shot Smith. Why had John Smith, a retired police detective, been shot first?
'Amanda,' Coop said.
'What?'
'Her name is Amanda.'
'That's it? Just a one-word name, like Bono?'
'Amanda Jones. She owns a PR agency in London.'
'Congratulations.'
'Look, I should have told you this before — '
'I humiliated myself,' she finished for him.
'You didn't humiliate yourself. You think I didn't want to — '
'Fuck?'
'That's not what I would have called it.'
'I'm proud of your self-restraint. I really am. Normally you deliver bad news to your victims after you're done screwing them.'
'Nice.'
'Hey, I'm just repeating what you've told me.'
'What just… I'm sorry I let it go on for as long as it did,' he said, pronouncing each word as if she were some autistic child who had trouble grasping the nuances of human emotions. 'I let it go on because I do, in fact, care about you. Deeply. You've been a close friend, and I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that I've always wondered what it would be like if you and I got together — and I don't just mean physically. I mean long term. White picket fences and all that stuff.'
She didn't want to hear this. She moved to the door.
Coop sprang from around the bed and blocked her exit.
'You're one of the most beautiful women I've ever met — and, let's face it — probably the most unique,' he said. 'But, for whatever reason, our timing was off. I left for London and you decided to stay here.'
'I decided,' she said flatly.
'Yeah. You could have come over to London at any time to — '
'I was a little wrapped up here, Coop, with my own problems.'
'What about all those times we spoke on the phone?'
'What about them?'
'Not once did you mention or remotely hint that you wanted to take what we had to a different level.'
'Neither did you. And, as I recall, you were the one who kissed me. And when we spoke later, right before you boarded your flight, I told you how I felt.'
'No, you didn't. Your exact words were, 'Coop, before you go, I just wanted to say…' and then nothing.'
'Did you forget the part where you said, 'I know. I feel the same way for whatever it's worth.' When I said, 'It's worth a lot' and you ran to the plane to get away — '
'Darby, you never came right out and told me how you felt until now.'
She stared at him, dumbfounded.
'Why the hell did you wait for so long? If you had — '
'I can't believe this,' she said, feeling the anger starting to seep through. Careful. 'I can't believe you're trying to pin this on me.'
'I'm not trying to pin anything on you. Jesus! I didn't say anything because I didn't want to change what we had. I love you too much to — '
'Enough,' she said, pushing him aside and moving into the living room. 'It's starting to sound like some bad romance novel.'
'Where are you going?'
'To work.'
She found her jacket draped across the back of a chair.
'You might as well try to book a flight back home,' she said, putting on her jacket. 'There's no reason for you to stick around.'
'So that's how you want to solve the problem between us? By running away?'
She zipped up her jacket. 'It's a trick I learned from you.'
Coop crossed his arms and studied the tops of his feet.
'You should get back home. Back to Amanda.' She removed all of the cash from her money clip and tossed it on the floor in front of him. 'That should cover part of your plane fare. Let me know the rest and I'll drop a cheque in the mail.'
His face jumped up, sparks of anger in his eyes.
'Thanks again for coming, Coop.'
She had reached the door when he called out to her:
'I waited, Darby. For you. Don't get pissed at me because you're the one who blew it.'
She fumbled for the doorknob. When she opened the door, she found Keats standing with his back to the wall so he could watch the hall.
She shut the door behind her and said, 'I need to go back to the medical examiner's office.'
'They expecting you?'
'Not yet,' she said, reaching for her cell phone. She had missed a call — Ronald Ross, the Harvard professor. He had left her a message.
Keats was looking at the door.
'Mr Cooper's not joining us,' Darby said, dialling the answering service for the Boston medical examiner's office. 'He's going back home. To London.'
64
Settled inside the back of the SUV, Darby played the message from Ronald Ross. The Harvard Divinity professor wanted to discuss the symbol she had faxed him earlier this afternoon. He left three numbers — office, cell and home phone.
She asked Keats for a pad of paper and a pen. He took his eyes off the road for a moment, then grabbed something from the console and handed it back to her — napkins and a bottle of water.
'What's this for?'
'Your mascara,' he said. 'It's smeared all over your face.'
No wonder the people inside the Four Seasons had given her such strange looks. Jesus. She took them, twisted off the plastic cap and dumped the water on the napkins, spilling some on her lap and not caring, feeling more angry than embarrassed. Angry at herself for letting her guard down like that. For exposing herself and crying like… well, like a girl.
She wiped at her eyes and cheeks, the napkins coming away black, and caught Keats watching her in the rear-view mirror.
'You okay?' he asked in that soft and soothing Southern drawl.
'Never better.'
'Anything I can do to help?'
'No.' Unfortunately, she added privately. 'But thank you.'
'Toss everything on the floor back there. When you're through cleaning up, I have a leather writing pad you can use. Pen's clipped inside, a real nice one too, so don't go losing it on me.'
Ronald Ross answered his home phone on the fourth ring. He sounded like he had been asleep.
'I just got your message,' she said. 'Sorry if I woke you.'
'I dozed off on the couch. You did me a favour.' A grunt and then he cleared his throat. On the other end of the line she could hear the click of his heels echoing across a floor. 'I made some notes on this symbol you sent me.
