wet and was slicked back. His eyes were a very light blue that matched his shirt, and he had thin lips and a deep cleft in his chin. He seemed angry yet composed.
“What I object to,” he was saying with a hint-of-molasses Southern accent, “is the way the authorities are implying my wife was doing something immoral simply because she was seen dancing with several men the night she was murdered.”
“Do you care to name anyone specifically who’s implying that?” the interviewer asked hopefully.
“I won’t name names at this point,” Verlane said, “but what people don’t understand is that Danielle was an avid ballroom dancer. She competed and won trophies. Dancing was very, very important to her. A sport. An art. Not simply a social skill. Or a…”
“Means to meet men?” the interviewer helpfully suggested.
“That’s what the police seem to be implying,” Verlane said, his accent suddenly thicker. A quick, bright anger came and went in his pale eyes. Something about him; he was watchable as a film star.
“So Danielle danced to keep her skills honed,” the interviewer said, backing off a bit.
“Exactly. That’s not uncommon in the world of people who take ballroom dancing seriously. There are competitions held all over the country, and many of the same dancers attend them, thousands of people. It’s a subculture that isn’t widely understood, or even known about, but my wife was part of it, and that’s important. To imply that since she danced often and with different partners meant she was somehow less than a perfect wife is misguided, judgmental, and a hindrance to the investigation into her death. It’s the world of ballroom dancing the police oughta be delving into, not snooping around as if my wife were somehow unfaithful-which she definitely wasn’t.”
A frontal shot of the interviewer, a perfectly groomed mannequin from third floor Menswear, looking intelligent and interested. “So you’re unhappy with the police work in your wife’s case?”
“Yes. And with the way the media have treated this.” Verlane squirmed on the sofa and knitted his fingers together, squeezing. “As if Danielle did something wrong. As if somehow what happened was her fault and she deserved it.”
Exterior shot again. The newsman was standing before the big stucco house with its arched windows. An elaborate black iron fence was visible now. He was leaning against it casually, loosely holding a microphone a few inches from his lips. “So Rene Verlane, whose wife Danielle was brutally murdered two days ago, is unhappy with the way local authorities have handled this case, and especially with how he feels the victim has been portrayed. This is-”
Someone was knocking on the door.
Mary placed her cup on a magazine so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the table, then got up and crossed the living room. She stood close to the door and peered through the fish-eye peephole at the distorted figure standing in the hall.
Jake.
11
A single red rose this time, held like something injured in his huge rough hand and backed by an embarrassed smile. He said, “I heard someplace a rose by itself meant I love you.”
She could meet his rage easier than his shame. Looking at him obliquely, she said, “It takes more’n a rose, Jake.”
“Don’t you think I know it, Mary?”
“No.”
“So, can I at least come in?” He glanced from side to side; he didn’t want any of the neighbors seeing him standing there like a schoolboy with a peace offering.
“Come on,” she sighed, and stepped back to let him pass. He hadn’t been home, wherever he was staying, after getting off work last night; he smelled faintly of old dust, old sweat, and stale beer. She closed the door behind him, suddenly thinking, God, he’s in now! A few nights ago I swore this would never happen.
“Cool in here,” he said, looking around as if the place were strange to him.
“What’d you expect?”
He smiled. “Naw, I mean the air’s cool. But sure, I expected you to be cool to me. You got a right.”
“I sure as hell do.” She tried to muster anger, but it rose and then fell back in her, unable to sustain itself. It found the level of irritation, aimed more at herself, for letting him in, than at Jake.
She looked at him, still looming awkwardly with the rose in his hand. He was a tall man, and hefty. Handsome when he dressed up in jacket and tie, which was seldom. Wavy black hair going thin on top; permanently arched black eyebrows above narrowed and seeking gray eyes; a drooping dark mustache that gave him a somber expression despite his habitual half-smile. Today he was wearing khaki slacks, smudged from the warehouse and with a pair of leather work gloves protruding like limp severed hands from a back pocket. He had on scuffed brown loafers, a blue pullover shirt with an alligator sewn over the pocket. See you later, she felt like saying.
“You thought about our phone conversation?” he asked.
“There was nothing to think about; it was a conversation we’ve had lots of times. I don’t believe I wanna see you again, Jake.”
He waved the rose helplessly and with desperate meaning, as if it were a signal light on a black night. “Hey, Mary, you can’t mean that!”
And maybe she couldn’t mean it. Maybe she was simply acting out a charade because the alternative might be some crueler truth. But she had to try. She studied the dark pouches beneath his eyes. “You look like shit, Jake.”
“Well, I stopped off for a couple drinks and some socializing after work. I been up all night.” He extended the rose toward her, along with the boyish half-smile. “Be nice to me, Mary. A thorn’s digging into my hand. You got a place to put this flower, or should I drop it so you can stomp on it?”
She went into the kitchen and rooted through the cabinet over the sink. All she could find that might accommodate the long-stemmed rose was a tall beer glass with “Busch” stenciled on it in dishwasher-faded blue letters. She ran three fingers of water into it and carried it into the living room.
Jake hadn’t moved. She took the rose from him and inserted it in the tall glass, then set the glass on top of a TV Guide on the television set. A jackhammer chattered outside, off in the distance. Something being built, or torn down.
“What happened to your door?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. It looks like somebody tried to get in while I was gone.”
He shot her a concerned look. “You call the police?”
“Yeah. Not much they can do.” She considered telling him about last night outside Casa Loma, then decided she didn’t want to confide in him and give the impression she needed him.
“So,” Jake said, “you leaning toward forgiving me?”
“You know which way I’m leaning.”
He started to cross his arms, but he changed his mind and absently scratched a bulging bicep. Then he let his hands dangle at his sides, like lifeless appendages made obsolete through evolution. “Listen, you sure you’re… okay?”
“I’m about healed, if that’s what you mean.”
“Goddamnit, Mary, I hate to hurt you… to have hurt you. You know that, don’t you? It’s important to me that you realize it. I wouldn’t admit this to anybody else, but I get scared sometimes, Mary. I just lose it and lash out. It’s fear, that’s what it is-fear. You understand what I’m trying to say?”
“What kinda fear?”
“Hell, I’m not sure, or I could do something about it, you know? Sometimes I can’t figure out why I do things, Mary.”
She felt the familiar pity trying to coil itself like snakes around her heart. Not this time, not this time! “Jake, Jake… I could have you arrested.”
“Yeah, you could.” He stared at the carpet. “I wouldn’t blame you. Maybe you should.”
