by Linda Howard
He chuckled, the sound so warm her stomach began to melt. "Yes, ma'am. You were so tired yesterday, I thought you might sleep late, so I waited to call. I need to turn over your father's effects to you, if you feel like doing it today. If not, it can wait."
It could wait until tomorrow, he meant, but she had scheduled the funeral for tomorrow, and she didn't think she could handle both ordeals in the same day. "No, I'll come down there as soon as I've eaten."
"If I have to leave on a call, I'll let you know, save you the walk down here."
"Okay," she agreed. After breaking the connection, she called room service and placed her order, pushing away the dread that settled in the pit of her stomach like cold oatmeal. Dexter's effects would be shabby clothing and worn shoes, perhaps with holes in them. She hated to think of him without adequate clothing, without a safe place to sleep or shelter from the weather. She had always imagined him living a carefree, rootless life without his wife and daughter; she had never imagined him in need of the most basic requirements of life.
It hurt. He could have lived a normal life with his family, but he had rejected them in favor of… nothing .
No home, no job, sleeping in cardboard boxes, getting his meals in missions and soup kitchens or what he could dig out of a garbage can. Had he stolen a shopping cart from a supermarket and trundled his worldly goods around in it? He had turned his back on them for that ?
How could a man do that? Didn't he feel any connection, any responsibility, to his family? How could he have hurt her mother that way and still feel free to show up or call her whenever he got the urge? What was it about him that Jeanette had loved until her last breath?
"Oh, Mom," Karen whispered, aching for her mother, whose pain had been the greatest. She, at least, had never known her father that well, and so she hadn't suffered so much on her own account but rather in sympathy for her mother. She was grateful Jeanette hadn't had to see that videotape and wouldn't have to claim a pitifully small pile of possessions.
She had just dressed, as comfortably as possible, in a sleeveless peach sheath and sandals, when room service arrived with her breakfast. Her appetite had faded, but she forced herself to eat. The coffee was scalding hot and impossibly strong; after one sip, she pushed it aside and drank the glass of ice water instead. Perhaps if she cooled her insides, the heat wouldn't seem so oppressive. At least Dexter hadn't been cold. At least he hadn't died somewhere in the dead of winter, with snow on the ground and holes in his shoes, newspapers stuffed inside his shirt for warmth. Her stomach heaved, and Karen pushed the thought away, along with the tray. Swiftly, she brushed her teeth, put on lipstick, and secured the room key in the zippered section of her shoulder bag. "Ready as I'm going to be," she whispered, and left the room.
The morning was hot but fresh. New Orleans was a city of food, and a multitude of scents filled the air: pastries baking, spices simmering, chicory-flavored coffee brewing. The aroma was especially strong when she walked past Brennan's, renowned for its exotic breakfasts. Everything was so different from what she was accustomed to in Columbus that she could have been in another country. Even the people looked more exotic, more dramatic in both coloring and dress, almost gypsyish. She heard a multitude of accents and languages around her as she briskly walked past strolling tourists and lingering shoppers. She saw sequined Mardi Gras masks in shop windows and glittering harlequin faces draped with strands of colorful beads. An enormous leopard, carved from a single piece of wood, watched from one shop window as she passed.
The ambience of New Orleans sucked at her, trying to slow her steps to the accustomed pace. Sweat beaded between her breasts, trickled downward, telling her how silly she was to hurry. Everything would wait, would still be there if she stopped to look in a shop window. She resisted the urge. She could see the Eighth District ahead on the right, the mellow, gracious building drawing her with its promise of coolness. She knew there were the ordinary municipal buildings in the city, she had seen some of them yesterday when Detective Chastain had taken her to the morgue, but the Eighth District building was like New Orleans itself: seductive, stylishly old and gracious, lazily sinful. What had those old walls seen? What scandals and murders had been unraveled under that roof, what torrid love affairs had been conducted there? One didn't normally associate a police department with love affairs, but this was New Orleans, this was the Quarter, and anything was possible.
A different police officer sat at the desk in the huge front room, where the ceiling fans ceaselessly paddled in circles in the thick air. Karen gave her name and was allowed to proceed past the desk. She wound her way through the warren, the old floor creaking under her feet.
Detective Chastain was on the phone when she reached the tiny, cluttered office. He looked up when he saw her standing in the doorway and motioned her inside.
Her heartbeat jumped, then settled into a rapid tattoo. Karen sank onto the straight-backed chair, clutching her shoulder bag on her lap. There was a sack on his desk, an ordinary brown grocery sack, and she tried not to look at it. Instead, she looked at him, desperately focusing on details such as the contrast of his gold wristwatch against his tanned wrist, the short dark hairs on his forearms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves. He was wearing a plain white collarless shirt and black slacks, a simple, stark outfit that made him look more like a choreographer than a cop, except for the holstered pistol he wore on his belt at his right hip.
She consciously tried not to listen to his conversation, but she was nevertheless aware of his growing impatience. He began scowling, his dark brows pulling together. He glanced at her, then abruptly switched languages, unleashing a barrage in Creole French that she was glad she didn't understand, because the tone of curses was unmistakable no matter what language he used. Finally, he growled something and slammed down the phone. Gray eyes narrowed to slits, and he swiveled his chair to face her fully. "I hope you don't speak French."
"I don't," she assured him.
"I know all the cuss words. Most of the time, that's enough." He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, the abrupt gesture revealing his irritation. He took a deep breath and let it go. "Do you want a cup of coffee or a Coke?"
"No, thank you." She essayed a smile. "I just ate, so I'm not in danger of collapsing at your feet. You don't have to pour sodas down me today."
"Our motto is 'Serve and protect,' so it was in my job description." The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile that almost reached his mouth, then faded as he gestured toward the brown grocery sack. "I wouldn't normally handle this, but something you said yesterday made me think… well, this might hit you harder than you anticipate."
The dread she had felt earlier passed from the consistency of cold oatmeal to that of set concrete. Her hands clenched on her purse. "In what way?" She kept her voice calm, but the stiff upper lip she was maintaining took more and more effort.
He was silent a moment, then he left his chair and came around to sit on the edge of his desk, the way he had the day before. "You were very close to your mother, weren't you?" The question took her off balance. "Yes, of course. When my father left us, she was… devastated. He had left the military, so she didn't get a monthly check anymore. She had me to take care of, and she didn't have any job skills, so she took any job she could get: cleaning houses, taking in ironing, waiting tables."
"Those don't pay much," he commented. His gaze never left her face.
"No. She worked two or three jobs, until I was old enough to get a job and help. The day I was hired at the hospital, she quit work. She had worked herself into the ground all those years, so it was my time to take care of her."
He regarded her silently for a moment, his expression enigmatic. "Not many people would feel that way," he finally said.
"Then something's wrong with them." Karen flared. She would have done anything she could to make her mother's life easier.
He held up his hand in a calming gesture. "I agree, I agree."
"Why are you asking? Wha
t does my mother have to do with you turning over my father's effects?" He hesitated. "He kept something that was important to him. He could have hocked it, but instead it was sewn into the hem of his pants leg."
Puzzled, she stared up at him, trying to think what on earth could have been important to her father, certainly his wife or daughter hadn't been.
Detective Chastain reached behind him and took a small brown envelope out of the sack containing her father's clothes. He opened it and poured the contents into his hand. "It meant something to him," he said quietly, squatting down in front of her and opening his hand, palm up so she could see what he held. Karen stared at the gold ring lying on the detective's callused palm. For a moment, she didn't recognize it for what it was, then she went numb all over. Her mind somehow separated from her body as if reality had abruptly altered. His wedding ring. He had kept his wedding ring. The simple presence of that plain gold band challenged everything she had thought she knew about her father. "That isn't fair," she whispered, and she didn't mean the detective's perception but instead her father's unexpected sentimentality. She didn't want to know this about him; she didn't want to think that perhaps he had regrets, and pain, and broken dreams. It was easier just to think of him as unfeeling. But nothing was ever easy. Not death, and certainly not life.
Chastain didn't say anything, just continued squatting there with the ring lying on his palm like an offering. What would have happened if she had been on her own? Surely there was a list of items, and she would have signed a receipt stating that she had received everything on the list, but she wouldn't have known her father had kept the ring sewn into the hem of his pants to keep it safe. The busy medical examiner wouldn't have done this personally, a clerk would have handled the chore, and she would never have known. Detective Chastain had gone out of his way to do this, as he had gone out of his way the day before to help her.
She saw herself reach out, the movement involuntary, as if her hand didn't belong to her. Her fingers were trembling. Slowly, she touched the ring, tracing the circle with one fingertip, then withdrew her hand to rest it once again in her lap.
Detective Chastain took her hand in his, his touch gentle as he opened her hand and placed the ring on her palm, then folded her fingers over it. The ring was warm, his hand even warmer. "He cared," he said.
"I don't know why he left, but he didn't stop caring."
She couldn't look up at him. Instead, she stared at their hands, his hard and strong, tanned, much bigger than hers. His clasp was light, as if he were aware of his strength, as many men were not, and took care not to hurt her inadvertently.
Desperately, she struggled to hang on to her control, but his nearness and understanding undermined her. And he seemed to understand that, too, because he released her hand and stood, returning to his seat behind the battered desk.
"Thank you," she said, almost inaudibly. His distance was a relief, yet she found herself yearning for his support.
"You're welcome," he said, and left it at that.
"The rest of his things… are just clothes?"
"Yes. There's a list."
"At least I'll know what size suit to buy for him," she said, though she cringed at the idea of going through the shabby garments looking for tags. It was too much, too soon.
Detective Chastain paused a moment, watching her, then said quietly, "Forty-four long." She swallowed and nodded, looking down at her hands. She had to ask him something, just to be certain, and though the answer would be difficult for a cop, she somehow knew he would be honest with her. "Detective…"
"What?" he asked gently after a moment, when she didn't continue. She raised her eyes to him, squarely meeting his gaze. "Are—are you still working on the case?" He paused, then said, "No."
Karen flinched, though it was exactly what she had expected. He squatted down in front of her again and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. The slight roughness of his callused skin scraped her, a warmly masculine sensation.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"I understand," she said, though with difficulty. "You have to put your effort where it will do the most good. It's the same in an emergency department."
"Reality's a bitch."
His tough sympathy, his honesty, meant more to her than if he had mouthed all the right platitudes, if he had tried to soothe her with well-meant lies. She squeezed his hand, then straightened her shoulders. "I have a lot to do today, so I'll get out of your way." He moved back, giving her room to stand. "Thank you," she said as she left.
Marc sighed as Karen left his office, her face colorless but calm. His chest felt tight. Damn it, her father had been murdered, and he couldn't do anything about it. As soon as he had gotten an ID on the body, the word had come down to move on to a more productive case. There wasn't any percentage in trying to solve a homeless murder, not that he had jack shit to go on anyway. It was just so damn frustrating. God, he had wanted to hold her, just pick her up and hold her on his lap and let her know she didn't
have to do this alone. But he hadn't, both because it was too soon and because to do so would have shattered her hard-won calm.
She had probably been acting calm and responsible since she was a child, forcing herself to become a little adult when she should have been carefree, playing with dolls and skipping rope. He saw it all the time: when there was only one parent left, and the child saw that parent struggling, the child would in effect become the parent, taking on responsibilities far beyond the child's age. She had probably taken over the housekeeping chores, made sure her tired mother had food waiting for her when she got home from work, done everything she could to lighten the load.
Karen had even gone into nursing, taking on even more responsibility. It was telling that she had then become her mother's sole support, completing the role reversal. She had probably called her mother by her given name rather than "Mom," at least part of the time, for the little girl had become the mother, and the mother had become the dependent. It was obvious she had adored her mother and so had been that much more protective.
She had spent her life taking care of others, and now he wanted to take care of her, wanted it with a fierceness that shook him. He was normally protective of women, but he had never before felt like this. Something inside him had altered, shifted, and he couldn't regret the change. Did she have any idea how valiant she was? Her dry comment the day before about women being shallow for having trouble committing to a cop because of the danger factor had been amusing, but she had meant it. Karen Whitlaw wouldn't walk away from a commitment because she was scared; she would be there, through the bad times as well as the good.
Whenever he had been in a relationship, Marc had kept his work out of it. Being called away on a case was unavoidable, but he hadn't brought the details home. He had always shielded his lady friends from the ugliness he saw, partly because of his own protective nature but also because he had never thought they would understand or be able to accept the part of his nature that made it possible for him to deal with the things he did. Perhaps he had underestimated the ladies in his life, but he had seen a lot of relationships destroyed by the pressures of the job, and he hadn't wanted to take the chance. He knew Karen wouldn't flinch. She would brace her shoulders and lift her chin, as he had seen her do several times when the pain and stress would almost overwhelm her. Most people would have broken down under the emotional burden she was carrying, but she had faced the situation squarely and controlled her tears until she was alone.
He knew she had cried; her eyelids were swollen. She had cried, and he hadn't been there to hold her. He would be, he thought fiercely. From now on, he would be.
Chapter 9
«^»
The day was overcast, with rain threatening any minute, and so muggy Karen felt as if she would melt. Sweat gathered in a pool between her breasts, trickled down her sides. Her dress was thin and short-sleeved but still black; she could feel the fabric absorbing the heat. She concentrated on
her physical misery and on the distant sullen rumble of thunder. She thought about how lush the grass was,
listened to the birds singing, and let herself be annoyed because her heels kept sinking into the soft black dirt. She'd never before seen dirt so black, and she marveled at its richness. She looked at the massive trees, the flowers. This small country cemetery was prettier and more peaceful than the large, manicured "garden of rest" where Jeanette was buried. Perhaps she should move her mother down here, rather than have Dexter taken Her stomach clenched. She had tried so hard not to think about what was happening, but her wayward thoughts had led her to the funeral anyway. She didn't want to think about the man in the casket. Dexter Whitlaw. Her father. Whatever his failings, whatever devils had driven him, at this moment she admitted that her memories of him weren't all bad. There had been a few times when he sat on the floor and played dolls with her, folding his long legs as if he didn't even notice his cramped position, listening with apparent raptness as she spun elaborate stories about what the dolls were doing. Usually, they were sick, and she was taking care of them, an early manifestation of her nursing tendencies. And a couple of times, Dexter had taken her with him on walks in the woods and showed her how to hide in a bush and sit very still so that even the squirrels and the birds forgot they were there. Did those few bright moments outweigh a lifetime of darkness? Was she supposed to remember only them and forget the nights when her mother sobbed into her pillow, longing for a man who wasn't there?
What a waste of life, both Jeanette's and Dexter's. Regret swelled in her chest, suffocating her, or maybe it was just this damnable humidity making it impossible for her to breathe. It couldn't be regret; why should she cry for a man who had never given her a second thought, who bothered to call or visit only when he needed something? And yet he had kept his wedding ring, sewed it into his cuff to keep it safe. It had been important to him, as Detective Chastain had pointed out. Whether it was the life the ring represented, the normal life he had walked away from, or the people in that life, she couldn't begin to imagine.
