She nodded. "You're a good detective."
"It's a downer," he said. "I imagined you had a thing for me."
She reached out to cover his hand with hers. "I love you, John," she said quietly. "I truly do. But I also love my husband."
"I'm not sure," he said, trying to smile, "but that may be illegal."
His reply, even in jest, angered her. "Can't I love two men at the same time? Why not? Men can love two or more women at the same time, and frequently do. What am I-a second-class citizen?"
He held up his palms in surrender. But then the waiter brought their chilled champagne and glasses. They were silent while he went through the ceremony of uncorking the bottle. He poured a bit into John's glass and waited expectantly. But John handed it to Dora.
"You first," he said.
She sampled it. "Just right," she proclaimed.
The waiter filled their flutes, left the bottle in a bucket of ice, and departed. They raised their glasses to each other in a silent toast.
Dora said slowly, "I wish I could explain to you the way I feel in a clear, logical way, but I can't. Because this is something that's got nothing to do with logic. It's a mishmash of emotions and fears and upbringing and education and God knows what else."
"But the bottom line is no," he said.
"That's right," Dora said decisively. "I'm not going to bed with you. But you've got to believe me; I do love you."
They both smiled sadly.
"Look at us," Dora said. "Me, an overweight housewife. You, a burned-out cop. I wish I could understand it, but I can't."
"It happens," John said. "Do you have to understand it? Can't you just accept it?"
"I do accept it," she said. "The love part. Not the infidelity. It's not so much wanting to be faithful to Mario, it's wanting to be faithful to myself. Does that make sense?"
"No," he said, and filled their glasses again.
"Listen," Dora said, almost desperately, "let me take a stab at it. I'm a Catholic. I went to a parochial school. My husband is a Catholic. But neither of us has been to confession for I don't remember how long. Our Catholic friends don't go either. So I don't think fear of sin has anything to do with it. But maybe, deep down inside me, it does because of the way I was raised, and I'm just not conscious of it."
"All right," Wenden said, "assuming it's not fear of sin, then what is it?"
"It's a lot of things," she said, "and I'm sure you'll laugh at all of them. Look at the people we've been involved with: the Starrett crew and their pals. All of them cheating like mad. You've got to admit they're a scurvy lot; they give adultery a bad name. They make it so vulgar. Someone once said morality is a luxury few can afford. Well, / can afford it, even if it costs me.
"That's one thing. Another is that it scares me. It really does. I said I love you, and that's the truth. But what if we get it off together, and I like it. Then we drift apart, for whatever reason, and I say to myself, 'Hey, that wasn't so bad. As a matter of fact, it was fun. I think I'll find myself another lover.' Then I'm on my way to bimbo-land. It could happen, John."
"What you're saying is that you don't trust yourself."
"You're exactly right; I don't trust myself. I don't dare take the chance. If that makes me a coward, then I'm a coward."
"Or smart," he said with a twisty grin. "Well, Red, I guess you've been doing a lot of heavy thinking about this, and that's kind of a compliment to me. But did you also think about how you might feel tomorrow, next week, next year, ten years from now? No regrets?"
She leaned across the table to stroke his cheek. "You shaved for me," she said. "How nice! Let me tell you something, John. It's like you're driving along a highway. You know where you're going. Then you see a side road leading away. It looks great. All leafy. Beautiful. You're tempted to turn off and explore it. Find out where it goes. But you don't. And maybe you think of that side road a lot in the years to come. Regret is too strong a word, but the curiosity is there. You may never stop wondering where that road led."
He reached for the champagne bottle and poured what was left into their glasses.
"That's what will happen to me," Dora said. "What will happen to you?"
"Nothing," he said. "Which is what usually happens to me. Oh, I'll survive. I've been unhappy before, and I'll be unhappy again. You've been unhappy, haven't you?"
"Yeah," Dora said. "Like right now. Listen, John, why don't you come up to Hartford and visit with us for a weekend-or as long as you like. We've got an extra bedroom."
He stared at her. "I don't think that would be so smart, Red-do you?"
"No," Dora said miserably, "I don't."
John lifted the champagne bottle and tried to pour. It was empty, and he shoved it, neck down, into the melted ice.
"The bubbles are gone," he said.
Chapter 46
She returned to Hartford the following morning and went directly to the office. She composed her final report on her word processor. Then Dora filled out the forms all claims adjusters were required to submit. She dumped all her papers on the desk of Mike Trevalyan's secretary and went back to her cubicle. She put her feet up on her desk, drank a diet cola, and smoked too many cigarettes.
The summons didn't come until late in the afternoon, and when she walked into Trevalyan's cluttered office, she knew the shit was going to hit the fan; he had two cigars going at once.
"You're approving the claim?" he shouted at her. "You're actually approving it?"
"Of course," she said calmly. "None of the beneficiaries had a thing to do with the murder of Lewis Starrett. You want to fight it? You want a lawsuit? Be my guest."
"And look at this!" he howled, waving a fistful of her expense account vouchers. "What the hell were you doing-buying food and booze for every cop in New York?"
"If you read my report," Dora said, "you know what I was doing: helping to break up a fraud for laundering drug money and helping to solve four homicides. Aren't you happy to see a little justice done?"
"Screw justice!" Mike said wrathfully. "All I know is that this is going to cost the Company three million smackers. And what do you think the Accounting Department is going to say when I submit those humongous bills from your so-called computer expert, that Gregor Pinchik. They'll have my balls for hiring that guy."
"Oh Mike, don't be so cheap. Gregor provided the key to the whole case. Look, you want to come out of this smelling like a rose?"
He looked at her suspiciously. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Pinchik didn't bill for his long-distance calls or modem time because he used our telephone access codes. They were on an electronic bulletin board he subscribes to. But he admitted he's been into our computers and rummaged around. If he can do it, then any smart hacker can do it. Persuade the Company to hire Pinchik as a consultant, to upgrade our computer security with state-of-the-art safeguards. If we don't do it, it's just a matter of time before we start paying out claims to some larcenous hacker who's invaded our records."
Trevalyan thought about that a moment. "Yeah," he said finally, "you got a point there, kiddo. Listen, how about us going out for some food and talking about what I should put in my memo to the brass."
"No, thanks," she said. "I want to get home to Mario."
"You just want one of his gourmet dinners," Mike said grumpily.
Dora smiled serenely. "There's a lot to be said for home cooking."