Maternal Instinct (24 page)

These three days at
Kalaloch
, married almost despite herself to a man she had firmly believed not so long ago that she despised, Nell let herself be happy.

At home, they'd be arguing in two minutes. She didn't even want to think about the daily grind of marriage. There was so much they hadn't talked about! She didn't know whether he left dirty socks on the bedroom floor and blobs of toothpaste in the sink, whether he'd want to hang out with his brothers or buddies five nights a week. She didn't know whether his passion for her would wane quickly, whether he'd criticize her housekeeping, her cooking or her appearance. Whether the fact that they weren't in love would irritate them both like a tiny bit of gravel in a shoe, a minor annoyance that eventually raises a blister that becomes raw.

At
Kalaloch
, she didn't let any of that matter. He wanted her, he smiled at her, he talked to her. In fact, she'd never in her life talked to anybody the way she did with Hugh, never had anybody listen as he did. They seemed never to run out of things to say, as if both were hungry to hear about the other's childhood, fears, joys, phobias and quirks.

As if by unspoken agreement, they steered away from subjects like money, a future division of labor, how he'd feel living in her house… She tried not to be prickly, and he checked his male ego for the weekend—except when they were in bed, and then his ego, as well as the rest of him, seemed to be amply satisfied.

The job, they did discuss, most often during long walks on the beach or while resting with their backs to smooth gray ocean-polished logs.

That first morning, they'd walked several miles during low tide, picking up two perfect sand dollars left lying like gifts on the wet sand, one for each of them. Now, far down the beach, they sat, Nell with her feet buried in sand.

"We won't be working together anymore," Nell said.

Hugh was watching the slowly moving light of a freighter far out to sea. "Unfortunately."

A moment of gloom penetrated her contentment. "I'm going to be stuck behind a desk."

"To be honest," he glanced at her, "I'm glad. You scared the crap out of me when you got shot."

Tension lifted its quills. What if he had visions of her quitting work? She was a cop just as much as he was! Carefully, she asked, "Because I'm pregnant?"

"Because—" He broke off abruptly and rubbed the back of his neck. "No. It was you I was afraid for."

Trying to sound reasonable, she pointed out, "I'll have to worry about you just as much."

"I know." He gave her a wry grin. "I'm a sexist pig. I don't like women getting shot at. Just … give me time, okay? I know you're a cop. I don't expect you to quit. But right now, while you're carrying the baby, maybe I'll feel better if you're not out on the street. Is that unreasonable?"

A part of her—the coward—wanted it to be. Wanted a reason to take offense, to believe he didn't understand
her,
Nell
Granstrom
. It would let her go into emotional retreat. But she wouldn't take such an easy out.

"No," she admitted. "I am tired a lot. I'll survive five or six months of paperwork." She eyed him. "Are you going to give up on Ryman's murder?"

His brows drew together. "No. I think I have John half-convinced. Did I tell you?" When she shook her head, he continued, "I laid it out again, and this time I shook him. But when he asked what I'd do next, I had to admit I'm getting stymied. We've talked to everybody."

"We haven't come clean and said, 'Gann didn't kill this guy. One of you did.'"

"We'd look like fools if we never pinned one of 'em with it. Can't you imagine the media picking up the story? They'd decide we were trying to cover up for our own incompetence in losing the damn gun."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's possible."

"Are we imagining things?"

Nell took his hand. "You know we're not."

"My money is still on St. Clair."

"That's just because you think he flirted with me."

He grinned at her. "Not true. I don't like him because he flirted with you. I think he killed Ryman because he had the best opportunity. And because he had the sequence of shots mixed up. Why is he claiming the first shot was the one a few feet from him?"

"Because he's so shaken up, it's all tangled in his mind. Personally,
my
money is on Margaret Bissell," Nell countered. "She's cold. I think she could kill, if she had good enough reason."

He grunted. "Greater Northwest is going to complain if we go back again and again to interview their employees. It's going to start looking like harassment."

She nodded thoughtfully. It was true that they had done everything that seemed practical. They'd learned that half a dozen workers on the fifth floor had concealed weapons permits, but none of the guns registered to them matched the caliber of the murder weapon. Several of the chattier employees agreed that Margaret Bissell had had an affair with Jerome Ryman the year before, although no one could figure out how they'd worked up the heat, given that both were cool workaholics. There was general agreement, too, that the affair had ended some months before, but no one knew why, as neither were the type to throw a scene at the office. "Maybe it just dwindled," Carrie
Engen
had said doubtfully.

Competition for Dermot Eaton's job was fierce, Hugh and Nell had learned, but thus far civilized. And, as Hugh had said, people rarely killed for a promotion.

Clearly, nobody
liked
Ryman, but again—normal people didn't murder a colleague just because he was a self-righteous, egotistical, humorless prig. Result…

"We're nowhere," Hugh said unhappily.

Nell leaned her head against his shoulder. "This really matters to you, doesn't it?"

He moved uneasily. "Maybe I just don't want to admit I was wrong."

"But we're agreed you weren't wrong."

He grunted and sat in frowning silence for a minute that stretched into another. "It has to do with my father's murder," he said at last. "I told you the guy who shot him and a bunch of others was never caught, didn't I?"

"I remember."

Hugh gave a heavy sigh. "I guess Ryman's murder has started to feel symbolic to me. I mean, Gann's dead. I can't slap him in handcuffs. All the lives he took, all the husbands or wives who'll have to grieve, all the kids who'll grow up without their mom or dad—he never had to look at them and see what he'd done. In a way, he's gotten away with it, too. You know what I mean?"

"Mm-
hm
," she murmured.

"Ryman's got kids. Did you know that?"

She vaguely had. "Don't they live with his ex?"

"Yeah, but they spent a lot of weekends with him. If he had a soft side, it was for them. He's got two girls, ten and twelve years old. I saw a picture of them in the newspaper. From his funeral." He was silent for a moment. "Gave me a kind of … flashback."

"You want this murderer to pay for their sake." Nell rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and his arm tightened around her. "And for your mother's, and your own."

His chest rose and fell, and his voice was a mere rumble against her hair. "I'm kidding myself. It's not for the sake of Ryman's daughters. They think Gann killed their dad. They're as satisfied as they can be, considering they just stood at their father's gravesite. No, I've made this personal, and I shouldn't."

Nell pulled back to look at him. "Why?" she asked with spirit. "If we can't do our jobs with some passion, what does that make us? Robots?"

His expression was grim. "The danger is, when do we become vigilantes? When do we care more about satisfying our own egos than we do about justice?"

She smiled at him. "You do think about these things! And here I was always convinced you
were
a robot. During all those arguments we've had about tempering the demands of the law with mercy, I was sure you didn't even get my side! What were you doing? Playing devil's advocate?"

"No." The faintest amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Expressing a man's less fuzzy-headed point of view. Oh, yeah." His smile became wicked. "And annoying the piss out of you."

"That was fun?" she asked in outrage.

"Hell, yes." Abruptly, he moved, his shoulders blotting out the world. His voice had become husky, his eyes molten with banked hunger as his smile faded. "I liked irritating you. It was the only reaction I seemed able to get out of you."

Her own eyes heavy-lidded, she murmured, "Oh, you were getting another reaction. You just didn't notice."

"When I think of the time we've wasted," Hugh muttered, just before his mouth found hers.

She wanted to say again,
Don't pretend,
but he didn't give her a chance. And, perhaps sadly, she liked nothing more than pretending. That he loved her, that this was a normal honeymoon, that their marriage would last forever. Pretending she believed in all those ridiculous fairy-tale endings.

Arms wrapped around his strong neck, mouth parted under his, Nell thought, with bittersweet pain and joy mixed inextricably,
I
don't really believe he loves me. But, just for these few days, I won't let myself think about the fact that he doesn't. I'll … not pretend, but hope. That was all right, wasn't it?

The hope scared her a little, but answering his kiss with all the passion she felt, Nell gave herself permission anyway.

Just for these few days.

Chapter 11

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^
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"
M
rs. McLean
!" Finding Hugh's mother—good heavens, her brand-new mother-in-law!—on the doorstep, Nell couldn't help the surprise in her voice.

"Is this a bad time?" Ivy McLean asked with dignity.

Grateful that she'd changed into sweats instead of her pajamas, as she'd been tempted to do after work, Nell exclaimed, "No, not at all! Please, come in. Have you eaten? I just had dinner, but I could warm up leftovers…"

"I've eaten, thank you." Her mother-in-law followed her into the living room, her carriage regal, her outfit elegant.

Nell enviously eyed Ivy's salmon-pink, silk blouse paired with rust-brown slacks. Why didn't anything she wore ever look that classy?

Maybe, she thought ruefully, because she didn't like shopping enough ever to have clothes that matched, never mind having added the accessories like the silk scarf or earrings that coordinated so perfectly.

Minding her manners, she said, "I was just going to have a cup of coffee. Can I get you one, too?"

"Thank you." Ivy sat at one end of the couch, spine straight.

Nell escaped to the kitchen, glad her mother-in-law couldn't see the dirty dishes still heaped in the sink. The coffeemaker had done its thing, and she poured two cups, putting them with sugar and powdered creamer on a seldom-used tray, which she carried carefully into the living room and set on the coffee table.

"How nice." Ivy stirred a half teaspoonful of creamer into her coffee. Glancing around, she added, "Your place is delightful. A real home."

"Thank you." Even the slightest pause felt awkward. Nell asked hurriedly, "Were you hoping to see Hugh? I'm afraid he's at work."

"Yes, he mentioned that he would be working swing shift this next month or so. How difficult, when you're just married."

"It's a little odd," Nell admitted. "I feel as if I hardly see him." They'd only been on this schedule for four days, but already some of the intimacy of their honeymoon weekend had evaporated. In the early morning she'd creep out of bed, leaving him sprawled in bed sound asleep, shower and slip downstairs to grab a quick bite and leave for work. As she was getting off at the end of her shift, they exchanged a greeting in the hall at work, Nell on her way to the parking garage, Hugh on his way to the briefing room for roll call. Nell tried to stay up until he got home near midnight, but had already fallen asleep a couple of the nights. They'd made love twice, with none of the playfulness they'd shared over the weekend.

Ivy set down her coffee cup with a purposeful air. "I thought this might be a good time for us to get acquainted. We had so little chance to talk before the wedding."