Owen Rizzo took a last, lingering look at the blond woman on the coroner’s slab before replacing the sheet tenderly over her. He’d met her once before. Six months before, to be exact, when he came up to Belle River from New York to interview for the chief of police job. He remembered that evening vividly. He remembered her. After he took the job and moved to town, he’d tried to find her. But it turned out the name she gave him was a fake, and once he figured that out, he stopped looking. Now, finally, here she was. It made him so sad that he needed a minute to compose himself before he could face talking to the ME.
At the moment they met, Owen remembered, he’d just come off that entire day of interviews. He’d passed with flying colors, and he knew it. Owen interviewed well, and he had a résumé that blew away anything they’d seen before in this Podunk town. The mayor hinted that she expected to be calling with an offer soon. He walked into Henry’s Bistro feeling wired and excited, despite the oppressively hot and sticky weather. He was scheduled to have dinner with the current police chief, a guy named Peter Dudley, Jr., who was retiring. Dudley, who’d shepherded him to his interviews all day, had a country-cop shtick that wore on Owen’s nerves, so he wasn’t disappointed to get a text saying Dudley had to cancel. A tornado warning had gone into effect, and Dudley needed to oversee the town response. Owen was happy to be left alone. He’d order a steak and a bottle of red wine on the town’s tab, and think over whether he could tolerate a job that seemed more geared toward handling weather emergencies than fighting crime.
He sat down at a booth in the bar area. The restaurant was completely deserted, which probably had something to do with the black, threatening sky outside the big plate-glass window. From where Owen sat, he would have a primo view of the town’s main street as the storm rolled in. He placed a drink order with the waitress. Pretty soon the thunder started, and within minutes, flashes of lightning lit the dark sky. A few fat drops spattered against the window, and then came the deluge. Water fell in sheets. Traffic lights swayed in the wind. Drivers pulled to the side of the street as tree branches and other debris blew past. Pedestrians ran for cover, and Owen felt guilty being warm and dry inside instead of out there battling the storm. But this wasn’t his town to police, not yet anyway.
He was still waiting for his wine to arrive when she ran up under the awning. With the rain blowing sideways, the awning couldn’t keep her dry, and a few seconds later she walked in the front door, shaking water from an inside-out umbrella. Her silk blouse had soaked through to show the outline of a black brassiere underneath. He’d been alone for two years now, since his wife died, and he couldn’t help but notice. It wasn’t just the glimpse of the bra. She was a beautiful woman.
“You need a paper towel?” he said, getting to his feet.
The waitress had not returned, and there was nobody behind the bar, so Owen walked over and grabbed the roll of paper towels that sat beside the beer tap.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, ripping off a long piece and patting her face and arms dry. “Do you work here?”
“No, just a customer.”
He went back to his booth. She sat down on a barstool near the door and tied her wet hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. Something in her hands, in the graceful way she moved, reminded him of Nicolette, though they looked nothing alike. He was just about to ask her name when a flash of gold on her ring finger caught his eye. So she was married. Even though he’d only known her for a moment, he was disappointed.
“Is anybody working here?” she asked. “I’d love a drink. Can you believe this weather?” Her voice was smoky and seductive.
“The waitress disappeared a while ago. They’re probably battening down the hatches in the kitchen,” he said.
Outside, a bolt of lightning lit the sky, followed by a deafening crack. The woman jumped. “That was close,” she said.
“There’s a tornado warning in effect. You should move away from the window,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re a weatherman?” she said, smiling, a challenge in her eyes.
“Nope. A cop.”
“Well, I’d better do what you say, then.”
He liked the sound of that. She got up and moved to another barstool right across from him. As rain lashed the street, a strange green light filtered in through the big window, and lightning flashed blue in the sky. The waitress came back with his wine. He’d ordered a bottle of malbec that she’d recommended, and she opened it and poured a splash for Owen to taste. He swirled the glass and sniffed it like he’d seen people do, conscious of the blond woman watching him from her barstool. She looked like the type who went to wine tastings. He didn’t want her to think he was a rube.
“Very nice,” he said.
The waitress filled his glass. Just then, the overhead lights began to flicker, and they all looked up at the ceiling. Thunder crashed outside and the lights in the bar went dark.
“Whoa,” the waitress said. “We don’t lose power too often around here. I’d better go see what’s going on in the kitchen.” She walked away hurriedly toward the back of the restaurant.
“So much for my drink,” the blond woman said.
In the half-light, he picked up his bottle of wine and gestured at the empty second glass on his table. “You can have some of mine if you like.”
“You don’t mind sharing?”
“Not at all. My associate stood me up because of the weather, and I can’t finish a whole bottle by myself. Well, I can, but I shouldn’t.”
“All right,” she said, and came over to the booth, sliding in across from him. “Thank you. I hate being alone in the dark anyway.”
It wasn’t really dark at that hour, even with the black clouds and the heavy rain, and she hadn’t exactly been alone. But whatever got her to sit with him was fine by Owen. He poured wine into her glass, and watched the strange light from the window cast a moody shadow across her face.
“Let me see if I can find a candle,” he said, and went behind the bar again. He fished around and found one, and a book of matches. He brought the candle over to the booth and lit it.
“There you go. Let there be light,” he said.
“You sure you don’t work here?” she asked.
“No, in fact, I don’t live in this town. I’m here interviewing for a job,” he said.
“Working for the college?” she asked. “Cheers, by the way.” They clinked glasses.
“No, it would be working for the town. Police chief, actually.”
“Very impressive. It fits. You look like a G-man.”
“A G-man?” He laughed.
“Isn’t that what they’re called? Like Dick Tracy or something, from the comic books? With the dark hair and the strong jaw.”
“That’s a little before my time.”
“Mine, too, but everybody knows Dick Tracy. Nobody ever said you look like him before?”
He chuckled. “Maybe once or twice.”
“Mmm-hmm, thought so, you were being modest. So, Chief, tell me. From what I recall, back in the day, there wasn’t much in the way of crime in good old Belle River, unless you count underage drinking, or toilet-papering houses on Halloween.”
“Less crime is what cops like.”
“Won’t you be bored?” she said. “You look like a man who goes where the action is.”
“What, because of my strong jaw?”
She laughed. “Exactly.”
She ran a fingertip around the rim of her wineglass and smiled up at him. They were flirting, he realized. He hadn’t flirted since Nicolette died. Not seriously, anyway, not like he meant it.
“It sounds like you haven’t spent much time in Belle River recently. What’re you, a Carlisle grad, back for a visit?” he asked.
“Yes and no. I started here my freshman year but never graduated, to my father’s everlasting shame and disappointment. I ended up bumming around Europe for a while, getting my degree over there.”
“That sounds like more fun. Carlisle’s stuck-up anyway, right? Who needs it.”
“I’m with you on that one. You’re not an alum, I take it?” she asked.
“St. John’s. You probably never heard of it.”
“In Queens? Sure I did. I’m a New Yorker, born and raised. You are, too. I can hear it in your voice.”
The comment about the New York in his voice touched Owen. He was a New Yorker in his bones, and he had his doubts about leaving his home and moving to this remote college town. If it was just him, he’d stay put. Stay in his job, move up the career ladder in the big-city police department, keep the house in Long Island he’d bought with Nicolette when they got married. But he wanted his kids to grow up somewhere peaceful and pretty, where he didn’t have to worry about them walking home from school on their own. This town fit the bill. He didn’t love it for himself, but it would be good for them. And if there were women like her here, maybe he could get used to it.
“Owen Rizzo, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
She hesitated for a second. “Maggie Price,” she said, and shook it.
Her hand was warm and alive. He held it a second too long, and glanced down and saw little blue-green stars tattooed on the underside of her wrist. Man, she was sexy. He wanted to know her better. Yes, she was married, but they were stuck here together in a storm, far from home. He could enjoy her company without crossing any lines, couldn’t he?
Their eyes met.
“You live in New York, then, like me?” he asked, already imagining asking her to dinner in the city. She’s married.
“Not anymore. I moved back to Belle River about a week ago after more than twenty years away. Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately? This seems like a nice enough town. Quaint, peaceful, decent restaurants if you don’t mind eating in the dark.”
“Peace and quiet never did much for me,” she said. “And things didn’t go so well when I was in school here. Belle River is—well, it’s bad luck for me, I’m afraid.”
“Why come back, then?” he asked, studying her eyes. They were cool and blue, shadowed by long lashes in the half-light.
“Reversal of fortune, you could say.” She looked around restlessly.
From her expression, he saw that she didn’t want to tell that particular story, so he didn’t press. Outside, the rain came down in torrents, and lightning flashed. Maggie set her wineglass on the table. It was nearly empty. He refilled it, and poured himself another while he was at it.
“What happened to the waitress?” she said, and as if on the cue, the waitress reappeared.
“Sorry, folks. Power line went down. It may be a while before the lights come back on, and the kitchen is closed for now.”
“That’s a drag,” Maggie said. “If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll have to stop drinking this very nice wine, or I’ll end up plastered.”
“We could order a pizza,” Owen said.
“There’s an idea. Go for it, Chief,” Maggie said.
Owen pulled out his phone and looked at it. “Sorry. No signal.”
Maggie took hers from her bag. “Look at that. Mine’s out, too.”
“It’s probably from the storm,” the waitress said. “College Pizza’s not gonna be delivering in this mess anyway.”
Maggie looked out at the downpour. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it? Miss, do you think you could dig up some peanuts or something?”
“I can do a bread basket. Hold on, I’ll be right back with that.”
“And another bottle of this, please,” Maggie said, holding up the malbec, which was already nearly empty.
A couple of minutes later, they had their bread and wine, and settled in to drink and watch the storm rage. A pretty flush suffused Maggie’s cheeks as she asked Owen why he would ever leave New York to come to a place like this, so small and dull. Her interest in him was like a warm light; he opened under its influence. He told her about Nicolette dying. About how hard the cancer had been, and what it was like now, trying to raise his son and daughter by himself. Ty had been eight and Annie six when Nicolette passed, and there was no family to help. His parents had both died not long before his kids were born; Nicolette’s lived in a retirement community in Florida and weren’t interested in more than the occasional visit.
“Sounds lonely,” she said.
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I have been lonely,” Owen said, and realized that right this minute, here with Maggie, he wasn’t lonely at all.
They got to talking about his work. Owen loved his job. He was the senior detective on a joint state-federal narcotics task force, and the work was thrilling—half high-level investigation, half cops and robbers on the street. He’d just taken down a Salvadoran gang that had cornered the meth trade in Brooklyn and Long Island and had thirty murders to their credit. But as much as he loved it, the work was dangerous, the hours he kept on the task force were brutal, and his kids were suffering. He tried to get time off, but his boss was old-school, an ex-marine now with DEA, who thought your wife dying didn’t make your kids his problem. Nothing could fix that except a new job, preferably one where Owen didn’t answer to anybody, which was why he applied here. Chief’s jobs in wealthy college towns with a salary like this one didn’t come along too often, and even if it wasn’t a perfect fit, he should probably jump on it.
Owen looked up at the clock and saw that nearly two hours had passed since they started talking. The second bottle of wine was down to the dregs. He’d been running on and on about himself—though, hell, that felt great—but he hadn’t learned a thing about her.
“Long story short, I’m here because I’m looking for a fresh start. But I’ll stop talking about myself now. Tell me about you.”
“Me? Well, I could use a fresh start, a second chance. Or a third or fourth. I’m not sure what chance I’m on, come to think of it. Nothing ever quite works out for me.”
“Looking at you, I find that hard to believe. You must have the world at your feet.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but no. My mother died of cancer when I wasn’t much older than your kids are now. I never had the guidance I needed after that, and I guess you could say I went astray. I screwed my up life pretty badly. Maybe I would have done better if I had a father like you. Caring and strong. Your kids are lucky.”
“I try. But it’s hard. It must’ve been hard for your dad, too, raising you alone.”
“Oh, he wasn’t alone, and he didn’t really raise me either. I had a succession of wicked stepmothers. Well, two of them anyway. They hated my guts. The first one divorced my father after less than a year and took a boatload of his money. The second one, Victoria, she was my stepmother when I was a teenager. We butted heads constantly, you can’t imagine.”
“I think I can,” he said, envisioning Maggie as a teenager. She must’ve been a magnet for the boys, with that face, that body, that voice. You’d have to lock a girl like that in a tower to keep her out of trouble.
“It was partly my fault that Victoria and I didn’t get along,” Maggie said. “I realized that eventually, and I owned up to it. Victoria died of cancer about a year ago. I was really sad when it happened, which surprised me. I guess I’d finally grown up enough to understand how hard I was on her.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Yes, I went to see her. We had a talk, and made up—well, sort of. I blame my father for playing us off against each other, so I apologized, but I wanted her to acknowledge the role he played. She wouldn’t go there. She was his loyal retainer to the end.”
“So he’s the bad guy, your father?”
“Oh, yeah. Classic bad guy. Cold, harsh, distant. Always gets his way. He was never available when I was growing up. He messed me up big-time.”
“And let me guess,” he said, leaning toward her. “You married a man just like him.”
She looked down at her left hand. “Married? Oops, did I forget to take that damn ring off?”
“You’re not married?” Owen asked, his heart leaping.
She laughed. “Just kidding. Usually when a married woman cozies up to a man in a bar, she takes off her ring. If she’s smart, that is.”
“Is that what you’re doing, cozying up to me in this bar?”
“What do you think?” she asked.
Under the table, her feet snuck in between his.
“I hope so,” Owen said, looking into her eyes, his pulse racing.
“We get a pass, don’t we, because of the storm? If two people were marooned on a desert island together, they’d be allowed to console each other until the rescue helicopter came.”
“I agree completely.”
Normally Owen was circumspect in these situations. But here in this place, so deserted and intimate, with the rain lashing against the window, and the light outside fading, he felt so close to her. In the candlelight, he took her hand, and turned it over to look at the stars.
“I used to have a big diamond, but we had to sell it,” she said, taking her hand away. “Times change, and all good things must come to an end. Though, when it comes to my marriage—” She sighed, and threw her head back against the banquette. “It’s not so easy to end that, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to get away from him for years, but it never happens.”
“Why not? You have kids?” he asked.
“No.”
“You own property together?”
“No. Not anymore.”
He shrugged. “So leave him, then. Sounds like you could if you wanted to.”
She leaned forward and looked at him from under her lashes. “Listen to you, Chief, encouraging me to leave my husband. And we’ve only just met.”
She leaned closer, and their fingers intertwined again.
“I’m just saying. Life is short. If you’re unhappy, you should make a change,” he said.
“Oh, but you don’t know me. I’ve always been unhappy.” Her voice was breathy and low, and he seemed to hear it deep inside his head.
“Always?” he asked.
“Not now, not right this minute, but that’s because I’m distracted. You’re a pretty good distraction, you know?”
Her lips were parted. He was desperate to kiss her, and there was nobody here to see. He pulled on her hand, and as if by magic, she came around to his side of the booth and slipped in beside him. He took her face in his hands, and they had a kiss straight out of his teenaged wet dreams. Mouths open and hungry, tasting of red wine, their hands exploring each other. It wasn’t until he started to unbutton her blouse that he remembered where they were, and pulled back. Her eyes and her mouth were blurry with lust, and he had a raging hard-on. He’d never cheated on his wife (though this wouldn’t exactly be cheating), and he’d never slept with a married woman. But even if what they were doing was wrong, he didn’t want to stop.
“I’m staying at the inn, right down the street. Come back to my room with me,” he said, and his voice sounded strange and thick to his own ears.
But before she could answer, in one of the worst instances of timing in Owen’s life, the lights came back on. They sat back, blinking in the sudden brightness, their hands falling to their sides. Maggie rearranged her clothes, and moved back to the other side of the booth. He felt abandoned.
“I don’t know, Chief. Maybe we shouldn’t,” she said, smoothing her hair.
The waitress walked into the room, exuding cheerful efficiency, and broke the mood for good.
“There you go, folks. Power’s back on. Not too bad an outage, huh? Give me a minute and I’ll be right back for your food order.”
Somebody pounded on the plate-glass window. Owen looked up and saw a man standing there—a good-looking man of about his own age, slightly disheveled, with blond hair wet from the rain. He was staring at Maggie, and he looked angry.
“Oh, that’s my husband. I’d better go,” Maggie said breathlessly, and grabbed her bag.
She started to slide out of the booth, but Owen stopped her with his foot. He saw something in the man’s eyes that troubled him, a glint of rage, of hysteria almost.
“Hey, will you be okay? Is he—does he get violent?”
“No. That’s not his style, and he’s caught me in bars with strange men before. He’s more the sulk and guilt-trip type.” She looked at Owen wistfully. “Hey, sorry I have to run. But you should take the job, move to town. Belle River could use a man like you.”
The man banged on the window again. Maggie slipped out of the booth. And then she was gone.
Owen did move to Belle River. He gave up his high-powered career, sold his house, packed up his kids, and took the helm of this small-town police department. And the whole time in the back of his mind, he imagined that he’d get a blazing-hot affair with Maggie Price out of the deal. He knew that if he found her again, he wouldn’t care about his position, or the risks. He’d want to be with her, to kiss her again, to distract her from her unhappiness.
When she didn’t materialize, when fate didn’t throw them together walking down College Street at high noon, he went looking. He searched for her in every registry and every database at his disposal. When there was no Maggie Price, he thought maybe she’d given him her maiden name, and he started looking for Maggie Anything, or Margaret. Turned out there were quite a few Margarets in Belle River. For every one, he took the time to pull a driver’s license photo if there was one, or to scour the Internet for a picture that would rule the woman out. (He could’ve gotten fired for some of the things he did, if anybody had known.) Owen was a busy man. A single father, in a new job, with the eyes of the town upon him. But he worked his way through every Margaret in Belle River between the ages of twenty-five and fifty (he put her age at mid-to-late thirties, but he was casting a wide net) before he threw in the towel. At some point it dawned on him that she’d given him a fake name on purpose—he remembered that moment of hesitation when they shook hands—because she didn’t want to be found. Still, he didn’t quit until he was forced to, by virtue of running out of Margarets.
And now, after all that fruitless searching, she’d turned up on his watch. Some jogger had found her washed up on the riverbank a few hours back, at a location that fell within Owen’s jurisdiction to investigate. Owen regretted not asking for her number, not taking her back to his room, not becoming her lover, her friend. He remembered her wistfulness that night, and her glamour and her breathy charm. He remembered their kiss, and the feeling of her breasts under his hands. And he remembered her husband, standing outside the bar, staring at her through the plate glass with rage in his eyes. Owen could have saved her, he was certain, but it was too late now. Now all he could do was figure out what happened, who did this to her—the husband, presumably—and bring that piece of shit to justice.