the Cincinnati force.
In any case, the night had been incredible. So had the sex. Better than incredible-it had overwhelmed and, if she was honest, been more of a revelation than she was prepared to handle right now.
Her marriage had left holes in her self-esteem, had burst bubbles of hope and allowed doubt to creep in and take root. Even Grandma Grey’s unwavering support hadn’t managed to offset all the damage. And reflecting on cause and effect hadn’t been high on Romana’s to-do list. Until now.
“Really missing you, Fitz,” she said to the ceiling of her condo. “Please be safe. Please, let me find a way to find you.”
She wished she could go out and search tonight, but it was almost eight o’clock and the police/forensics party
