"Who was it?"
"The name was Ben Fuller, narcotics detail. A sergeant with eighteen years on the force. He filed the arrest report. Possession of three live marijuana plants."
"Did Fuller also arrange the release?"
"Nope. Feds did. They stepped in and pulled their ex-witness out of the fire. So you can drop the conspiracy angle. Fuller had nothing to do with it."
"Can I see his Internal Affairs file?"
"Won't do you any good."
"Why not?"
The elevator doors slid open. "Because Ben Fuller's dead," he said, and walked out.
M. J. dashed after him into the first floor lobby. "Dead? How?"
"Shot to death in the line of duty. He was a good cop, M. J. I've talked to his buddies. He had a wife, three kids, and a whole drawer full of commendations. So lay off the guy, okay? He was a hero. He doesn't deserve some broad with an attitude mucking up his memory." With that, Ed went out the front door.
M. J. watched her ex-husband stride away down the sidewalk. A broad with an attitude. Is that what I am? she wondered.
She stalked off to her car.
Traffic was heavy on Dillingham, and she didn't have the patience to deal with it. Every red light, every idiot making a left turn, seemed to jog her irritation up another notch. By the time she got back to the morgue, she felt like a menace to the public. So I'm a broad with an attitude. So what? she thought as she went into her office. There she halted in amazement.
Two dozen long-stemmed roses sat in a vase on her desk. "What the hell's this?"
Ratchet stuck his head out of his office and called out sweetly: "So who's the new lover boy, Novak?"
She slammed the door on his laughter. Then she sank into her chair and sat staring at the roses. They were gorgeous. They were blood red, the symbol of love, of passion.
M. J. hated roses.
Once, Ed had sent her roses, that very same color, just before he'd asked for a divorce.
She dropped her head in her hands and wondered morbidly what sort of flowers Adam Quantrell would send to her funeral.
Her dark mood lasted all afternoon, through the processing of a hit-in-the-crosswalk old lady, through hours of paper catch-up and court depositions. By the time she drove through Adam's stone gate that evening, she was good and ready for a warm hug and some pampering. Or at the very least, a stiff drink.
What she found instead was Isabel's Mercedes parked in the driveway.
M. J. got out of her car and stood for a moment by the Mercedes, gazing in at the leather upholstery, the kidskin gloves lying on the front seat. Then, in an even blacker mood, she went to the front door and rang the bell.
Thomas opened the door and regarded her with surprise. "Oh dear! Did Mr. Q. neglect to give you a key, Dr. Novak?"
M. J. cleared her throat. It had never occurred to her to simply walk in the door. After all, it wasn't her house. She was a guest and would always feel like a guest. "Well, yeah," she said. "I guess he did give me a key."
Thomas stepped aside to usher her in.
"I thought I should ring first," she added as he took her jacket.
"Of course," he said. He reached into the closet for a hanger. "Mr. Q. hasn't arrived yet. But Miss Calderwood dropped by for a visit. She's in the parlor, if you'd care to join her for tea."
Joining Isabel was the last thing she felt like doing, but she couldn't think of a graceful way to avoid it. So, hoisting a socially acceptable smile onto her lips, she entered the parlor.
Isabel was seated on the striped couch. Her sweater, a fluffy cashmere, hung fetchingly off the shoulder. She seemed unsurprised to see M. J.; in fact, she appeared to have expected her.
"Hope you haven't been waiting long," said M. J. "I don't know when Adam's expected home."
"He gets home at six o'clock," said Isabel.
"Did he call?"
"No. That's when he always gets home."
"Oh." M. J. sat down in the Queen Anne chair and wondered what else Isabel knew about Adam's habits. Probably more than I ever will. She glanced at the end table and saw the empty teacup, the plate of biscuits and jam. The book Isabel had been reading lay beside her on the couch-the title was in French. The very air held the scent of her perfume-something cool, something elegant; no drugstore florals for her.
"Six o'clock is his usual time," Isabel went on, pouring more tea into her cup. "Unless it's Wednesday, when he kicks off early and gets home around five. He occasionally has a drink before supper-Scotch, heavy on the soda-and perhaps a glass of wine with his meal, but only one glass. After supper, he reads. Scientific journals, the latest pharmaceuticals, that sort of thing. He takes his work seriously, you see." She set the teapot back down. "And then he makes time for fun. Which normally includes me." She looked at M. J. and smiled.
"Just why are you telling me this?"
"Because there are so many things you don't know about him."
M. J. let out a breath. "That's true. Not that it makes a difference."
Isabel cocked her head. "Doesn't it?"
"If you're telling me all this because you feel threatened, Isabel, don't bother. With me, what you see is what you get. No blue blood, no pedigree." She laughed. "Definitely no class."
"I didn't mean to put you down," said Isabel hastily. "I simply thought I could clear up a few things about Adam."
"Such as?"
"Oh, I don't know…" Isabel shrugged one lustrous white shoulder. "Aspects of his life you may not be familiar with. It must seem quite disorienting. Being thrust into this huge old house. All these portraits of strangers hanging on the walls. And then there's a whole circle of his friends you've never met."
"I guess you know them all."
"We grew up in that same circle, Adam and I.I knew Georgina. I watched the whole sad affair. And I was there when he needed a friend." She paused, and added significantly, "I'm still here." And I'll be here long after you're gone, was the unspoken message. Isabel took a sip of tea and set the cup and saucer back down on the end table. "I just wanted you to know that."
"Why?"
"I care about Adam. All his friends do. And we'd hate to see him… unhappy."
M. J.'s chin shot up. "Meaning what?"
"Adam needs someone who can hold her own. In this house, at the club. At the dozens of social functions a man in his position has to attend. It's only fair that you know what to expect."
M. J. laughed. "Hey, I'm not after the job of lady of the house. He's just putting me up for awhile. And we needed each other's help."
"And do you still need each other's help?"
M. J. paused. The truth was that they didn't. Esterhaus was dead. There was nothing to hide from now, nothing to keep her there.
Except this crazy hope that things could still work out between us.
Isabel rose. "Just a few things to consider," she said. "Think about it."
M. J. did think about it. She thought about it as Isabel walked out the front door, as the Mercedes drove down the driveway. She thought about the gap between Surry Heights and South Lexington-a distance measured not in miles but in universes. She thought about country clubs and back alleys, picket fences and barbed wire.
And she thought about her heart, recently healed, and how long it takes to put the pieces back together when once it's broken.
She went upstairs, collected her toothbrush and underwear, and came back down again.
Thomas, carrying a tray of fresh tea and biscuits, met her in the foyer. "Dr. Novak," he said. "I was just bringing this in to you."
"Thanks. But I'm on my way out."
He frowned when he saw the car keys she'd already removed from her purse. "When shall I tell Mr. Q. you'll be returning?"
"Tell him… tell him I'll be in touch," she said, and walked out of the house.