He shifted in his seat to allow the waiter to collect the sushi trays, then nodded, encouraging her to go on.
“What I’m wondering is…” She waited until the waiter had gone away, then leaned toward him eagerly. “Suppose she’s been suppressing these memories all these years, the way victims of abuse do. You know? Then, as the connections in her brain begin to fail, the walls protecting her from the memories begin to break down. But the memories are confusing, and she…”
“You’re thinking she’s mixing up your father with someone else?”
“Yes.” She said it on a hiss of exhaled breath, and the easing inside her chest made her feel almost giddy. He was frowning but his eyes were sharp, focused on her now with interest that looked real rather than merely polite. “And this…thing that happened to your mother, it would have to have been…”
“Before she met my dad. So, probably forty-some years ago, maybe? Anyway, a long time.”
“And you think it happened here-in San Diego?”
She held up her hands, a gesture of the helplessness she felt. “I have no idea. I just assumed she’d always lived here, but now…” She gave a small precarious laugh.
“Has she given you any details? Anything that might help to narrow it down to a time and place?”
She shook her head. “Whenever she starts talking to me about it, she just cries. And begs me to tell the police.” Overwhelming sadness forced her to smile. “So, now I have. Maybe you can get more out of her. It’s what you do, isn’t it?”
The arrival of the waiter with the check saved him from having to answer what was, after all, a rhetorical question.
Obeying protocol, the waiter presented the plastic-bound folder containing their bill to Alan, the male of the party. Lindsey reached to intercept it, and there was a brief comedic moment when it appeared a three-way tug-of-war might ensue.
“I invited you, remember?” Alan said, smiling at her over the contested prize.
Lindsey countered with a smile of her own and, “Yes, but I own my own business. I need the tax deduction.”
“Ah, but if I let you pay for my lunch, it could be construed as bribing a police officer.”
Lindsey laughed and yielded. “Okay, that trumps me. You win.”
He took out his wallet, selected some bills and placed them on top of the folder without looking at what was inside, nodded at the hovering waiter, then rose. Lindsey hurriedly snatched up her purse and did the same, and Alan took her elbow and said, “How’s your afternoon?”
She hesitated, thrown off guard in much the same way she had been when he’d asked if she liked sushi, and again when he’d ordered her to use his first name. She was a naturally reserved person and tended to be cautious-even timid-when getting acquainted with strangers, thoroughly testing and getting comfortable with the unknown waters before taking the next step. The detective’s abrupt-even snap-decisions were unsettling to her. “I took it off,” she said, recovering. “But you don’t mean you-”
“Why not? One thing’s for sure, after forty-some-odd years, this case isn’t going to get any fresher.” Alan was thinking about the reports he was supposed to be filling out, waiting for him back at his desk. He smiled into the amazing black-fringed eyes so nearly on a level with his own. “So, let’s go talk to your mom, shall we?”
They went in separate cars-her choice, not his, but as he followed Lindsey Merrill’s classy silver-blue Mercedes through the streets of San Diego, he had some time to think about what he might be getting himself into.
As far as this “cold case” went, probably nothing. He was pretty sure it was going to turn out to be exactly what it looked like-a case of Alzheimer’s taking a peculiar turn, a sad story but hardly one that warranted the time and energy of the San Diego Police Department. And he was going to have to explain to his captain why he’d spent the afternoon chasing wild geese when there were open cases he should be working.
So, why was he doing this? Sure, Lindsey Merrill was attractive, but he was long past the age when his hormones were able to override his good sense. The last time that had happened he’d been about seventeen, and he figured he still had a way to go before he’d reach the age where a desire to recapture those randy days of youth might lead him down those old dangerous paths.
What it was, he realized, was that he’d reached an age where he was beginning to question the paths he’d already chosen. Questioning how much longer he was going to be able to deal with the constant parade of teenaged-gang-violence victims and domestic violence cases-those were the worst, particularly the ones involving kids-without burning out. He’d seen it happen to guys he’d come up through the ranks with. He didn’t like to dwell on those stories of breakdowns and suicides, and even now pushed them out to the fringes of his consciousness and tethered them there with the mantra, That’s not gonna happen to me, won’t happen to me.
At the same time, he felt twinges in his side where the knife wound he’d received during a recent domestic violence case hadn’t completely healed yet. He’d shot and killed the guy, a righteous shoot if there ever was one, and had just come off administrative leave due to officer-involved shooting-his first-and the mandatory visits with the department shrink, who had suggested he might benefit from some mild antidepressants. Which he’d refused, of course. He didn’t need pills. What he needed was to see some evidence that his efforts-and those of his brother and sister officers-were having some effect in keeping the whole damn world from going to hell in a handbasket.
Would this wild-goose chase he was on do the trick? Probably not, he thought, but it couldn’t hurt, either. He’d hear what Susan Merrill had to say-if she was coherent-and what was the worst that could happen? He’d conclude it was the Alzheimer’s talking, and he’d have had lunch and spent an interesting afternoon in the company of an attractive woman. A very nice, very classy, attractive woman.
He felt a little smug about the fact that the word “sexy” hadn’t even entered his head.
Until now.
Driving sedately and self-consciously, keeping one eye on the detective’s anonymous dark sedan in her rearview mirror, Lindsey still had plenty of time to wonder, for the umpteenth time, whether she was doing the right thing. She was honest enough with herself to know that, right or wrong, she was doing this more for herself than her mother. As painful as it was to see her mother so fragile and frightened, what she hated more was the feeling that her own world was spiraling out of her control. Again.
Trent had once accused her of being a control freak. It had been during one of the counseling sessions she’d agreed to attend with him in the weeks leading up to her decision to divorce him, once and for all. She remembered the counselor regarding her in that way he had, fingers steepled in front of his chin, eyebrows raised, and asking her what she thought of that. What she thought, of course, was that Trent was wrong, that she didn’t see how wanting to have some degree of control over one’s own life made one a control freak. It seemed to her that a control freak was someone who wanted to control other people’s lives.
Lindsey had no desire to control anyone else’s life. Just her own. She had no problem taking responsibility for her own bad choices-marrying Trent had probably been one of those-but she couldn’t stand it when things happened to her that she had absolutely no say in.