"Or hers?" Ranson said. She had caught it. She took off her gla.s.ses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She didn't look at me.

"Did he say anything else?" Danny asked. She was sitting opposite me and next to Ranson, so she didn't see what had pa.s.sed.

"No, he died," I answered tersely.

"Why didn't you tell me last night?" Ranson questioned, as she put her gla.s.ses back on, barricading her eyes.

"There were too many people around. Anyone could have overheard." That may have been true, but it wasn't why I hadn't told her and she knew it.

"We found the motorcycle half a mile down the road," Danny explained. "It had been stolen the night before. No sign of the murder weapon yet." Then she glanced at her watch. "My, time flies when you're working on your day off. I've got to get going."

She hugged each of us again on her way out. Ranson watched her drive away, but didn't say anything. Danny had been gone for a long * 192 *

time, before she turned to me. She looked at me, then over my head behind me. She gave a bare nod.

I jumped up and looked over my shoulder. There was no one there.

"s.h.i.t, that wasn't funny," I exclaimed.

"I had to know," she said. "Sorry if I frightened you." She turned away and went back into her kitchen. I heard her starting to wash the breakfast dishes. I followed her.

"Joanne, I'm sorry. If I really thought it was you, I wouldn't have told you today, and I certainly wouldn't be here alone with you," I apologized.

"It's okay, Micky. Don't worry about it." Then she was silent, her back to me as she continued with the dishes.

I stood watching that back, trying to think of something to say, something that would make my panic and mistrust go away.

Ranson glanced over her shoulder as if sensing me there. She stopped washing dishes, got a towel and dried her hands.

"Who watches the watchers?" she asked. "There's a crooked cop somewhere. No wonder you don't trust any of us. I don't." She walked past me, out to the living room and stared out the window at the gray and cold afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Joanne," I said, following her. "I couldn't get the image of Frankie out of my head. I had just washed off his blood. And...and I can be paranoid even on a good day," I finished lamely.

She turned to me. "It is okay, Micky. It really is. Someone I know probably arranged that killing. Perhaps someone I trust with my life. I was upset at first, when I realized you suspected me, but that was my petty ego at work. You and I don't have time for petty egos. There's a murderer to catch. Okay? Now, come help me with the dishes."

"You sure?" I asked, still uncertain.

To a.s.sure me, she came to me and put her hands on my shoulders.

Then, unexpectedly, she kissed me gently on the cheek.

I kissed her on the mouth. Then I put my arms around her and held her. She returned the embrace and the kiss for a moment, then she broke off.

"No, Micky, this isn't right," she said, still in my arms.

"But it's not so wrong," I answered.

* 193 *

"No, it's not."

"Alex?" I questioned.

"No, not really." And she let go of me, pulling away. "Sleeping with you wouldn't change my love for her." She looked out the window for an instant, then turned back to me. "I won't sleep with you because I can't walk away from you. I like you too much to sleep with you, does that make sense?"

"No, but it's original. A lot of people have said no, but none of them because they liked me too much."

"If you ever need someone, really need someone to hold you through the night, I will. I'll be there for you. Through the night and into the morning. Do you need me now or do you just want me?"

"Want," I answered, afraid of the morning. I wasn't sure. I didn't, couldn't admit I needed her. If I did.

"Okay, then go put away the dishes."

"Show me where." She led the way back into the kitchen. "Oh, and Joanne? That's the nicest rejection I've ever had," I said.

"It wasn't a rejection. Pots and pans next to the stove," she directed.

We had just finished making the kitchen spic-and-span when Ranson's doorbell rang. The door opened and Alex's voice called out a h.e.l.lo.

"Good thing we're doing the dishes," Ranson commented dryly.

Then she went into the living room. I didn't hear what she said to Alex, but Alex's reply was, "Oh, I know. But I figured I could only make the two of you safer. What mobster in his right mind would risk harming Bo and Marcia Sayers' little girl? Football alums are a bigger mob than the mob, and they take their old stars seriously. Besides, my picture was in the paper just last week. I'm too public to be killed easily."

"Hi, Alex," I said. "Did you play football?"

Ranson had a look of mixed exasperation and amus.e.m.e.nt on her face and was shaking her head.

"Micky, you mean you don't know the star quarterback of the 1947 Tigers was my dad? It never fails, any man I meet over the age of thirty-five always asks if I'm number eleven's daughter," Alex explained.

"And yes, I play football. I love tackling women." She flashed a smile at both of us. "Besides, I'm in the mood for a disaster. Better your kitchen than mine." She had two shopping bags with her, which she * 194 *

handed to Ranson, who handed them to me. "Mexican. Want to make bets on whether it will be edible or not?"

It wasn't a disaster, it was delicious. Fortunately, neither Ranson nor I had bet on it being inedible.

When Ranson finally commented on how late it was, Alex smiled.

"I've brought my pajamas. I'll go change."

Ranson started to argue with her about the safety of staying the night.

"It's not safe leaving you with tall, good-looking women, Joanne, dear," she answered.

Ranson and I carefully avoided looking at each other.

"Besides," Alex continued, "I know you silent, butch types. You'll never eat breakfast and spend the rest of the week ordering pizzas for dinner."

Ranson relented. After seeing her around Alex for the evening, I finally began to think of her as Joanne, because she seemed more relaxed and informal than I'd ever seen her. There was a companionableness between them that I could only envy.

I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed.

When I came back out, most of the lights had been turned off. Alex was standing behind Joanne rubbing her shoulders, then Joanne turned to her and they kissed for a long time. I crept back into the bathroom, not wanting to intrude. After what seemed like a decent interval, I made a noisy exit back out to the living room.

"About time," Ranson commented. Alex winked at me.

"Mexican food always slows me down," I said and winked back.

They finished in the bathroom, said good night, and then shut the bedroom door, leaving me on the couch.

They were pretty quiet, but I did hear an occasional noise from beyond the door and I knew they were making love.

I felt like an intruder; I imagined that they were being quiet for my sake. They had waited for a while before they started, probably hoping that I would be asleep.

But I couldn't sleep. Memories of both Frankie and Barbara were too clear, too sharply etched to allow the blur of sleep to overtake me.

It was probably the sharp edge of my senses that allowed me to hear Joanne and Alex make love.

* 195 *

Hearing them only made me sad, not in an envious way, but with a wistfulness for something I never had and probably never would. I knew Joanne meant what she said about holding me in the night if I really needed it, but there is a difference in being held by arms that are close and always there and arms that aren't.

After their quiet rustlings had stopped and been still for a while, I found my suitcase and the bottle of Scotch. I badly needed to dull my edges. I lay in the dark drinking Scotch out of the bottle.

I heard the bedroom door open. I lay motionless, hoping whoever it was wouldn't notice my wakefulness.

It was Alex who walked past me to the bathroom. I put the bottle down on the floor, hoping to make it invisible in the dark.

The door clicked open and Alex came back out, but I didn't hear her footsteps pa.s.s me. I lay still, hoping she would think I was asleep. I heard a soft swish and realized that she was standing next to me.

"I saw the bottle," she said softly.

d.a.m.n it.

"Can I turn on the reading light?" she asked.

I reached up and did it for her.

"I couldn't sleep," I mumbled.

She picked up the bottle and looked at it.

"Three fingers' worth," she said. "Joanne's parents were alcoholics.

She knows all the tricks. She found it earlier."

"I'm not an alcoholic. I just don't sleep very well when my friends have been murdered," I answered back.

"This isn't the solution," she said. She was kneeling on the floor next to me.

"Then give me one," I demanded in a low voice. I didn't want Ranson to come out here and find me with the bottle.

Alex sighed. "I wish I could," she said. "I've known Joanne for a long time now and held her through a lot of nights, but I can't make her pain go away. I couldn't presume to touch yours."

"Which is?" I wanted to know what Ranson had told her.

"I don't know. Only you do. Want to talk?"

"No, I'm okay. Just thinking too much. The Scotch helps."

"For a while."

"Every bit helps. It's a distraction."

"There are better ways to be distracted," Alex said.

* 196 *

"Not at hand."

"How about a bedtime story?" she suggested.

I looked at her like she was crazy.

She tiptoed to one of Joanne's bookcases and after a minute pulled out a battered old book.

"This is one of the books from her happy days," Alex said.

She read me the tale of Peter Rabbit. I can vaguely remember my mother reading to me as we sat in front of the fireplace. My dad was probably hunched over his desk, doing the books for the shipyard or paying bills. I don't see him in the picture with my mother, but I remember him later doing that and the memories blur.

Alex had a soft, expressive voice. For the minutes that she read to me, I felt warm and cozy, away from my clangorous and hostile adult world. Maybe Joanne was right, maybe you can't go back to your childhood, but tonight I caught a glimpse of it.

Two months ago I would have been, at best, indulgent at the idea of someone reading me a children's story. Now I desperately needed a hint of innocence and an act of simple kindness.

Alex finished reading and smiled at me. She was sitting on the floor like a big sister reading to a little sister. Her hand was resting on my shoulder.

"Thank you." I smiled back.

"Sometimes we all could use a bedtime story," she said as she stood up. "Good night, Micky, sleep well." She kissed me on the forehead.

"Good night, Alex."

She went back into the bedroom. I quietly hid my bottle of Scotch back in my suitcase, then I lay down and fell asleep.

I awoke sometime later, when the gray is still so dense that it is more night than morning. I had been dreaming. I could only remember the last bit. A soft brown rabbit was running down a trail in the woods.

The rabbit was slowing, having escaped whatever was chasing it. Then it turned the corner-I could still feel the jolt of fear-and found a rattlesnake. It was not just a snake, but a nightmare snake. Large, the size of a python with red eyes and fangs dripping blood. It was coiled to strike. That was when I woke up. I looked about the gray room, wanting the dawn to come. I knew what the snake represented. But who was the rabbit? Barbara? Frankie? Or me?

* 197 *