Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  London parked across the street from Reid’s house, cut the engine, and gave the house a cursory look. “That’s your house?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  Reid nodded. “Why’s that surprising?”

  “Based on the appearance of your coffee mug and dog, I expected something a little more”—London shrugged—“dilapidated.” She threw a glance over her shoulder at Mug. “No offense there, buddy.”

  Reid had put a lot of work into her house over the years. With an eye for detail and unreasonable expectations of perfection that, fortunately, didn’t stray into other areas of her life, she’d single-handedly renovated both the interior and exterior of the house. The pristine but modest-looking Cape with forest-green siding and white trim sat on an acre of land. The front porch spanned the width of the house, its dark mahogany floor perfectly complementing the entry door. Three small dormers protruded from a charcoal-gray roof, each of them leading to quaint rooms on the second floor—her bedroom, an office, and an exercise room with just enough space to fit the basic equipment she needed to stay fit. Two large twelve-paned windows flooded the main floor with natural light. One belonged to the living room, the other to a formal dining room that she never used. A redbrick chimney climbed along the right side of the house, and a one-car garage was attached to the left.

  Having completed the renovations on her own, she felt a kinship with this house that she couldn’t imagine sharing with any other dwelling. She loved this house and had every intention of living out the rest of her life here.

  London glanced in the driveway. “The new Wonder Class C RV, by Leisure Travel?” She locked eyes on Reid. “Is that yours?”

  “Whose else would it be?” she answered, hopping down from the truck.

  London climbed out and joined her on the sidewalk as they waited for a car to pass. “A courteous human would answer with a simple yes, and then we’d proceed to talk about the fact that you like to—oh, I don’t know—go camping, hiking, kayaking, mountain biking—”

  “How’d you know I like to do those things?” She set her hands on her hips, suddenly suspicious.

  London pointed to the RV. “Dual kayak and bike rack, sticker from the White Mountains—the RV gave me my first clue, albeit subtle, about your affinity for camping.”

  They walked to Reid’s front porch with Mug in tow as London droned on, “Had you chosen the path of a courteous human, our conversation could’ve progressed to include the fact that I, too, enjoy those particular pastimes, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “You do?” Reid asked, stopping dead in her tracks, surprised as hell.

  London halted beside her. “Why’s that so hard to believe?”

  “You went to Harvard.”

  “And?”

  “You used the word etcetera,” Reid said. “Twice.”

  “It means and so on, and so forth.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I know what it means, London. But who actually uses it in everyday conversation?”

  “You addressed me by my first name.” London grinned, apparently pleased with herself. “I’m growing on you.”

  “If you mean like a giant pimple on the tip of my nose before an important public speaking engagement, then yes, you’re growing on me.” London was right. Reid hated to admit it, but she felt herself starting to warm up to the rookie. “Let’s get back to the case.” She jogged up her front porch steps and ducked underneath the crime-scene tape.

  * * *

  Reid paced the length of the porch as London joined her.

  “I already reviewed the crime-scene photos,” London said. “I’m up to speed.”

  “Good. What stands out to you here?” She was curious if the rookie was adept enough to pick up on the killer’s tell, a clue that provided a glimpse into his psyche. So far, no one else had noticed.

  London looked around. Her gaze lingered on the wooden table and four chairs. Marge’s body was gone, of course, carted away to be examined by the ME. The plate of cookies had also been removed, but the table and chairs remained.

  “How long have you lived here?” London asked.

  “Thirteen years.”

  “This set looks new.”

  Reid nodded but offered no assistance.

  London glanced back and forth between Reid, the RV, and the table and chairs. “You’re a loner. Not one for entertaining. This table has four chairs when it should have just one—maybe two if you have someone special in your life.” She paused. “Is there someone special in your life?”

  “You mean a partner?” Reid asked, amused by the rookie’s nosiness. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Not at the moment.” Who was she kidding? Not at the moment spanned her entire life to date. She wasn’t beyond the occasional hookup for sexual release, but she had never allowed anyone into her world on a permanent—or even semi-permanent—basis.

  Reid knew most people would probably see her refusal to enter into a relationship as a supersized flaw. But she saw it as a strength. It kept her head in the game so she could do her job and do it well.

  Seemingly satisfied with her answer, London went on, “You’d never waste your money on something you wouldn’t use. You also wouldn’t put a table on your front porch. Doing so would be opening the door for social engagement with your neighbors. But you never socialize with your neighbors.”

  Not if she could help it. Reid waited, careful to keep her poker face intact.

  “The killer transported this set here to stage the crime scene. Everything had to be perfect. Killing and staging the victim is akin to displaying his art.” London stepped slowly around the table. “He identifies with you as a loner. The table and chairs illustrate his own longing to be part of a group. He thinks that’s what you want, too. His motive for killing is to bring the two of you closer.” She looked up. “He’s trying to bond with you.”

  Reid nodded, impressed. London’s instincts were spot-on.

  “Nothing was mentioned in the forensics report about the killer bringing the table and chairs to your house.”

  Reid kept her gaze on London but said nothing.

  “You didn’t tell them the furniture doesn’t belong to you. Without this information, the FBI can’t profile the killer.”

  Reid leaned against the porch railing. “It’s my case.”

  “It’s our case,” London corrected her. “The FBI has precedence here. We’re bound by law to share everything we know with them.”

  Once again, Reid said nothing. She had to let London put the pieces together herself and, hopefully, come to the right decision.

  “You’ll be pulled off the case if they learn you’re the killer’s true target.” London frowned. “You brought me here to share this with me and ask me to keep quiet about it.”

  “I didn’t intend to share anything with you. Needed to see if you’d figure it out for yourself.”

  “This was a test?”

  “Sort of,” Reid answered honestly.

  “And?”

  “And your instincts are solid.” That was a gross understatement, but she couldn’t go throwing compliments around at a time like this—she would look insincere. No detective she knew, herself included, would’ve been able to piece the killer’s profile together so quickly.

  London leaned against the wooden railing, opposite the spot occupied by Reid. She shook her head. “I don’t know about this. We’re supposed to keep the FBI in the loop.”

  “Do you trust me?” It was a bold question, and it cut right to the core. They hadn’t known each other long, barely twenty-four hours. But it was enough time for the rookie to surprise her and impress her more than once. At that moment, she realized she was actually starting to trust London.

  Silently, they locked gazes from across the porch. Even from afar, Reid could feel their connection. Part of her wanted to abandon ship and look away. Another, deeper part dared her to hold on for as long as she could bear.

  Her gaze unwavering, London finally broke the silence. “Does anyone kn
ow?”

  “That I’m the reason he’s killing?” Reid shook her head. “As far as I know, we’re the only two with that informa—”

  “Does anyone know about your secret?” London clarified. “Other than the killer, is there anyone else who knows about it?”

  Reid thought long and hard before answering. She made a decision, then and there, that she would never lie to London again. “My old captain knew.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She started to shake her head before remembering her visit to Saint Mary’s. “The nun knows, too.”

  “You told Sister Margaret?” London asked, clearly offended.

  “She asked me about it, so I told her the truth. Can’t lie in church. To a nun.”

  London raised an eyebrow. “But lying to the rest of us mere mortals is okay?”

  Reid shrugged. She kept her gaze steady on London’s. “You have my word that I won’t lie to you.”

  “Anymore,” London added. “Because we both know you already have.”

  The rookie had a point. “No lying from this moment forward. And I’ll grant you partnership status for the duration of this investigation.” By making this larger-than-life offer, she realized she had just stepped out of her comfort zone.

  “Equals?”

  Reid nodded.

  London counted on her fingers. “Taking on a partner, no lying, and no cursing. That’s a tall order for someone who’s used to going it alone and doing things her own way.” She frowned. “Are you sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew?”

  The first two she could handle. It was the no cussing that could very well do her in. “I’m good,” she said with feigned confidence.

  London sighed and looked away, steeped in thought. Long seconds ticked by in silence. She finally stepped over to Reid and leaned against the porch railing beside her.

  “Does the killer identify with your secret?”

  Reid thought for a moment. “I’m not sure yet if he does or not.” She still couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was psychic. “I think he identifies more with the fact that I’m a loner because of my secret.”

  “Okay. But if that changes, and we discover that he does identify with your secret, then you’ll need to tell me what it is. I can’t be an effective partner if you’re withholding key information. Agreed?”

  Reid nodded, cringing at the thought of revealing her ability. She could only imagine how disappointed London would feel after learning the truth behind her success as a homicide detective. That was a bubble she didn’t want to burst.

  “Your word, Reid.”

  Goose bumps broke out on her arms and legs. It had been a very long time since anyone had addressed her by her first name. Too long, she decided. Hearing it from London’s lips was strangely appealing. “My word,” she said.

  “Whatever this secret is, it’s yours. I won’t pry, but I’m here if you want to talk about it. Can’t be all that bad if Sister Margaret invited you to Sunday mass.”

  “Us,” Reid said. “She invited us. There’s no way in”—she caught herself—“H-E double hockey sticks that I’m going by myself.”

  “Nice catch. Brunch after? Your treat.”

  “Deal.” Reid reached over, and they shook hands.

  “Guess we’re on a first-name basis now?”

  “I wasn’t planning on making it awkward by drawing attention to that fact, but…yeah, that seems to have happened.”

  “Great. Can I see the inside of your house now?”

  Reid stood, called Mug to her side, and jogged down the porch steps. “Nope.”

  Chapter Eleven

  London ran to catch up with Reid. “Why can’t I see the inside of your house?”

  “Because I said no.”

  “That explanation won’t do. I need more.” London paused. “Are you hiding dead bodies inside?”

  Shaking her head, Reid kept walking to the truck.

  “Do you have a hoarding problem?”

  “No.”

  “Do you own a hundred cats and your house is like a giant litter box?”

  “Gross. No.”

  “Is it saturated with dog feces because Mug isn’t housebroken?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you have cardboard furniture because you can’t afford real furniture?”

  Reid stared at her. “Who the he—” She caught herself again. “Heck has cardboard furniture?”

  “I read about this man in Iowa who couldn’t afford real furniture, so he constructed his own out of cardboard. It was quite beautiful. The only problem was, he couldn’t use it.”

  “Because it was made of cardboard?”

  “Exactly. But he really was quite an artist. A journalist discovered him, took photos, and featured his story in a local newspaper. This man’s collection of cardboard furniture is now on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.”

  Reid stopped and turned to face London. “My house is clean, organized, and furnished. I don’t have a hoarding problem or own any cats, and Mug was already housebroken when I got him.”

  “That leaves countless other possibilities. It’ll eat up a lot of our time going through each one. Time that would be better spent on this case, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Reid sighed. “Fine. If I tell you, will you drop it and move on?”

  London nodded.

  “No one—not a single human being, other than me—has set foot in my house since I bought it.”

  “Ever?”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the only private space I have that’s all mine. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “So you’re the opposite of an agoraphobe. Instead of being afraid to leave the house, you’re afraid to let anyone inside.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Reid argued. “My house is just…my personal space.”

  “It’s kind of symbolic, though. Don’t you think?” London buckled her seat belt and stared at Reid until she buckled hers.

  “You referring to the case?”

  “No. You. You’re afraid to let anyone inside.”

  “For the last time, London, I’m not afraid. And quit psychoanalyzing me. Let’s grab lunch, someplace quiet, and go over the case.”

  “Great. I’m starving.” London slid the key in the ignition and put the truck in Drive. “I know just the place.”

  * * *

  London was definitely making headway with Reid. She was sure she had put at least a few small cracks in her armor.

  She thought back to their conversation on the porch. Something had changed between them as London profiled the killer. Reid had challenged her, and she’d proven herself. A foundation of trust was starting to take shape. That trust worked both ways.

  Learning that Sister Margaret was aware of Reid’s secret came as a huge relief. Though still curious as to what the secret was, London was now able to put it on the back burner and focus on other more pressing aspects of the investigation.

  She glanced at Reid, sitting silently beside her. She’d made progress for sure, but there was still a long way to go to get Reid to open up and let her in. Maybe it was time to turn the tables, to focus less on getting Reid to share, and volunteer more about herself. Let Reid see who she was. Then Reid could decide just how much she was willing to reveal.

  * * *

  Reid stared at the dock overlooking the bay. “You live on a boat?” This rookie was just full of surprises.

  “It’s a houseboat,” London replied.

  “Like I said, you live on a boat.”

  “A 2006 Gibson 50 Classic. My grandfather gave this to me as my graduation gift.” London glanced at Reid and grinned proudly. “Come on. You have to admit, it’s pretty cool.”

  Reid conceded, “Maybe a little.”

  They climbed over a metal railing and onto the main deck of the boat. “That’s the upper deck,” London said as she gestured to the space above them. It was encl
osed in a clear plastic cover with white zippers running along the seams, presumably to keep the boat protected during the colder months. “We’re standing on the main deck,” she went on, “and my quarters are slightly below this.” London pointed to a small window near their feet.

  Reid suddenly found herself more than a little curious about London’s personal living space but refused to let on. “Nice. Can we get on with it?” She glanced over her shoulder at Mug. Frozen in place, he scrutinized the narrow gap of water between the dock and boat before gazing up at her uncertainly. “Come on.” She patted her thigh. “Hop on over and climb through the railing.”

  With one last glance at the water, he planted his furless butt on the dock.

  “Seriously?” Reid asked. “You’re embarrassing me here, Mug.”

  Not budging, he pierced her with his steady golden gaze.

  “If you expect me to come over there and haul your furless a—” She caught herself and threw a glance at London.

  “See?” London winked at Mug. “Old dogs can learn new tricks.” She held up a finger. “Be right back.”

  Reid turned to Mug. “Did she just call me an old dog?”

  Mug chuffed from his place on the dock.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  London returned with a two-by-four. She set it on the deck and slid it across the gap to the dock. “There,” she said, standing. “Better?”

  Mug rose on all fours, pranced across the wooden bridge, and ducked underneath the metal railing to join them on the deck. He gave London’s hand a lick before resuming his post at Reid’s side.

  They followed London to the side of the boat where she unlocked a door and slid it aside. She extended her arm across the doorway to bar Reid’s entrance and gestured to Mug. “Gentlemen first,” she said with a scowl meant only for Reid.

  Okay. Point taken. Maybe stuffing London in the back seat so Mug could ride in the front was a shitty thing to do. She waited for Mug to enter and then stepped inside to have a look around.

  A charcoal-gray L-shaped sofa faced a sixty-inch TV. Plush white throw blankets and navy-blue pillows with tiny white sailboats decorated the sofa. Pinewood walls accentuated dark mahogany floors. Large curved windows surrounded them on all four sides. To the right, at the helm of the boat, lay the ship’s wheel and console. A short flight of stairs to the left presumably led to the bedroom the rookie had mentioned. The living space was organized and meticulously kept. No knickknacks. Everything in plain view had a purpose. Although compact, there was ample space for someone to live there comfortably—enough space even for two.