His Partner's Wife (3 page)

"Yeah, and I'm one of 'em." He stood. "I'll
see if I can bail out your toothbrush and drop you at home right now."

"But I can drive."

"No." His pointed gaze took in her knotted fists
and the shiver she couldn't hide. "You're in shock. Mom's with the kids.
She'll enjoy babying you."

Ridiculous to feel disappointed. Of course he wouldn't stay
with her. He had a murder to investigate. She knew the drill: he would probably
work for twenty-four straight hours, canvassing neighbors, supervising crime
scene technicians, following up on the tiniest leads. The older the trail, the
less likely that a murderer would be caught, Stuart always said. Homicide cops
did not drop an investigation to take the night off and pat the little woman's
shoulder.

"I … that's nice of you, but shouldn't you ask your
mother?" Natalie had only met Ivy McLean a handful of times, the first at
Stuart's funeral. John was divorced and his two kids lived with him. His mother
must be baby-sitting tonight.

Geoff cleared his throat. "You know Linda will give me
hell if I don't bring you home with me."

Natalie doubted his wife would go that far. The two women
were casual friends because of their husbands, but they had so little else in
common, they'd never progressed beyond the occasional invitation to dinner.

A tiny spark of bemusement penetrated the numbness she'd
wrapped around herself as snugly as the afghan. "I do have women friends
who can run me a hot bath and tuck me in. Really, you don't have to…"

John's hard stare silenced her. "Yes. I do. I'd rather
know where you are."

Because she was a suspect in a murder investigation? The
thought shook her. John couldn't really believe even for a second that she
would do something like that, could he?

"Yes. All right," she said, sounding ungracious
but too discombobulated to figure out what woman friend would actually have a
spare bedroom without putting a child out. She would have to explain, too, listen
to exclamations of horror, perhaps endure avid curiosity. Ivy McLean was the
mother of not just one son in law enforcement, but three. She would have heard
it often enough before to imagine the scene without wanting the details.
Natalie didn't like the idea of putting out a near-stranger, but if she just
took a hot bath and went straight to bed, she didn't have to be much trouble.

"What else do you need?" John asked. "Are you
on any prescriptions? What about a nightgown or clothes for morning?"

Morning would be Saturday, and she wouldn't have to work,
thank heavens.

"My purse," she said, explaining where she'd
dropped it. "The middle drawer in my dresser has jeans, and T-shirts are
in the one below that. I left a sweater draped over a chair in my bedroom.
Nightgowns are in the top drawer."

"Underwear?"

She could rinse out the ones she was wearing. But she'd
sound so missish if she suggested that, Natalie tried to match his
matter-of-fact tone. "There's a small drawer on top next to the
mirror."

"Good enough." John left to go fetch her things.
He and Geoff had a brief discussion she couldn't hear at the door. A moment
later, Natalie heard Geoff telling the Porters he needed to ask them a few
questions.

In the living room, they sat side by side on the couch, Mrs.
Porter clutching her husband's hand. She sat very straight, a dignified, tiny
woman whose dark hair was whitening in streaks, her husband a tall, thin man
whose color was none too good. Her eyes were bright, his dull. Natalie
remembered guiltily that she'd heard something about bypass surgery a few
months back. Had anybody in the neighborhood brought meals or even just
expressed sympathy? Their kindness today made Natalie feel terrible about the
way she'd shrugged off the casually mentioned news.

Geoff's questions were routine. Had they seen or heard
anything out of the ordinary? Cars they didn't recognize?

Shaking her head, Mrs. Porter said, "We grocery shopped
this morning, then had lunch."

So they did actually go out.

"This afternoon Roger mowed the lawn while I deadheaded
the roses. I don't believe a car passed the entire while. Did you see one,
dear?"

He frowned, giving it careful thought. "No. No, I
didn't notice one."

"Then we lay down for a quick nap," his wife continued.
"I'd just begun thinking about putting dinner on."

Geoff thanked them gravely and closed his notebook. Natalie
carefully folded the afghan and laid it on the arm of the chair.

Standing, she smiled even as she felt the hot spurt of
tears. "You've been so kind. I don't know what I would have done if you
hadn't been home. Please, let me know if there's ever anything I can do for
you."

"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Porter stood and came to
Natalie, taking her hand, hers dry but surprisingly strong. "We've wished
we could help you since your husband died! All by yourself in that big house.
You come see us anytime." She turned a commanding gaze on the detective.
"You will let us know when you catch the man who did such an awful thing,
now won't you?"

"It'll be in the newspapers," he promised.

"Assuming you do catch him," she said acerbically,
sounding like her sharp self for the first time tonight.

Geoff's expression became wooden. "We'll do our best,
ma'am."

"See that you do." She gave Natalie's hand a last
squeeze. "Warm milk does help you sleep."

"I'll remember that." Natalie was teary again as
Geoff escorted her out. She must still be in shock. She wasn't usually so
emotional.

"We will catch him," Geoff promised as they
crossed the street. "Count on it."

"I know you will." Natalie paused on the sidewalk
in front of her house and gazed at it, wondering if it would ever seem familiar
and safe again. She felt again the sense of wrongness, and this time, it raised
goose bumps on her skin. She rubbed her forearms. "I only hope you arrest
him soon. It's going to give me the creeps to go home, wondering why they were
in my house and whether
he
could get in again."

"Maybe you
shouldn't
go home." Frowning, Geoff held open
the car door for her. "Until we figure out for sure what they were
after."

She liked the way he worried about her. Even if his concern,
too, was for Stuart's sake.

"Yeah, but I don't want to develop a phobia about my
own house." Natalie sighed and climbed into the passenger seat of the dark
blue car. "We'll see how it goes."

He nodded, as kind in his way as the Porters had been. Voice
gruff, he said, "Just remember, there's a fine line between bravery and
idiocy. Don't push yourself to do something you're uncomfortable with."

"I won't," she promised.

John McLean emerged from the house carrying her overnight
bag and purse. Both she and Geoff turned their heads to watch him cut across
her lawn. She liked watching him move, with the discipline and grace of an
athlete, his stride purposeful and long.

What would she have thought of him if she were a normal
citizen who didn't know the investigating officers? Natalie wondered idly.
Would his physical bulk and the bulge of the gun he carried in a shoulder
holster have intimidated her? She certainly couldn't have known that he had a
dry sense of humor or that his eyes often held a twinkle even as his mouth
remained unsmiling. Or that this cop in a dark, well-cut suit would go home
most days to cook dinner for his children, help them with homework, supervise
baths and tuck them in.

Her mind roved further. If she'd never met Detective John
McLean, if she weren't a widow of barely a year, could she have been attracted
to him?

Jolted, Natalie uttered a small, startled sound that Geoff,
mercifully, seemed not to notice. Where in heck had
that
idea
come from? For goodness' sake, she'd known John for several years and never
once thought of him in those terms! He was Stuart's friend. Period.

No, not period. Of course he'd become her friend, too. Why
else had she needed him so desperately today?

Of course she wasn't attracted to him. She would have
noticed before now.

No, Natalie knew perfectly well what she was doing. John was
an excuse, that's all. What she was avoiding thinking about was her house, and
especially what—who—lay upstairs, or of the cleaning job she'd have afterward.
Would she ever be able to go upstairs again without her heart pounding? Would
she be able to stroll into the den—stepping just where the body now lay—and sit
down to use the computer without a frightened consciousness of where blood had
soaked into the carpet?

Natalie was grateful for the distraction John provided when
he stopped by the open car door. At the same time she noticed that he carried a
brown paper grocery bag in his free arm, she caught the whiff.

"My bread!"

"It seemed a shame to let it go to waste." His
rare smile relaxed his face. "I doubt we're going to lift a fingerprint
from your bread machine."

"Thank you." Those wretched tears threatened again.
If one more person was nice to her, she was going to start sobbing. Natalie
took the grocery bag and wrapped her arms around it, the delicious aroma and
warmth almost as comforting as a hug. She blinked hard. "John, I almost
forgot poor Sasha. She's going to be scared by all the strangers trooping
through."

"Actually, I just shut her in your sewing room."
John cleared his throat. "She was, uh, somewhat annoyed. I doubt you want
her in there, but we can't have her in the den."

"No, that's fine." The fabric could be washed
again before she cut it out, the pattern pieces taped. "Her litter box is
in the garage." As if they wouldn't find it.

"And her food in the kitchen. I saw it. Don't worry.
I'll take care of the cat."

As he'd taken care of her gutters and her Christmas lights
and the rotten branch from the maple tree that had splintered a ten-foot
stretch of the cedar board fence that enclosed her backyard.

"You're always so nice to me." She sounded watery.

The two men exchanged a look.

Seemingly galvanized, John slapped the roof of the car.
"Geoff, you get started here. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

"Then get the hell out of here." Geoff gave her a
crooked smile. "Forget the warm milk. Raid the liquor cabinet."

She laughed through her tears as he closed her door and John
got in behind the wheel.

Chapter
2

«
^
»

N
atalie felt
John's
searching gaze as he started the car.

"You okay?" he asked again, quietly.

"Of course I am!" She wiped wet cheeks. "I don't
know what's wrong with me. Well, yes, of course I do. It shook me up, and I
suppose I'm in shock, a little."

"More than a little." The car accelerated into
traffic on Neah Drive. Speaking deliberately, John said, "The first time I
saw a man who'd been murdered, I stayed cool long enough to get outside and
around the corner of the warehouse where he'd been gunned down. Threw up
everything I'd eaten in the past twenty-four hours. I went back in and did my
job, but every so often I'd find myself looking at him and just being hit by
it—that's a guy like me, flesh and blood. That's what
my
blood
would look like spilling out." He gave his head a shake. "Nothing
brings your own mortality home like the sight of violent death."

"I suppose that's part of it," she admitted.
"I don't like to think that my head…"

His hand closed briefly on her knee. "Most of us don't
walk into a crowbar."

"No. I know." She bit her lip. "But he was in
my house. So maybe…"

When she hesitated, he finished for her. "Next time
someone will take a swing at your head."

Her nod was tiny and slightly ashamed. Shouldn't she be
grieving for the death of even a stranger, feeling—how did it go?—that the loss
of any man diminished her? Instead she felt violated because he had bled out
his life in
her
house.