He tried to concentrate on the photos, but it wasnt easy. He thought if he looked hard enough at pictures of Lindsey as a little girl it would distract him from the fact that the grown-up Lindsey was sitting right there beside him. But it didnt. Once again there seemed to be a complete disconnect between his mind, which was carefully scanning each photo, searching for the detail that would give him a clue to Susan Merrills background, and his senses, which were wallowing in the scent of the warm, desirable woman only scant inches away, her bare arm so close to his he could feel its heat. He found himself listening for her breathing, and timing his own to hers, as if they were finding each others rhythm in a dance. And at the same time trying not to breathe too deeply lest he inadvertently brush her arm and thus violate his promise not to touch her.
Why had he made such a stupid promise? Touching her was the one thing he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.
She reached across him suddenly, touching him in several places at once, and his skin flinched as if shed given him an electric shock. There, she said, tapping one of the pictures, a square one in the style of the early nineteen seventies. Thats me playing in the snow. Big Bear, I think it was. She turned her head slightly to look into his eyes. At close range.
His head swam. He pulled back a little, frowning as he brought the rest of her face into focus, noting a little pleat of frown lines between her eyes, and the fact that her lips were slightly parted, as if shed just drawn a sip of breath. Hungry juices pooled at the back of his throat, and his jaws creaked with the effort it took him not to give in to the desire to kiss her.
Apparently oblivious to the effect she had on him, she sat back with a sigh. Thats what I mean-Mom remembering her Jimmy playing in the snow doesnt mean anything. It could just as well have been Southern California as anywhere.
He nodded, muttered something ambiguous, and turned the page. And as he did so he heard a small voice somewhere in the foggy wilderness of his mind telling him, No-wait. Theres something there. Something He paused, turned the page back, stared again at the photos of a chubby toddler in a pink jacket and purple mittens, dark hair sticking out in feathers from under a purple knit stocking cap, cheeks rosy with cold.
What is it? What am I missing?
But the answer eluded him, and the voice in his mind was silent. After a moment he turned the page again, with a small lingering unease that was just enough of a discomfort to make him constantly aware of it, but not quite bad enough to do something about. Later, he told himself. Itll come to me.
But a moment later, once again there was Richard Merrills voice calling from out in the hallway. Like a diligent chaperone, Alan thought irritably, nervous about leaving him and Lindsey alone together.
Or me, alone in the house with whatever secrets hes trying to hide.
He and Lindsey both turned like guilty teenagers as her father appeared in the living-room doorway, his hands on the shoulders of a shivering and towel-wrapped Chelsea.
Somebody here needs a ladies room, Merrill said jovially, while Chelse, naturally, looked as if she wanted to disappear.
Alan shifted the album off his lap, but Lindsey placed her hand lightly on his shoulder as she got up. He watched her as she slipped her arm around his daughter, saying with a smile, Oh, sure, honey, you come with me. He watched Chelse leave without a glance at him, her dad. Her eyes, as she gazed up at Lindsey, seemed almost worshipful. And again he felt it-that weird pang he couldnt identify. He wished to God he knew what it was he was feeling.
Alan shifted the album off his lap, but Lindsey placed her hand lightly on his shoulder as she got up. He watched her as she slipped her arm around his daughter, saying with a smile, Oh, sure, honey, you come with me. He watched Chelse leave without a glance at him, her dad. Her eyes, as she gazed up at Lindsey, seemed almost worshipful. And again he felt it-that weird pang he couldnt identify. He wished to God he knew what it was he was feeling.
He didnt have much opportunity to dwell on it, however. Grinning and rubbing his hands together, Merrill plunked himself down in the spot recently vacated by his daughter and pulled the open album onto his lap.
Hah-I see Lindseys been taking you on a trip down memory lane. Its been a long time. Boy, these sure do bring back memories! Look at this-her mother and I got her that riding toy. I think it was her third birthday. It looked so darn cute in the commercials, except they left out the sound effects. Damn thing made this squeaky-squeaky sound, nearly drove us nuts. He shook his head as he stared at the old photographs, cheeks positively glowing with fatherly pride, gaze completely besotted.
And Alan thought, My God, what am I doing here?
Lindseys right, this is nuts. The guy couldnt be any more straight arrow and genuine. Obviously a devoted husband and father. What am I doing here? Wasting my time, thats what.
By the time Lindsey and Chelsea came back, chattering together like BFFL-which his daughter had informed him meant Best Friends For Life-about things he had to assume were the latest and coolest in girl stuff because it was Greek to him, hed all but convinced himself there was no case, cold or otherwise. Susan Merrills memories were the confusion of Alzheimers-end of story. Sad, but hey, it happened.
He was even beginning to see a bright side to this new development. If he wasnt working an investigation involving Lindsey Merrill, what was to prevent him fromwell, from what, exactly, he wasnt sure. Asking her out, maybe? He wondered how shed feel about that, and whether shed be more receptive to the idea of making their cover arrangement real if he wasnt looking at her daddy as prime suspect in a very old murder.
And, he thought, she seems to like my kid.
That seemed to him like a good sign.
Predictably, Chelsea groaned and pouted when Alan told her it was time to go, evidently having completely forgotten how shed groaned and pouted a few hours earlier when hed told her where they were going to be spending the afternoon. He didnt think he was ever going to understand what made his own daughter tick, and hed been told he could only expect it to get worse from here on in. It was a pretty depressing prospect, making him wonder if that had something to do with the stomach-twisting pangs he kept experiencing whenever he saw the rapport that was evidently developing between Chelse and Lindsey. He was beginning to feel like a clueless bystander in his own daughters life.
While Lindsey helped Chelsea gather up her stuff and Alan tried to herd her toward the door, Richard Merrill followed along, going through the usual song and dance routine of the gracious host. Telling Chelse how glad he was shed come, she was welcome anytime, and he hoped shed come back again real soon. Giving Alan a good firm handshake along with a warm smile and a clap on the back and telling him the same things. Meanwhile, Lindsey stood by hugging herself, smiling nervously and looking at the ground.
And it occurred to Alan-a lightning bolt of realization, actually-that this was the moment. I have to kiss her goodbye.
Of course he would. It would be expected. It would seem odd if he didnt. Somehow, standing on her parents doorstep in the twilight of evening, under the watchful eyes of her father and his daughter, he would have to kiss her. And make it look like a casual thing, something he did often and without giving it much thought. God help him.
The feeling in his belly reminded him of when he was about fourteen, getting ready for some school dance-hed forgotten exactly which one, but it was the first time hed actually asked a girl to go anyplace with him. He remembered walking up to Melanie Friedmans apartment door while his mom waited downstairs, and his hands being so wet with sweat he had to wipe them on his pants before he could even ring the doorbell. Remembered the butterflies in his stomach.
Terrific.
The moment was here.
Well, he said, smiling in that awkward way, guess Ill be seeing you And he still didnt have an endearment that suited her.
She nodded, her smile so stiff it made his own face hurt to look at her. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her in close, and after the smallest hesitation she lifted her head, and her lips were there for his taking.
So, he kissed her. And there was nothing even remotely casual about it.
He felt-heard-the faintest intake of breath, then her mouth was soft and yielding, warm against his. He felt her hand trembling slightly where it touched his waist, just above his belt, and shivers spread out from that spot and rippled across his skin.
He knew a moment of pure panic, fearing hed lost track of time and that the kiss had already lasted much longer than it should. It should be-had to be-a brief goodbye peck, nothing more, he knew that. And yet he wanted it to go on and on, and ending it seemed the hardest thing hed ever done.
But he did end it, somehow. Pulled back, not breathing, and then, for some reason, touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers as he whispered, Byecall you later, okay?
She nodded again, and laughed-an uneven whisper of sound. Her cheek felt hot and velvety on his fingertips.
Then he was walking away from her, walking down the driveway to his car, jangled on adrenaline and the alarm going off inside his head. Personal feelings-youre letting them cloud your judgment! Back off! Back off!
Chelsea was quiet on the way home, as usual, and for once he didnt try to get her to talk to him. He drove with one hand over his mouth, half his mind on what he was doing, the other half lecturing himself, scolding himself for making what-for a detective-amounted to an unforgivable mistake-forgetting the Joe Friday mantra: Just the facts, maam.
Thats what he had to do. Follow the facts. Investigate the facts. Wherever they might lead.
Fact: Susan Merrill remembers an act of murder and/or attempted murder committed by the man now her husband, Richard Merrill. Whether the event actually happened or not, her memory of it is fact.