Dead by Wednesday. Beverly Long

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СКАЧАТЬ than a minute when Carmen turned her head. “I don’t think Liz really needs his help.”

      He relaxed. “Maybe if we were having grits and chicken-fried steak.”

      “Ugh,” she said with a smile that made her even prettier. “I’d suddenly have to run an errand.”

      “I’d drive you,” he said. “Although to be fair, the man makes a great gumbo. He brought some into work one day, and it made me nostalgic for my last trip to the French Quarter.”

      “I think I’d love New Orleans,” she said. “Maybe someday.”

      The kitchen door swung open, and Liz emerged holding two wineglasses. “Follow me,” she said, leading them to the dining room. There was a huge pizza in the middle of the table with a big bowl of salad next to it. Sawyer was clipping Catherine’s high-chair tray on.

      They sat, and Catherine immediately started squealing and pounding her plump fists on the high-chair tray. Liz smiled apologetically. “Sorry. This is the kind of ambience we have now.”

      Robert dished out a slice of pizza and handed it to Carmen. “No problem. Table manners like her father.”

      They were done with their pizza and cutting into the cheesecake that Carmen had picked up at the bakery after work when Robert’s phone buzzed with an incoming text message. He glanced at it, shook his head and turned his phone upside down on the table. “Sorry about that,” he said.

      “Bad news?” Liz asked.

      “A reporter from the newspaper,” he explained. “She’s evidently not getting enough of a story from Blaze and Wasimole, so she tracked me down. I imagine she got the number from one of the people we talked to today. We generally leave a card in case they think of something that might be helpful.”

      “These killings are the only thing the local talk show hosts were discussing today,” Liz said. “It’s getting very scary.”

      It was horrible, thought Carmen. With Raoul being about the same age as the other victims, it made her sick to hear people talking about the stories. Her heart ached for the terrible loss that the families had suffered, for the pain the boys had endured. “I didn’t know if I should say anything to Raoul,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to scare him unnecessarily but I also didn’t want him to be naive.”

      “Where did you land on it?” Robert asked.

      “I left the newspaper on the table one morning, folded so that he could easily see the headline. He read the story and that gave me the opportunity I was waiting for. I tried to gently suggest that it was important to be careful, to always be watching.”

      “What did he say?” Liz asked.

      Carmen rolled her eyes. “He said, and I quote, ‘Sis. There are three million people in the city of Chicago. Eight million if you count the suburbs. I don’t think anybody is looking for me.’ I didn’t push it. I’m crazy enough about other things, like brushed teeth and pants that stay up around his waist.”

      “Raoul’s such a smart kid. You didn’t need to say anything else,” Liz said. “He gets it.”

      “Yeah, and we’re going to get this guy,” Sawyer said, his tone confident. “He’s going to make a mistake. In fact, he already has.”

      “What’s that?” Liz asked.

      “He mutilates and suffocates his victims. That’s been reported in the press. What hasn’t been reported is that the victims have all been found with red handkerchiefs in their mouths. We’ve been successful in keeping that out of the press. But that shows an arrogance on his part—that he’s so confident that he won’t be caught that he can afford to leave clues at the scene. Arrogance makes criminals sloppy.”

      “Can you trace the handkerchiefs?” Carmen asked.

      “We’ve tried. No luck so far,” Robert said. “They’re sold in a bunch of stores. But something will break, soon. It has to.” He leaned across the table and tickled Catherine’s belly. “Right, darling?”

      She giggled, breaking the tension at the table.

      Carmen felt more relaxed than she had in months. That wasn’t how she’d expected the evening to go. She’d gotten to Liz’s house and her friend had quickly pulled her aside. Sawyer just told me he invited Robert, too. Are you okay with that?

      Heck no, she wasn’t okay with that. She’d met Robert Hanson just weeks before Catherine was born, when Catherine’s mother was kidnapped by a gang leader who wanted to steal the baby. Robert had been a little brash, maybe even a little cocky, but he’d been helpful to both Liz and Sawyer.

      And she had tried to ignore that whenever he was close, it seemed a little harder to focus. She’d done pretty well with that until the wedding and then the dance.

      Robert Hanson knew how to hold a woman. For a big man, his touch had been light and his steps graceful.

      But she’d known that he was a man who knew what to do. And her skills were rusty. Real rusty. She was twenty-nine years old and hadn’t been on a date in thirteen years.

      No worries, she’d assured her friend. After all, they’d had one little dance. She remembered it but he’d probably forgotten it the next day. She told herself it was silly to think for even one minute that the evening would be the least bit awkward.

      But when the door opened and she heard his voice in the foyer, her senses had become more acute. She felt her skin get warm and knew it had nothing to do with Sawyer’s nice fireplace.

      And she’d tried to remember that it was just a DWF night. Dinner With Friends. They’d have a little pizza, some wine, a few laughs.

      And she’d prayed that the butterflies in her stomach would get the message.

      She’d worried for nothing. Robert Hanson, in his usual charming way, had made the night perfect.

      Now that they’d finished with their cheesecake, Robert pushed back his chair and began to gather up the dirty plates. Liz started to get up. “I’ve got this,” he said. “I’m anxious to see the paint job that your husband did. I must admit, he’s never impressed me as being all that artistic.”

      Sawyer wadded up his cloth napkin and threw it at Robert. “If I get tired of wrestling with the bad guys, maybe I’ll start my own painting business.”

      “Not a chance, Michelangelo,” Robert said. “You’re not leaving me on my own.”

      Liz shook her head. “Like either of you would ever stop being cops. Come with me.”

      They followed Liz back to Catherine’s room. It had been painted a pale mint-green. Waist-high was a border of dancing teddy bears in yellows and pinks.

      “It’s adorable,” Carmen said. “Very impressive. Can I hire you? My kitchen desperately needs paint.”

      Sawyer smiled and shook his head. “I don’t want to see another stir stick for quite some time. Robert, you seemed to know a lot about painting earlier.”

      “I work cheap,” Robert said, his tone casual.

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