surprise when he kissed her and touched her, her passion, her urgency. He could remember the softness of her flesh, the tightness of her when he’d entered her. “Yes, she has,” he said. And he remembered just as clearly his feelings when she’d come to him. “I as well.”
“Has Barry discovered anything at all yet?”
“You remember the description she gave of the supposed set man?”
“Yeah, I still can’t believe it. I’ve never known a witness that good. If he’d had a mole on his butt, she probably would have intuited it from his accent.”
“She’d never thought it was important enough to mention to me before. She does have a photographic memory for faces. I told her we were going to bring her on in the business. Anyway, one of the old guys in homicide saw the sketch and recognized the bastard right off. His name’s Bert Oswald, a little killer for hire, been in and out of prison all his life, a loser most the time, but occasionally he gets a job done and it usually ends up getting him back into the slammer again. He comes cheap and he’s not, as I said, very reliable.”
“Thank God he wasn’t this time.”
The taxi pulled up at the hospital.
Taylor said, a touch of anxiety in his voice that Enoch didn’t miss, “I look okay?”
“You missed a spot shaving, your eyes are a bit bloodshot, you look skinny, but hey—yeah, just fine. A regular Romeo.”
The driver turned around and gave them both a huge grin. “Hey, which one of you cuties is expecting?”
He was still laughing when he pulled away.
“Now, that’s better,” Enoch said, observing the wide grin on Taylor’s face.
Gayle and Sheila were there fussing over Lindsay. She was now wearing a bit of powder and some lipstick. It looked faintly ridiculous in her current condition, and Taylor just leaned down and kissed most of it off. The minister, Reverend Battista, had known Taylor’s mom and dad and sister. He was charming, warm, and had no problem with marrying the couple in a hospital. He lived every single day deep in his faith and didn’t question life’s occasional strange byways too often. So he smiled and greeted Taylor and told him he was glad to see him after three years.
They were in love, Reverend Battista saw, and he was pleased. He appreciated weddings, particularly when the bride wasn’t obviously pregnant. Those he always doubted would last the first round. But these two—they’d last. He watched Taylor slide the wedding band on Lindsay’s finger. They were—attached, somehow attuned to each other.
When Reverend Battista pronounced them well and finally married, Taylor’s eyes shone. His severe look melted away. He kissed his bride. There was applause from the nurses and doctors standing in the doorway.
“For someone five days out of surgery, you’re a charming bride,” Taylor said next to her bandaged ear. “You feel up to a drop of champagne?”
“Oh, yes. It’s my wedding day. Dr. Shantel said half a flute.”
His eyes darkened. And she knew he was thinking about the one night they’d had together. It seemed aeons ago now. Almost as if it had never existed. But it had, and she could still remember the faint echoes of pleasure, a pleasure so intense it was frightening, and he’d promised her that it would always be like that between them. She believed him.
There were six bottles of Mumms champagne, enough for all the staff who were in and out of the room, Officer Fogel, and Missy Dubinsky. Barry Kinsley came round to congratulate them and tell Taylor that the little shit Oswald was still on the loose but they’d get him soon.
Taylor looked over at his wife, who was speaking to Glen. “I’m not certain it’s safe for her to leave the hospital. Her lung machine was unhooked this morning. Dr. Perry says if she has proper rest, she can recuperate at home as well as here. But at home, I don’t know how well I can protect her.”
“Let’s keep her here, Taylor,” Barry said. “ Easier to keep her safe.”
“Yeah.”
“One little glass but no more,” Dr. Shantel said, smiling down at Lindsay when Enoch tried to give her another half-glass. “Your medication is still a bit on the heavy side for too much alcohol. Congratulations, Mrs. Taylor.”
Lindsay fell asleep just after finishing her first half-glass of champagne. Dr. Shantel smiled and shushed everyone. “Our patient’s so happy she has to sleep it off.”
“Well,” Barry said, gazing down at the new Mrs. Taylor. “Nothing like having your bride conk out on you before your wedding night.”
“I figure we can make up for it in the next fifty years.”
“Good man.”
Sheila laughed and gave him a very interested look. “Do you like jazz, Sergeant?”
“Well, ma’am,” Barry said, turning admiring eyes toward Sheila, who was wearing a long emerald silk dress, “I like to think I play a mean trumpet. Yeah, jazz is something else. Right now I’m listening every night to Harry Dellios. He’s out of—”
“Atlanta! My, my, isn’t that a wonderful coincidence, Enoch?”
Enoch groaned. “That’s my cousin, Sergeant. But beware, if you spend a lot of time with my mom here, you’ll get as skinny as I am.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” Barry said, looking down at his belly. He turned to Taylor, who was leaning over his wife, just looking at her. “I need to speak to you some more when all the fun’s over.”
It was over in fifteen minutes. Barry Kinsley asked Gayle Werth to accompany him and Taylor to the waiting room.
He said without preamble, “Taylor told me about this guy Dr. Gruska, a professor who kept trying to track Lindsay down.”
“Gayle, do you think he could be crazy enough to turn on Lindsay?” Taylor asked.
Gayle took a turn about the small waiting room, thinking hard. When she turned, she nodded. “Yes. He’s a nut case. According to Lindsay, he’s deep into repressed childhood sexuality, you know, all that Freud stuff.”
“I agree,” Taylor said. “At least it’s worth a shot. I’ve tried to track him down. He’ll be on campus tomorrow, I was told. I’ll talk to him.”
“I’d like to come along,” Barry said. “No, don’t look at me like I’m spoiling your fun, boyo. I just don’t want you to rumple his tie if he starts foaming at the mouth and admitting everything.”
“You can’t think of anyone else, Miss Werth?”
“No. Lindsay’s always kept to herself, particularly after what happened, Taylor. You know, after Paris.”
“No men?” Barry asked. “None before Taylor?”
“Oh, no. She wouldn’t let a guy within ten feet of her. Taylor’s the first man she even smiled at. I still can’t believe this.” She stopped, then reached out her hand and shook Taylor’s. “Thank you. Lindsay’s great. I’ve always been so worried for her.”
“The boy will keep her happy, Miss Werth,” Enoch said.
“Yes,” said Gayle, “I think the boy will. He has heart.”
After Gayle had left, Barry said, “We finished the check on all the family. No big surprises. Just as we thought. The father is in financial trouble—he’s a pistol as a judge but as a businessman he’s dog piss. His wife married him for his money and she’s not a happy lady now that her stepdaughter got the dough. Word is she’s also an alcoholic. The older daughter, Sydney, makes a bundle as a model, but she spends more, and not on her own amusements, in all fairness to her. As for her husband, the prince, the jerk’s well on his way to going through the family fortune. Big trouble there. Sydney is sending a good deal of her earnings back to Italy to keep things afloat. Whatever her faults, she hasn’t deserted the family.”
“She does have a daughter there.”
“Yeah, well, the daughter’s quite the little princess. Spoiled rotten, from what the police lieutenant in Milan told me. Throws tantrums in public. So, Taylor, it’s possible that one of the family or more than one of them would want her out of the way. Jesus, how many times does it all come down to money? Too often, my friend, far too often. But to kill her? I just don’t know.”
“Well, since we’re married now, it’s academic. If any of them were behind the first attempt, there shouldn’t be another. They won’t get a dime if she dies now.”
“Who’s going to tell them that their fat pigeon has flown to another coop?”
