Same Place, Same Time. C.J. Carmichael

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      When he hung up, she asked, “What time is it?” in a voice husky from sleep.

      “Five-thirty.” He spread his hands, gripping the edge of her desk, surveying the spartan neatness of the work top and trying to erase the picture of her long, almost bare legs from his memory. This was all about business. He’d be okay if he just kept reminding himself of that fact. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

      In the background he heard sounds of smoothing and pulling, and he imagined her tidying her hair, reorganizing her clothes. Her arm must have fallen asleep, it would be tingling now. Would she guess that he’d taken a moment to stop and study her while she was asleep?

      “No problem. I guess I needed the rest.”

      Her words were cool, composed, and suddenly he knew that it wouldn’t have occurred to her that he might have been watching her. And even if she’d known, she couldn’t have cared less. He felt the rage building in him again. How could she be so distant and impersonal? Even caught off guard taking a nap, she didn’t give an inch. From her reaction, he might as well be the night janitor, asking if he could empty the trash from her office.

      He tightened his hold on the edge of the table and bowed his head. Get a grip, he told himself. You can do this.

      “Can I have the file?” she said, stepping behind her desk into his range of vision. As he’d suspected, her hair was smooth and her suit was impeccable once more, barely a trace of a wrinkle in her brown linen skirt and jacket.

      He pushed the locked briefcase across the desk surface, noticing as she reached for it how smooth and even-colored the skin on the back of her hands was. They in no way betrayed the pain and unhappiness of the past. Unlike the circles under her eyes and the gauntness of her frame.

      Her long nails were tapered, with a flawless covering of polish. A different color than yesterday, he noticed. God, he was falling apart and she was coordinating her nail color with her change in clothing.

      Before she could open the file, he stopped her with one quick touch to those picture-perfect hands. “I think I should fill you in on the latest developments before you start.”

      Her nostrils pinched in as she drew a deep breath. Because of his touch, or the suggestion? Did she think he was prolonging their encounter for the fun of it?

      “The more background information you have, the more likely you’ll be able to pull any relevant information from your notes,” he explained.

      She nodded tightly in response. “Let’s sit down then.”

      Carefully avoiding the sofa—he imagined he could still see the imprint of her body on the soft cushions—he sat in one of the chairs, pulling out his notepad and resting it on one knee.

      “Obviously my main interest is in identifying the woman Jerry was having an affair with,” he began, trying to pretend this was just another briefing. “Beyond that, let’s start with Nan Walker. Both she and her son have motives, but they have alibis as well. Nan claims to have been at the store Monday afternoon, while Jason was at school in Kingston.”

      Trista nodded, and he continued, “She claims she didn’t know Jerry was having an affair. I got the impression she was lying. What do you think?”

      Trista uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on her lap. “I can’t dispute what she told you. The topic of an affair never came up in our sessions, and I never pursue those avenues unless it seems necessary.”

      Morgan checked his impatience with her carefully worded reply. God, talking to Trista was like dealing with a lawyer. “Well, it’s pretty clear he was having an affair. Nan found a note among his personal effects today.”

      That shocked her at least, he observed with satisfaction.

      “A note?”

      Morgan nodded. On his way here, he’d stopped at the Walkers’ to pick it up, which was why he’d been late. “Nan found it this afternoon when she was sorting through Jerry’s papers. It’s typed on a piece of stationery with flowers across the top. It says—” he lowered his eyes to his notepad to read the exact words “—Let’s make it Monday this week. Same place, same time.”

      The room was silent as Trista absorbed the information. “Poor Nan,” she said finally, taking a deep breath with the words. “Having to cope with this on top of everything else.”

      “Women have murdered for less.” He saw Trista cringe at the harshness in his tone.

      “Who else have you talked to?” she asked. “Besides Nan.” Her voice was low, quietly encouraging. He imagined her using that same tone to inspire the confidence of her clients, and he felt the anger surge inside him again.

      “The cleaner at the Night’s End. She said Jerry had been coming to the motel for several weeks now, never staying more than three or four hours at a time. She’d pretty much figured out what was going on in that room and she wasn’t impressed.”

      “Did she ever see the woman he was meeting?”

      “Only from a distance. She said the woman looked like a spy from the movies. Big trench coat. Hat. Sunglasses. Arrived in a taxi, left in a taxi. Ring any bells?” he asked sarcastically. As a description it didn’t have one thing to commend itself. The cleaner hadn’t even been willing to guess as to weight or height.

      Trista shook her head, as if sharing in his disappointment.

      “The desk clerk wasn’t any better,” Morgan continued. “According to him, Jerry always picked up the room key. Except this last time the woman came to the desk saying her husband had locked them out and she needed another key.”

      “That’s strange.”

      “Isn’t it, though? Something else that ties in with the note Nan Walker found—the clerk said they normally booked their room for Wednesdays. This was the first time they’d met on a Monday.”

      “That has to mean something.”

      “I agree. But what?”

      “I wish I knew.” Trista held her hands out helplessly.

      “Tell me about your secretary. Brenda.”

      Trista looked surprised at the question. “Brenda Malachowski? She’s been working for me since I first opened my practice.”

      “Is she married?”

      “No. She lives alone in a condominium on King and Bathurst.”

      “Does she date anyone in particular?”

      “Not that I know of, although she goes out a lot.” She frowned. “Is this really relevant? I don’t like talking about people behind their backs.”

      Morgan felt his patience snapping. “Answering questions in a homicide investigation isn’t exactly gossiping. But maybe you should take a look at that file now.”

      Once СКАЧАТЬ