7

I walked into my apartment with two overflowing bags of groceries in hand. Walter met me at the door as he always did, having heard keys in the lock. I set down the bags and scooped him up. In his little mind, nothing was more important than making sure he got the proper level of attention after I had the audacity to leave him for a few hours. I’d been trained well enough at this point to comply, or I’d risk his wrath at 3:00 a.m. The littleneck clams in my bag would have to wait another thirty seconds to get into the fridge. It was a small price to pay for a decent night’s sleep.

His affection tank filled for the moment, I set Walter on the floor and picked up the bags, and we proceeded into the kitchen. Next priority, smelly fish mush. With Walter happily lapping up his dinner, I pulled the clams out of the bag and put them in the fridge, along with arugula, endive, and radicchio. I had gathered all the makings for a tricolore salad and pasta vongole. Michael would be here in about thirty minutes, so I had enough time to change before I started the dinner prep.

My condo was a grand old prewar just down the block from the Hancock Building. I’d fallen in love with the large unit at a point when I still believed I was happily married. Unfortunately, I learned shortly after the purchase that my husband was married to the idea of marriage, just not the monogamy part, and I’d fought to keep the co-op during the divorce proceedings. Despite the fact it was four times larger than a single person needed, it was a source of great joy, along with a select number of very painful memories.

Reflexively my eyes were drawn immediately to the spot on the terrace where not even a year and half ago, my life nearly ended, and my estranged husband’s had. I had expected the memory of that night to color my view of the home. After all, I could pinpoint the exact spot where Eric had died, but somehow, instead, I had found myself drawing strength from that knowledge. Eric’s corrupt business partner had tried to end my life, but instead he was the one in jail, and I had put him there. I had survived the crisis in my marriage, the trauma of nearly losing my life, a second attack by a deranged woman just months ago, and had come out of those experiences stronger, more appreciative, and more determined to live life on my terms.

Pots of vibrant flowers now filled the spot where Eric’s blood had been shed. I looked around at the home I was making, admiring the classic beauty of the herringbone floors, the grand proportions, and the marble mantel of the fireplace. This was home, my home. And Walter was the only one I answered to in this space. Perhaps that was what frightened me about Michael’s suggestion that we live together. As I had been doing for several months now, I again set aside those thoughts, unwilling to analyze what I truly felt for Michael and why. Right now the only thing that I wanted to focus on was that I was content with the status quo. He would have to live with that, or…or what? Was I really willing to issue an ultimatum?

We weren’t there yet. I shook it off and walked down the hall to the master bedroom, changing into a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater. A shower would have been nice, but looking at the clock, I saw there wasn’t time. Walter reappeared, happy and satisfied with his dinner, while I ran a brush through my hair and freshened my lipstick.

“Walter, let’s go chop some garlic.” He yawned and licked his paw, then followed me back to the kitchen. It would take at least a couple hours of surveillance before he’d be satisfied that I was staying put before he settled in and let me out of his sight.

Clearing my mind of everything other than food prep, I crushed garlic and chopped parsley, organizing them in small bowls, then pulled out the greens and began the process of washing and cutting. Salads done, I put the bowls in the fridge, filled a large pot with water, and set it on the stove, then opened a bottle of Duckhorn Sauvignon Blanc. I poured myself a glass and left the bottle on the counter. Michael alternated in his drink of choice far more than I did, so I pulled out the scotch as well in case he was in the mood.

I was opening the three sets of French doors to the terrace when the bell rang.

“It’s open,” I shouted, not that he needed to wait for my response at this point in our relationship.

His smile was warm and broad as he put his arms around me and pulled me to his chest, kissing me as if we’d been apart for weeks.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he said. “I take that back. I’ve wanted to do that since last night.”

I nuzzled into his neck and buried myself deeper in his arms, letting the size of him, the warmth of his body, the security of his embrace say everything for the moment.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, pulling away, aware that my answer was mostly accurate. “It’s not the first dead body I’ve had a personal experience with, but I’d say this is the first one who’s been dead so long.”

As a former prosecutor, dealing with the ravages of death had been part of the job, but my exposure had been through photos and crime scene video. Now, as a journalist, I’d become far more intimate—my estranged husband had been shot before my eyes, a source had died in my arms, and most recently a delusional killer had made me a target—it was a distinction that I took no pleasure in. However, well-decayed bodies were another thing all together, and I shivered at the memory.

Michael looked at me as if he didn’t believe me. He knew firsthand how the dead could haunt. I smiled and squeezed hand. “Why don’t you get a drink, and then we can sit outside.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be right out,” he said.

As Michael walked into the kitchen, I grabbed my glass and went to the terrace. The air was clear and warm for an early May evening. I settled onto one of the chaise lounges, Walter at my feet, and leaned back, appreciating the light breeze and the setting sun, which was giving the Hancock Building a gorgeous pink glow.

Michael returned, having decided on scotch, and sat on the chaise next to me while Walter gave him the evil eye. He still hadn’t warmed up to the idea of “strangers” in the house. We raised our glasses in a silent toast, not saying anything more for a moment, simply enjoying the beauty of the evening.

However, dozens of questions were now running through my head, starting with the cryptic lead I had gotten from the employee at the soundproofing company. But my thoughts wouldn’t stay focused, and I bounced over to wondering who the dead woman was and why she might have been missing and left undiscovered for so long. Had neighbors been aware of her presence? The smell of death surely had to arouse someone’s attention.

“I was surprised to see Janek today,” I said cautiously, watching Michael’s face for reaction. “I didn’t think you guys investigated routine overdoses.”

“Well, we don’t really know it was an overdose,” Michael said noncommittally. “That’s certainly one possibility, but it’s better to gather the facts while they’re fresh and let the ME tell us if we’ve got something else here.”

“What makes you think there might be foul play?”

“I didn’t say that.” Michael raised his eyebrows in one of those you’re-pushing-me-Andrea responses and swirled the ice in his glass before taking a sip of the amber liquid. “What I said is that until we determine cause of death, we’re keeping all of our options open.”

“Does Janek have some particular interest in this case? He seemed tight, for lack of a better word.”

This time Michael squirmed. It was as if I could see the gears in his mind willing me not to go there. Too late for that. I’d hit a nerve.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. You know Janek, he’s always a little uptight.”

I stopped mid-drink, put my glass on the coffee table, swung my feet over to the ground, and looked at Michael.

“You’re lying to me,” I said. “I can see it in your face. I can hear it in your voice. What the hell is all that about?” I couldn’t decide if I was reacting as the annoyed girlfriend who didn’t appreciate being lied to or intrigued because my reporter antenna was picking up a signal.

“No, I’m not lying. I’m just trying not to jump to any conclusions until I have more facts. There are some things about this case that are a little familiar, put it that way. I don’t want to jump ahead of my skis.”

“Michael, come on. What was familiar? The circumstances? The setting? The victim?”

I stared at him. My eyes locked on him, watching his body language and not liking what I saw. If he had been a defendant in one of my cases, I would have been pushing a full-court press for answers.

“Andrea, cool it. This is just part of the deal we have. You know I can’t talk about every case and you can’t talk about every story. Don’t turn it into something more than it is.” He picked up his scotch, and took more than a sip, in what I viewed as a manufactured attempt to look casual.

“Okay, I’ll leave it alone, for now. That part, anyway.” I took a drink from my own glass before hitting him up with something less sensitive. But I wasn’t done. “What did you make of the smudge stick? And those rocks or crystals or whatever they were?”

“Nothing really. It’s basically incense, right? Maybe she was trying to cover up the smell of whatever she was using?” He shrugged.

“But if she was there to get high, why didn’t we find drug paraphernalia? Did you see track marks on her arms? Any signs she’d been shooting up? Smoking something? Popping pills, any bottles, baggies?”

Michael was quiet, squirming again in his chair.

“I certainly didn’t,” I said, since Michael wanted to pull the silent act on me. “And so far, that’s the biggest hole in your friend Bernstein’s theory. Smudge sticks aren’t incense. They’re used to clean out bad energy. What bad energy was she trying to get rid of? And how does one overdose without leaving any telltales signs of drug use? Unless she wasn’t alone.”