by Terry Odell
He roamed to the counter, flipped through the guest book. It went back through the years when she and her husband worked here together. Names and comments freezing snapshots in time. Some scribbled, some neatly printed. Some with mailing addresses, some with email, some merely a city or state. He never paid much heed to where people were from unless he had a reason to stop them for something. But how many total strangers came through Pine Hills, never leaving more of a trace than a name in a guest book? Was one of these names someone he should be hunting down?
"Ready," Sarah said.
She smiled and he was ready to take her, right now, right here on the carpet of her gift shop. Marking his territory? God, you'd think he was seventeen. He took the pile of file folders from Sarah, adding the guest book to the top.
"You want to do this all tonight?" he asked. "It's been a long day."
"I won't sleep until I check it out," she said. "You can drop me off. I don't think there's much you can do. My notes and codes won't make any sense to you."
Like hell, he thought again. "I'm a quick study," he said and walked her out to the truck.
In her apartment, she went straight to her computer and turned it on, then unwrapped the mugs.
"Hot chocolate?" he asked even as he filled her kettle for her nightly ritual drink. Someday she'd stop using the instant packets. "We could drink it out of the Garrigue mugs."
She looked up, her eyes registering a flash of shock until she realized he was teasing. "You know your way around a spreadsheet?" she asked.
"Well enough, if you tell me what I'm looking for."
He leaned over her shoulder as she opened a file. The peach aroma from her hair was faint, masked by all the other scents she'd picked up over the course of the day, but he thought even a single molecule would register with him.
After she explained her data system, he started sorting and searching. She disappeared through the kitchen to her back porch and came back with a small red tool kit. He'd sorted the columns, first by customers and then by her merchandise codes when he glanced up to see her holding a hammer and putty knife to one of the mugs.
"Whoa," he said, jumping up and grasping her wrist. "What are you doing?"
"I want to check this repair job."
"Hang on. We should photograph them first, for reference. Let me get my camera."
Downstairs, he retrieved his evidence kit from his truck. And his overnight tote. Slinging the canvas strap over his shoulder was enough trigger a southward turn of his blood supply. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement from above. He shifted his attention and saw the curtains pull back from the second floor apartment. Maggie's apartment. He smiled to himself, then raised his fingers in a quick salute. The curtain opened wider and she waved. The curtain dropped back into place and he trotted up the stairs.
Sarah sat at the computer chair he'd vacated, staring at the screen, a cup of hot chocolate by her side. A second sat on the kitchen counter and he picked it up. The aroma of hot chocolate used to recall winter evenings with Gram, but now it ranked right up there with peaches as a reminder of Sarah.
"Find anything?" he asked, joining her.
"Not much yet," she said. "We were so busy, I didn't keep my usual records. I found a couple of sales of more than one mug, but it's slow going."
"Maybe you need a break." He kissed the back of her neck.
Her head dropped, giving him more room to work. His lips migrated around to her earlobe, not missing any real estate along the way.
"Stop," she whispered even as she tilted her head giving him greater access to the place above her collarbone she loved to be kissed.
He didn't. Couldn't. She had to feel the magic of the night as much as he did. He set his mug next to hers and let his hands stray to her breast. Gently touching. Asking. Not demanding. Okay, maybe with a little praying that she'd postpone her pottery quest for half an hour or so. "I need a shower," she whispered. "I feel like there's a coating of that interrogation room all over me."
He didn't try to argue. If she felt unclean, she wasn't going to enjoy herself and she was damn well going to enjoy herself.
"I'll scrub your back," he said.
"No." She twisted around in her chair and snaked an arm around his neck. "I'd rather be alone."
"Being Sarah." Proving to herself she didn't need his help to rid her of the stench of Neville. He kissed her forehead. "I'll be waiting."
"Being Randy?" She stood and gripped his hands.
"Not for long, I hope." He stared at the spreadsheet after she left, looking at colored highlights Sarah had added. Enough. He minimized the screen and finished his now lukewarm chocolate. When he heard the shower running, he went into the bedroom.
Sarah had left the lamp on his side of the bed on, adjusted to the lowest setting of the three-way bulb. He folded the floral spread and placed it on the wooden rack at the other side of the room. After stripping off his shirt and tie, he sat at the edge of the bed and removed his shoes and socks. He eased out of his slacks and briefs and turned off the light before crawling under the covers.
He lay on his back, hands folded behind his head and stared into the darkness at the ceiling, his arousal growing as he imagined Sarah standing under the shower spray, her hands massaging peach-scented lather through her hair, the suds swirling in circles down the drain as she rinsed. He envisioned her soaping her body, starting with her neck, then her shoulders, arms and breasts. She'd move her hands in lazy circles down her belly, her soapy fingers gliding over her slick skin. She'd balance one leg on the inner edge of the tub as she worked her way down from thigh to calf to ankle, then repeat it with the other. The sheet tented above his erection as he thought of her hands floating down to wash her round buttocks, her curl-covered mons.
The water stopped. He heard the shower curtain slide along the metal pole. He pictured her stepping over the tub, water dripping over her sleek legs. Her hand would reach for the towels. A small one first, which she'd wrap around her hair and then the larger one to wrap around herself.
The patterns had become familiar, yet they filled him with anticipation. So much the same, yet every single time with her was new. His chest ached. God, he loved her. What would it take for them to make it work?
The bathroom door opened. Peach-scented steam floated into the room. She lingered in the doorway. In the glow from the light, she was more beautiful than in his imagination. He smiled and pulled back the covers on her side of the bed. "Come to me, Sarah."
She rubbed her head and tossed the turban away. She ruffled her fingers through her hair, then reached for her chest where she'd tucked the bath towel together. She gave a quick tug and it slid to the floor in a heap. One hand reached out and turned off the bathroom light.
She seemed to float across the floor, comfortable in her nakedness. She slipped under the covers, still damp from her shower, smelling like soap and peaches, curling into the crook of his arm. They lay that way, sharing the warmth of their bodies. For a moment, he wondered if she'd want him to shower too, but then her fingers roamed his chest, toying with the hair, teasing his nipples and moving lower until she grasped his cock.
He moaned with pleasure as they began their familiar journey through the layers of ancient delights. Together they explored, enticed, entwined. Time ceased. Only sensation remained. Crisp sheets. Lavender soap and peach shampoo. The smoothness of newly shaved legs. Her wet, tight heat around him. The short, rapid pants of their breathing. The creak of the headboard. And then nothing. Only ecstasy.
* * * * *
Sarah rubbed her eyes. Sunlight streamed in through the window. Morning. She lay there a minute with vague recollections of Randy's goodbye in the pre-dawn hour. She'd meant to get up when he did—heck she'd never meant to fall asleep, but their lovemaking had left her boneless and her body had insisted on a total battery recharge. She flung her legs over the edge of the bed and circled her neck, getting the kinks out.
Working her arms into h
er robe, she padded to the kitchen and turned the burner on under the kettle. Her file folders lay neatly stacked next to her computer and the two mugs were—gone? She saw the note on the fridge. Randy had taken them. Wanted to shoot them under lab conditions.
Lab conditions? What the— She knew how to take a picture. She should never have given in to him last night.
Who was she kidding? She'd given in to herself, not him. She'd wanted it and she'd enjoyed it. In spades.
She turned on her computer and popped a bagel into the toaster before reaching for the phone. Randy answered on the third ring. "Detweiler."
Brusque. Professional. "You're busy."
"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"You can give me those mugs back, for one." And make love to me again so the world disappears, for another.
She heard papers rustle and his pen click three times. A wisp of guilt swirled through her. She was interrupting a meeting for all she knew.
"Is six o'clock all right?" he said.
"I'll look forward to it." She hung up. Okay, she had the rest of the day to go through her spreadsheets and photos.
But the puzzle of the mugs wouldn't let her concentrate. On a whim, she called the Pine Hills Police station. If Randy wanted lab conditions, they'd be at the lab, right? She asked for Mike Connor.
"Sorry to bother you," she said when he came on the line, "but did Randy drop off a couple of pottery mugs this morning? He wanted them photographed."
"Hey, Sarah, I was going to call you. The note said you needed them for insurance. I've been busy, but I can do them now if you're in a hurry. I'm about to grab some lunch."
She hesitated. Insurance? Was Randy sneaking around some rules? "That would be great. If it's not too much trouble, that is. As a matter of fact, I'm about ready for lunch myself. I could bring you a sandwich."
She waited, hoping she hadn't said the wrong thing. Was she bribing a police officer? Then again, Mike Connor wasn't a sworn police officer the way Randy was. He was in charge of the lab.
"No need. I've got my lunch. But if you want to come down, that's fine. I'll be around."
She thanked him and threw on a pair of slacks and a sweater. She grabbed her purse and trotted down the back stairs to her car. At the station, she signed in at the front desk.
"Randy's not here," the clerk said. "But you probably know that."
"I've got an appointment with Mike Connor," she said and hurried down the hall before she and her transparent face could get bogged down in small talk.
The lab door was open, as usual. She tapped on the jamb and peeked inside. Rock music from a portable CD player filled the room. "Mike? It's Sarah."
"Come on in." He sat behind his desk at the far end of the room. A half-eaten sandwich lay on top of a brown paper bag next to a huge dill pickle and a can of cola. She stepped inside, the garlic and vinegar aroma getting stronger as she approached. He wiped his mouth and stood.
"Don't let me interrupt you," she said. "As a matter of fact, I could probably shoot the pictures myself. Save you some trouble."
He smiled. "No trouble. But I can show you how we photograph evidence. Probably a little different from art photography."
"Most of the photography I do is for store inventory," she said. "But I'd love to see what goes on in here."
She followed him to the back counter, where there was what looked like a large three-sided box, painted a neutral gray. No top or front. He pointed out a measuring tape on the floor of the box and the other one along the back. The camera was set into a small tripod. After turning down the music, he switched on a light clamped to a shelf above the box, illuminating the interior.
"First, we confirm we can see both sets of measurements, for scale. Then verify any identifying characteristics are visible." He positioned the mug in the center of the box, turning it so the pattern faced the front.
"I usually use my camera's flash and a ruler," she said. "This looks impressive."
"Nothing like a defense lawyer trying to prove your picture merely bears a resemblance to a piece of evidence. The more we can pin down the details, the more likely it will stand up in court. Normally, we'd have an entire series of photos, starting with evidence the way we find it and then every time we move something, we photograph it again. If this was evidence, it would have arrived in a sealed bag. We'd have shot the bag, then opening the bag, the mug inside the bag, then next to the bag and then in the box and so on."
"Sounds tedious," Sarah said. "I snap one or two shots and that's it."
"Insurance adjusters aren't as picky as defense attorneys."
"I don't know. They hate paying claims." She watched as he set the camera in front of the box, peered into the viewfinder and snapped the shutter. He checked the image, nodded and switched mugs.
"That was painless," he said. "How do you want the images?"
"If you can do a printout now, that would be fantastic. Otherwise, email is fine."
"It's no big deal. I owe Randy a few favors. This is nothing."
He unscrewed the camera from the tripod, connected the cables to the computer and clicked some keys. In no time, she heard a printer whirr. Mike went to a back room and returned with two sheets of paper. "Here you go. Anything else?"
She'd debated that one all the way over and she still hadn't decided. "I guess not. May I take the mugs?"
"Fine by me. It's not like we have to maintain the chain of custody on these."
Yet. Randy had explained enough about that one. How evidence had to be sealed and signed for every step of the way. She glanced around the lab with bags and envelopes, all sealed with red tape. What if these mugs turned out to be related to the robbery? Wouldn't it be better to look foolish now if they weren't than to create legal problems down the road?
"I'll be right back," she said. "Keep an eye on them, okay?"
He grinned. "Part of my job."
She left the lab and went straight to the office Randy shared with Kovak. The door was closed. She took a deep breath and knocked.
"Come." Kovak's voice sounded from inside. She opened the door. Kovak paced behind his desk, anchored by the cord of the phone. "We'll talk tonight. I'll be home for dinner." A pause. "Right. Soccer practice. Okay, should I grab a pizza?" Another pause. He flashed her a tense smile and tilted his head toward the chair. "Spaghetti's fine. I'll pick up Morgan and we'll see you at six-thirty." He hung up the phone and ran his palm over his close-cropped hair. "Sorry to make you wait."
"I'm the one who's imposing. Sorry to interrupt."
He sank into his chair. Dark circles under his eyes. Tension creases in his brow. "What can I do for you?"
She automatically reached for her purse strap, then realized she'd left it in the lab. Forcing her hands to be still, she met Kovak's curious gaze. "Did you talk to Randy today?" she asked.
"No, not yet. I've been trying to track down possible witnesses to your burglary. He's got his hands full with the murder case."
She nodded. "I know. Have you found anything?"
"Nothing that's panned out yet. Any of these look familiar?"
He flipped a stack of grainy, distorted photos across the desk. Each had a number on the back. "What are these?" she asked as she browsed through them.
"Pictures from the ATM at the bank near your shop. People we haven't identified. I'm going to take them to all the other merchants in the vicinity and see if anyone recognizes them. If they remember anything that can help."
She brightened. "That's good, right?" She studied his weary expression. "You don't look like this is a good thing."
He gave a short laugh. "People see what they want to see. I predict half the merchants will swear that someone in this stack was acting suspicious and was up to no good. Trouble is, no two people will pick out the same picture."
She studied the pictures again and pulled three out. "These were in my shop on Saturday."
He smiled. "Thank you."
"But I can't tell you who they were,
not unless I know what they bought."
"Ah, but I can get the ATM records." He jotted something in his notebook. "I'll be in touch." He seemed energized now. What was Randy always saying? Ninety-five percent of police work was eliminating useless data. No wonder Kovak looked happy to have found something that might be in the remaining five percent.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Of course. I'm sorry. You didn't come in here to look at these pictures. I hadn't called you about them yet. What was it you wanted?"
She blurted out the story about discovering the coffee mugs, the repair job and Randy's insisting they be photographed properly, everything they'd done. Well, except for the sex part. "I was going to check the mugs, but I realized it might be better to do it with someone official watching. For that chain of custody thing."
She watched his face, trying to see if he thought she was being silly. He seemed earnest. "Okay," he said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Watch, mostly. If you think we need all those evidence pictures Mike Connor was telling me about, then he can take them. But right now, I'm totally curious about the repair job."
"Let's do it." He pushed away from the desk and was holding the door for her almost before she could stand.
Mike looked up from a microscope and scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Need something?"
She stared at Kovak, waiting for him to answer. She'd taken the step to push this into police business and it was up to him now.
"Grab a video camera, would you?" Kovak said to Mike. He turned his attention to her. "What do you want to do?"
She picked up a mug and pointed to the seam where the squat pedestal joined the mug. "This is the glue joint."
"It's not where they glued the base to the cup?"
She shook her head. "That's not how you make a piece like this and definitely not a Garrigue piece."
"You think it's a forgery?"
"No." She ran her fingers down the glazed surface of the mug. "I could tell. His glazes, his patterns are distinctive. Nobody else knows his formula."
