Hot Contact

by Susan Crosby

  All that came rushing back to Arianna in a flash, a memory embedded all these years.

  “I remember you,” Arianna said now, her throat burning. “You came to my house. You were kind. Thank you for your kindness.”

  He smiled as if he remembered what she was talking about, but his eyes were vacant. “You’re welcome.”

  She glanced at Joe, saw the question in his eyes through the blur in her own.

  “Can I get you anything, Dad?” he asked.

  “No. No. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed his father’s forehead as he stood.

  Arianna put out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Vicente. I’m happy to have seen you again.”

  He looked at her hand for a few seconds, then put out his left hand and squeezed hers. His skin felt papery, his bones fragile. His gaze seemed to sharpen, though.

  “You look like your mother,” he said as she started to move away.

  Startled, Arianna glanced at Joe, who looked intently at his father. “I do?” she asked.

  “She was beautiful, your mother.”

  He remembered her mother? “Thank you. I think so, too.”

  “I loved her, you know.”

  Oh. Not her mother, then. Someone else. Someone special.

  Joe took her by the arm and pulled her along with him. “Bye, Dad.”

  “Goodbye, Tommy.”

  She didn’t say anything until they were in the car. He put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine, apparently knowing she needed to talk first.

  “You could’ve told me,” she said.

  “You had to see for yourself. You wouldn’t have believed me.”

  Maybe he was right. She would’ve believed, but not as much as seeing proof. “How long has he been that way?”

  “He was diagnosed three years ago, but the illness progressed slowly. Mom took care of him at home even while she was having chemo. Toward the end she allowed homecare nurses during the day. I stayed at the house at night. Then after Mom died, I took over his care, until I couldn’t anymore.” He looked out the windshield. “I just couldn’t.”

  “So, you’re selling the house to pay for his care?”

  “It’s expensive. Obscenely expensive. But I want him in a good facility, well taken care of. He deserves that. He’s seventy-one. He could live for—for a while yet.”

  “And when the money from the sale of the house is gone?”

  “I’ll sell mine.”

  Three words that said so much about the man. She swallowed. “Who is Tommy?”

  “His brother, who died when he was about my age.”

  “Does he ever recognize you?”

  “Hardly at all anymore. I come every day to see him, and every day I hope. He calls Chief by the name of the dog we had when I was a teenager, Sarge.” He blew out a breath. “I thought maybe he really did recognize you for a minute, but he was obviously talking about someone else.” He angled toward her more. “You honestly remember him coming to your house?”

  She nodded. “He came several times, actually. I’d totally forgotten. My mother was out of her mind with grief. She treated him very badly, worse every time he came. He just stood there and took it. In retrospect I see that she must have been so frustrated and angry that the killer hadn’t been found, but then all I knew was that your father seemed to be hurting my mother by whatever he said to her. To look at her now, you would never believe her capable of such behavior. Nothing seems to throw her.”

  “Like mother, like daughter.” He started the engine and pulled away.

  She wasn’t sure if he was insulting or complimenting her. “It’s a handy skill as an investigator.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She couldn’t get a handle on his mood. “Thank you for sharing your father with me. I know it was hard, given his condition.”

  He sent a quick, searching gaze toward her. “I’m not embarrassed by him.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I just didn’t want you to subject him to a bunch of questions I knew he couldn’t answer.”

  “You’re protective. I understand. He’s very sweet.”

  “Fortunately, he’s docile. Some Alzheimer’s patients become hostile and uncontrollable. He could still reach that state. Anytime, actually.”

  “Does he talk about your mother?”

  “Yes. The thing about Alzheimer’s is that the person’s life is being run backward, like a videotape winding in reverse. He regresses. That’s why he’s calling me Tommy at the moment—because I’m the same age as Tommy was when he died. If I would show him a picture of Mom right before she died, he wouldn’t recognize her. But one taken when she was about fifty, he would know.” His voice softened. “I found him crying one day. He’d realized Mom was gone, and then the moment was over and he went back into his world.”

  Arianna wondered about Joe. It sounded like he’d been the caregiver for a long time. His fiancée had apparently been out of the picture for a while. Who made his life easier so that he could bear his own load?

  She studied him as he drove. He was a homebody, a family man, even though he didn’t have much family at the moment. He had a nice home in a real neighborhood. He loved and cared about his parents. He’d loved a woman enough to ask her to marry him. Something had gone terribly wrong there.

  In general, cops often made bad spouses. Out of necessity they buried their feelings because they saw so much horror in the world that they didn’t want to share with a partner, but that often meant they buried all emotion. Had his fiancée not been able to draw him out? Had she felt left out because he wouldn’t share? Had he not trusted her enough to share his burdens?

  Arianna’s own track record definitely didn’t make her an expert in how to make a relationship work. Her career had come first since the day she graduated from high school. Nothing had happened to change that. Like her father, she was devoted to her job. Success mattered to her. Respect mattered even more.

  “Would you like to go out to dinner?” Joe asked as he stopped short of pulling into his garage. “Or we could order takeout.”

  “I’m not hungry. But thanks.” She clutched the bag with the file to her chest. She wanted to go home and start trying to make sense of his father’s notes.

  “Arianna.”

  “Hmm?”

  He tapped the packet. “The videotape in there is of your father’s funeral.”

  She loosened her hold and looked down. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want you to watch it alone, not the first time, anyway.”

  “Why not? What’s on it?” A bit of panic set in. What could be there that he didn’t think she should see?

  “Your memories of the funeral are one thing. Actually seeing it is another. I just don’t think you should watch it by yourself.”

  “Fine. Can we watch it now?”

  “Yes.”

  Several minutes later they were seated in his living room, a comfortable room that combined simply designed wood pieces with cozy upholstered ones.

  “Remember this is a police video,” he said. “They were taping in hopes of seeing someone who didn’t belong, who might have been the shooter. So there are a lot of crowd scenes. It starts at the church, then it moves to the cemetery.”

  “All right.” She wondered if that was the voice he might use to talk someone down off a ledge. Calm, factual and soothing all at the same time.

  He sat about a foot away from her on the sofa then aimed the remote at the television and started the video. Suddenly she wished she was alone, so that she could just let herself react to whatever it was she was about to see, without Joe witnessing it. He’d already seen her more vulnerable than anyone since she, Nate and Sam had thought they might die together and had shared their deepest secrets and dreams. She’d always figured little in life could be worse than that.

  She hadn’t counted on being vulnerable to a man who appealed to her on so many levels—emotionally, intellectu
ally and physically. She’d been right in her impression of him on Halloween night. He was a kindred spirit—battle weary and driven by demons, only his were more visible than hers. Hers had been buried for twenty-five years and had only recently resurfaced. She didn’t know how her plunge into her past was going to turn out. She just knew she had to deal with it, whatever it turned up.

  Arianna didn’t comment as she watched the tape, which panned the crowds again and again. The film was grainy, the sound masked by static and crowd noise, but she was mesmerized by it all once the funeral service started. She would watch it again with the volume turned up so she could try to understand the tributes to her father. When the ceremony ended, the chief of police, who had delivered one of the eulogies, escorted her mother and her up the aisle.

  She leaned forward, her eyes on the image of her mother at age thirty-three, the same age as Arianna now. Dressed in black, Paloma looked haggard from exhaustion and grief. Arianna realized she hadn’t seen her mother wear black since that day. Instead she chose vibrant colors, not owning even one basic black dress, unusual in her social circle.

  Joe shifted beside her as the film switched to the grave-side service. She couldn’t hear the words spoken by the chaplain but heard a gun salute, which made her jump. Then the coffin was lowered into the ground and she saw herself scream and call for him again and again as her mother tried to hold her back and soothe her while others looked on helplessly. The tape turned even grainier, then she realized it wasn’t the tape but that she was crying. She hadn’t remembered the scene at the gravesite. She wished she hadn’t seen it, been reminded of it. She had called “Daddy” until her voice went hoarse from the salty tears coating her throat.

  She felt Joe’s hand come to rest on her shoulder, and she sloughed it off. He held a box of tissues toward her. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t speak. She grabbed several tissues, swiped them under her eyes, and tried not to let the tears turn to sobs, even as they welled up in her chest, pressing painfully, seeking release.

  The tape ended. She didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Arianna—”

  “Don’t, okay? Just don’t.” She stood. Looked around. Now what? She needed to go home. She couldn’t drive herself yet, that much she knew. “I need to find out who killed him,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She nodded. “I have to go.”

  “Not yet. Take a few more minutes.” He stood. “Let me show you my house.”

  “I—” She didn’t really have an argument. “Okay. Yes, okay.”

  “I’ll show you the backyard first.” He took the lead. She followed, but her mind wasn’t on the house or its furnishings except in vague awareness. Clean, uncluttered and homey, she thought.

  He was talking to her but she wasn’t paying attention, something about the house and the work he’d done on it, probably just words to distract her. An image flashed of him with his father. His tenderness. The pain in his eyes at being mistaken for his father’s long-dead brother instead of his son.

  Arianna put a hand on Joe’s shoulder. He stopped, turned around, a question in his eyes.

  “You take care of the world, don’t you?” she asked.

  He looked away.

  She moved closer. She could see inside an open door to a bedroom, obviously his. A huge four-poster bed with maroon and blue bedding jumbled at the foot. The only bit of disorganization in his house.

  “Who takes care of you, Joe?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re no more ‘fine’ than I am.” She leaned toward him, her eyes open, and kissed him. “Who takes care of you?”

  Eight

  Joe let her kiss him. Just for a minute, he thought. He would stop her in a minute.

  But he didn’t stop her. Couldn’t— No. Didn’t want to stop her.

  He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her closer, tipping her head back, parting her lips with his, catching her sighs and moans in his mouth, a pleasure beyond his dreams. And he had been dreaming of her. Night and day. Hot, uninhibited dreams of what he would do if he had the chance.

  He had the chance. Now what would he do?

  It was too soon. They barely knew each other. They were both hurting. They weren’t being rational. Stupid behavior led to stupid consequences.

  She locked her arms around his neck and pulled herself against him. Her breasts cushioned his chest. Their abdomens melded. Her thighs pressed his, moved electrifyingly.

  He slipped one thigh between hers and dragged it higher until she dropped her head back and made a long, low sound. He deepened the kiss as she went wild in his arms.

  Consequences. The word rang and echoed.

  Be damned. It had been so long, and she felt so good, and he needed to forget. So did she.

  He backed her into his bedroom, stopped beside his bed, and looked at her.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her hands along his face, pulling him back to her. “Yes.”

  Permission in the word but a plea in her voice. Then there were no words between them, only the moment. The feel of her skin as he pulled her clothes away. The heated touch of her hands as she undressed him, explored him in the same way that he did her, in frantic haste but thoroughly. The taste of her, her spicy store-bought scent not masking the exquisite essence that was Arianna. The sounds that filtered from her chest and throat and mouth, wordless yet with so much meaning.

  He’d never seen a more magnificent body, never made love with a woman who so matched him in need and strength. He acknowledged the exhilaration of finding such a rare partner as he urged her onto the bed.

  Then he stopped thinking. She was there, everywhere, all around him, over, under and in him, the contact so hot they were slippery from sweat. Just as he was about to bury himself in her, she rose up, maneuvered him onto his back and climbed onto him, taking control, taking over. He let her…for the moment. How could he not? Her mouth lit fires along his skin, her hair sparked electrical charges so strong he thought he heard thunder. Her passion, her need, rained down on him until he was drowning in it.

  He rolled with her, plunged into her, found a rhythm. Ah, damn, she felt good. Hot and slick and tight. Her strong legs wrapped around him, her body arched toward him. She cried out, a sound that went on and on and on as he tried to hold back. Sweat poured from him. His teeth ground. His jaw locked. His muscles seized.

  A dazzling display of light and sound burst around him. Then the quiet aftermath when the display was done. Peace. Joy. Pleasure. He couldn’t remember another moment remotely like it.

  He became aware of the world again little by little. Arianna didn’t speak. He felt her stillness as much as he would’ve felt her agitation. He kissed her, but she barely responded. He moved to her side. She didn’t look at him.

  Regret might as well have been written on her forehead.

  Joe knew the moment she wanted to leave. He also knew she wouldn’t want to be questioned about it, so he climbed out of bed and scooped up his clothes, then gathered hers and laid them on the bed.

  He left without saying anything, dressed in the hall and waited for her on the living room sofa.

  She still looked like a poster girl for unbridled sex, he thought, as she came up to him. “I have to go,” she said.

  He nodded. He knew. She picked up the canvas bag containing her father’s file.

  Joe grabbed her wrist. “I’ll help you.”

  “Help me what?”

  “Find out the truth about your father. If it’s possible.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because even if you hadn’t gone in search of answers to your questions, I would’ve found your father’s file in the safe on my own. I would’ve felt obligated to know why it was there. What it means. I’ve discovered that I need answers, too, just like you.”

  She pulled her hand free and sat down in a chair across from him. “What k
inds of answers?”

  “What role my father played. Where the gun came from.”

  She straightened. “Are you saying—”

  “I’m not saying anything. But there’s a reason why he had the file locked up so that no one would find it but me—and then only on his death, he probably figured, not expecting Alzheimer’s to strike first. I don’t know what the reason is, but whatever it is can’t be good.”

  “No. But how can we work together? Especially now, after having sex.”

  Her directness reminded him of her reputation for being unsentimental. He’d seen evidence contrary to that. Now he saw truth of it, too. Their lovemaking had apparently affected him more than her.

  “Tonight I remembered something important,” he said, dragging his hands down his face. “I was fourteen when your father died. I remember because it was my freshman year in high school, which sticks in your memory, and my dad was on edge for months. Mom and I tiptoed around him. He must have been investigating your father’s death.” In fact he’d been strung as tight as Joe had been for the past year. The parallels weren’t hard to miss. Was it the case—as part of it was for Joe with the unsolved Leventhal case—or more?

  “Joe.” She stopped, closed her eyes for a second. “How can we work together? One of us might find out something horrible about our father. There are ethics involved here, and our individual and personal need to keep our fathers honest and upright in our memories. That kind of conflict would be hard to reconcile.”

  “So we should each investigate on our own? After twenty-five years and so little information to go on, how far do you think we’ll get? If we put our heads and resources together, we might find something.” He leaned toward her. “I may learn my father didn’t do his job competently. You may learn something about your father you don’t want to know. But our goal is to find the truth, isn’t it? No matter what the truth is. No matter how painful.”

  She took a long time in answering. “Would you have told me about it, if you’d found the file before I came after the truth myself?”