In Too Deep

They were both quiet for a while.

“So Kevin Conner Andrews, alias Nightman, turned out to be an upstanding citizen.” Isabella said after a time. “Sterling employment record at the construction company. No criminal record. Everyone thought he was such a nice, normal guy. Blah, blah, blah.”

“They always say that. The fact that he was local and in the construction business does explain how he knew about the basement in the old Zander house. Explains the new floor, as well.”

“Yes. Want some more soup?”

“Yes,” he said.

She got up, refilled his bowl and came back to the table.

“Think the cops are done with J&J?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” he said. “The detective might come back for another statement from me, but everything I gave him was the truth, at least up to a point. Norma Spaulding hired us to check out the rumors of ghosts in the old Zander mansion. I went there to take a look. Found the dumping ground in the basement and was confronted by the killer, who must have been watching the house.”

“Said killer attacks you in the basement and dies of sudden cardiac arrest.”

“It happens, even to men Andrews’s age. The authorities may spring for an autopsy but they won’t find anything more. And I doubt they’ll go that far, not when there’s so much evidence.”

She looked at him. “You mean the bodies?”

“Not just the bodies. Andrews took pictures. The cops found them in his house.”

“Geez.”

“Sudden deaths happen, even to killers,” he stated. “The cops know that no shots were fired and there’s no sign of a struggle. There’s no way they’re going to go with a theory of the crime that involves death by paranormal forces, so cardiac arrest is all they’ve got.”

“Sounds like you’ve had experience in situations like this.”

“Some,” he admitted. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. The detective in charge just cracked the biggest case of his career. He’ll be too busy giving interviews to the media to wonder why a serial killer in his prime keeled over and toppled down a flight of basement stairs. As far as he’s concerned, the incident saved the county the cost of a trial.”

“But it wasn’t an incident,” Isabella said quietly. “You had to kill a man.”

“Yes.”

She watched him with her knowing eyes. “That sort of thing, no matter how justified, causes some major psychic trauma.”

“Not as major as the trauma that Andrews went through.”

“He deserved it. Do you want to talk about the psychic trauma thing?”

“I don’t think talking about it will do anyone, including me, any good.”

“Okay,” she said.

“That’s it? You’re not going to lecture me about the dangers of ignoring the consequences of serious psychic trauma?”

“Not tonight.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, after consuming two bowls of soup and another glass of whiskey, Fallon Jones fell profoundly asleep on her sofa.

Moving quietly, she turned off the lights and took a spare blanket out of the hall closet. She covered Fallon with the blanket and then stood for a time in the shadows, looking at him. He was too big for the sofa, too big for the tiny apartment. But for some reason it felt right to have him here in her space, surrounded by her plants and the precious used furniture, lamps and dishes that her new neighbors had given her.

Fallon Jones and the secondhand treasures that filled the small apartment anchored her now. She belonged here in Scargill Cove.

8

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and the unfamiliar sounds of someone moving about in his kitchen awakened him. The cramped, stiff feeling told him that he had fallen asleep on the office sofa again.

He opened his eyes and looked out the window at the dark sky of a foggy winter dawn. It was raining but his office seemed much cozier than usual.

Something wrong with the view, Jones. You’re a hotshot detective. Figure it out.

Not his office. Not his kitchen. Not even his sofa.

Memory kicked in. He’d had decompression sex with Isabella, eaten her homemade soup and then proceeded to fall asleep on her sofa.

Hell of a way to impress a woman, Jones.

It was an awkward scenario but he felt surprisingly good, rested. He glanced at the table. The clock was still there, wrapped in its blanket, silent and still.

“Good morning,” Isabella said.

He turned his head and saw her. And instantly got hard. She was in the kitchen, looking as if she had just stepped out of a shower. Dressed in a robe and slippers, her hair caught back in a ponytail, her face still bare of makeup, she was the most erotic sight he had ever seen.

He tried to think of something intelligent to say and came up empty.

“Morning,” he managed.

“How did you sleep?” She cracked an egg into a bowl. “The sofa is a little on the small side for a man of your size, but you were sound asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Feeling like a great, clumsy mastodon, he lumbered to his feet.

“Sorry about this,” he said gruffly. “Not sure what the hell happened.”

She looked amused. “You were exhausted. You went to sleep after dinner. That’s it. No big deal.”

“Didn’t think I’d be able to sleep at all.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself and your talent too hard for too long. Yesterday you drew on the last of your reserves when you took down Andrews. Last night your body signaled that it had had enough. It more or less forced you to give yourself a chance to recover.”

That wasn’t the full answer, he thought. He’d experienced the after-math of violence before and it had kept him awake for a couple of days. It was Isabella’s good energy that had made it possible for him to get some much- needed rest last night. But he did not know how he knew that, much less how to explain it to her.

“I’ll have breakfast ready when you come out of the bathroom,” Isabella said.

Grateful for the opportunity to have a chance to figure out how to handle the situation, he headed down the hall. Once again he contemplated the man with the thousand-year-old eyes gazing back at him in the mirror.

The damage was done. There was nothing he could do now to stop the gossip.

“You really screwed up,” he said to the man in the mirror.

When he emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later Isabella handed him a warm mug.

He drank some of the coffee and studied the rapidly lightening sky.

“I’d apologize,” he said. “But it won’t do any good.”

“What are you talking about?” Isabella asked.

“This is one very small town,” he said. “When I leave here this morning to go back to my place, someone is sure to see me.”

She opened the door of the ancient refrigerator. “So?”

“So, by noon, everyone in the Cove will know that I spent the night here.”