Chapter 39

HARRISON WAS ALIVE, for which I thanked God.

He’d been taken to the trauma center at Bellevue.

The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, beyond the tranquil beauty of Central Park. One by one, electric lights were going off as nature’s light took their place. I was watching this phenomenon with Matt. We were strolling through this oasis in Manhattan to clear our heads, since the park is at its most enchanting at dawn, when the leaves and the grass all look fresh and clean, when there are no other human beings around.

I had given my statement, telling most of the story, but leaving out two details.

I didn’t tell Matt that Teresa was there with Harrison when he killed Damon. I didn’t want Jeremy to be left without a mother. A perfect person would have turned Teresa in, too, but I’m not a perfect person. In effect, I allowed her to get away with murder. Let God punish her for what she did, I thought. Maybe God will punish me, too, but Jeremy deserves a chance to be better than his parents. I had to give him that chance.

The other detail I left out was that Jeremy was really Harrison’s son. That was Teresa’s secret to keep or tell; it was not mine.

It was early enough so we could hear birds chirping as they began the activities of their day. We spotted a pair of gray and white mockingbirds on the branch of a tree, having a loud dispute. We stopped to watch them.

“Two guys arguing over a female,” Matt said.

“Male and female,” I countered, with my own theory of the scene on the branch. “A couple in love, having their first fight.”

He smiled at me. “You’re an incurable romantic.”

“Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

“I like it on you,” he said. “It’s clean and nice. I don’t see a lot of that.”

We were strolling again. My head was clear, and my emotions were mostly under control. I asked Matt how it happened that he and G.G. came to my office.

“Penny,” he told me. “I got home about one in the morning, and she hadn’t been able to sleep, so we met in the kitchen. I was fixing us a pair of my special grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches—I’ll make one for you sometime. Anyway, while I was smearing butter on the grill, she was telling me about the movies you saw, and how Harrison Landers had written one of them. Then she said something about Another World—she wondered if Landers was the writer who came up with one of her favorite old stories, about a man who only pretended to be paralyzed. It was as if a firecracker exploded in my head. I called G.G. and told him we had to go see Landers immediately. We found he wasn’t home, but his wheelchair was. I called you, but you didn’t answer. Frank, at reception, let us into your apartment and you weren’t there. He told us you had a little office on the sixth floor. I didn’t know that—I thought you wrote in your apartment. Anyway, that’s how we found you.”

“Just in time,” I said.

“You did fine all by yourself.”

I was barely listening, because a fragment of memory was nagging at me. I forced my mind to replay the confrontation with Harrison, and the fragment expanded into a picture. With my free hand I reached into the pocket of my jacket and my fingers closed around the little ballpoint pen I’d thrown. I couldn’t remember when I’d picked it up, or why, but now I took it out and stared at it.

“Bic,” I said. “That’s it.”

Matt stopped walking. He looked at me quizzically, but there was a glitter in his eyes. “That’s what?” he asked.

“Your grandfather,” I said. “Was his invention the ballpoint pen? Was he Mr. Bic?”

Matt stared at me with respect. “Granddad perfected the ballpoint pen. It was invented so Air Force pilots could write at high altitudes. Later, the Bic Company bought out the various patents.”

“I win,” I said.

“I’m impressed. Nobody ever guessed right before.”

“Just how many women have tried?” There was an edge in my voice.

Matt took my arms and eased me around to face him. He looked down at me, and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. A deep kiss, a kiss that felt as though hot liquid was shooting all through my body.

It was a kiss that seemed to last forever, and not long enough.

When we gently disengaged, Oliver Twist’s famous line sprang into my head, “Please, sir, I want some more.”

I felt it, but I didn’t say it.

“I’d like to keep kissing you,” Matt said, “but we can’t do this.” He dropped his hands and stepped back a few inches. “A couple of hours ago you were almost killed. You’ve had a traumatic shock and you’re vulnerable. I can’t take advantage of that.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but heard Matt’s voice again. “Think about it—when one of your characters goes through something big, you don’t let her behave as though nothing’s happened.”

Matt Phoenix had just confessed to a secret vice. I gave him a “gotcha” smile. “You watch Love of My Life!”

“Penny tapes it every day, and leaves it in the machine.” He was trying to sound casual. “Sometimes I turn it on accidentally.”

“You’re busted!” I said. “The big, strong homicide detective is embarrassed to admit to watching my—”

“Someday,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm, “when I kiss you again—”

“If I let you kiss me again!” I felt prickly and suddenly confrontational.

“When I kiss you again,” he said softly, “I want to know that it’s me you need, and not just someone to comfort you.” He squared his shoulders, all business once more. “I’ve got to get back to the squad. Do you feel like coming with me to sign your statement?”

“I’ll be there later, after you’ve gone home. Leave the statement with anybody.”

“You’re not mad at me, you’re really mad at Landers, but you can’t vent to him, so you’re striking out at the nearest target. It’s okay—I understand. I’ll call you in a week or two,” he said.

“I won’t be home.”

“I’m a detective, I’ll find you,” he said as he turned and strode back toward the place where he had parked his car.