Sacred Sins (35 page)

“Are you trying to convince me that you're not good enough for me because of cultural, educational, and genealogical differences?”

“Don't start that shit with me.”

“All right. Let's try another approach.” She pulled him into the tub.

“What the hell are you doing?” He spit out bubbles. “I'm still dressed.”

“I can't help it if you're slow.” Before he could regain his balance, she slid her arms around him and closed her mouth over his. Often, even a psychiatrist knows it's action rather than words that gets to the core. She felt the tension ebb and flow before he reached for her. “Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think it's relevant, at the moment, that your father sold used cars and mine didn't?”

“No.”

“Good.” She drew back, and laughing, brushed bubbles from his chin. “Now, how are we going to manage to get your pants off?”

T
HE
pizza was stone cold, but they didn't leave a crumb. Ben waited until she'd dumped the carton.

“I bought you a present.”

“You did?” Surprised, and foolishly pleased, she looked at the paper bag he offered. “Why?”

“Questions, always questions.” Then he drew it back as she reached for it. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He moved closer, close enough to slip an arm around her waist. The scent of the bath was on both of them. Her hair was pinned up and damp. “Well, I think I'm going out of my head. Yes, I think I'm going out of my head, over you.”

She let her eyes close slowly for the kiss. “Little Anthony,” she murmured, playing the tune over in her head. “Was it 1961, '62?”

“I figured you being a shrink, you'd fall for that approach.”

“You're right.”

“Don't you want your present?”

“Umm-hmm. But I think you have to let me go so I can open the bag.”

“Then don't take too long.” He gave it to her, watching her expression as she looked inside. It couldn't have been better—the blank frown, the surprise, then the amusement.

“A dead bolt. God, Ben, you know how to sweep a woman off her feet.”

“Yeah, it's a real talent.”

Her lips curved as she pressed them against his. “I'll always treasure it. If it was a little less bulky, I'd wear it next to my heart.”

“It's going to be in your door in less than an hour. I put my tools in the kitchen closet the other day.”

“Handy too.”

“Why don't you see if there's something you can do for a while. Otherwise, I'll make you watch.”

“I'll come up with something,” she promised, and left him to it.

While he worked, Tess edited a lecture she was to give at George Washington University the following month. The buzz of the drill and clank of metal against wood didn't disturb her. She began to wonder how she had ever tolerated the total silence of her life before him.

When her lecture was in order and the files she'd brought home dealt with, she turned to see him just finishing up. The lock looked bright and secure.

“That should do it.”

“My hero.”

He shut the door, held up a pair of keys, then set them on the table. “Just use it. I'll put my tools away and wash up. You can sweep the floor.”

“Sounds fair.” As she walked toward the door, she paused to turn on the television for the news.

Though there seemed to be more mess than the small lock warranted, Tess swept the sawdust into the pan without complaint. She was straightening up, the pan and broom still in her hands, when the top story came on.

“Police discovered the bodies of three people in an apartment in North West. Responding to the concern of a neighbor, police broke into the apartment late this afternoon. The victims had been stabbed repeatedly while bound with clothesline. Identified were Jonas Leery, Kathleen Leery, his wife, and Paulette Leery, their teenaged daughter. Robbery is thought to be the motive. We'll switch to Bob Burroughs on the scene for more details.”

A husky, athletic-looking reporter appeared on the screen, holding a microphone and gesturing at the brick building behind him. Tess turned and saw Ben just outside the kitchen doorway. She knew immediately that he'd seen the inside of the building himself.

“Oh, Ben, it must have been dreadful.”

“They'd been dead ten, maybe twelve hours. The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen.” The memory of it had the acid burning in his stomach. “They'd carved her up like a piece of meat.”

“I'm sorry.” She set everything aside and went to him. “Let's sit down.”

“You get to a point,” he said, still watching the screen, “you get to a point where it's almost, almost routine. Then you walk into something like that apartment today. You walk in and your stomach turns over. You think, God, it's not real. It can't be real because people can't do that kind of thing to each other. But you know, deep down, you know they can.”

“Sit down, Ben,” she murmured, easing them both onto the couch. “Do you want me to turn it off?”

“No.” But he rested his head in his hands for a minute, then dragged them through his hair before he straightened. The on-the-scene reporter was talking to a weeping neighbor.

“Paulette used to baby-sit my little boy. She was a sweet girl. I can't believe this. I just can't believe it.”

“Those bastards'll go down,” Ben said half to himself. “There was a coin collection. A fucking coin collection worth eight hundred, maybe a thousand. Fenced, it might bring half that. They butchered those people for a bunch of old coins.”

She glanced back at the lock, now firmly in her door, and understood why he'd brought it to her tonight. She drew him close, and in the way women have of offering comfort, rested his head against her breast.

“They'll pawn the coins, then you'll trace them.”

“We've got a couple other leads. We'll have them tomorrow, the day after at the latest. But those people, Tess … sweet Christ, as long as I've been in this, I still can't believe anything human could do that.”

“I can't tell you not to think about it, but I can tell you I'm here for you.”

Knowing it, knowing it was just that simple, dulled the horror of the day. She was there for him, and for tonight, for a few hours, he could make that all that mattered.

“I need you.” He shifted, bringing her over into his lap so that he could nuzzle at her throat. “It scares the hell out of me.”

“I know.”

T
ESS
, I
DON
'
T
know. I'm not at my best with senators.” Ben sent Lowenstein a snarl as she grinned over at him, then turned his back, cradling the phone between shoulder and jaw.

“He's my grandfather, Ben, and really rather sweet.”

“I've never heard anyone call Senator Jonathan Writemore a sweetheart.”

Pilomento called him from across the room, so Ben nodded and gestured with a finger to hold him off.

“That's because I'm not doing his P.R. In any case, it's Thanksgiving, and I don't want to disappoint him. And you did tell me your parents live in Florida.”

“They're over sixty-five. Parents are supposed to move to Florida when they hit sixty-five.”

“So you don't have any family to have Thanksgiving dinner with. I'm sure Grandpa would like to meet you.”

“Yeah.” He tugged at the neck of his sweater. “Look, I've always had this policy about going to meet family.”

“Which is?”

“I don't do it.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Questions,” he muttered under his breath. “When I
was younger my mother always wanted me to bring the girl I was seeing home. Then my mother and the girl would get ideas.”

“I see.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“Anyway, I made a policy—I don't take women to see my mother, and I don't go to see theirs. That way nobody gets the idea to start picking out silver patterns.”

“I'm sure you have a point. I can promise that neither my grandfather nor I will discuss silver patterns if you join us for dinner. Miss Bette makes a terrific pumpkin pie.”

“Fresh?”

“Absolutely.” A smart woman knew when to back off. “You've got some time to think about it. I wouldn't have bothered you with it now, but with everything that's been going on, I'd forgotten the whole thing myself until Grandpa called a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I'll give it some thought.”

“And don't worry. If you decide against it, I'll still bring you a piece of pie. I've got a patient waiting.”

“Tess—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” he repeated. “See you later.”

“Paris.”

“Sorry.” He hung up the phone and turned. “What you got?”

Pilomento handed him a sheet of paper. “We finally tracked down that name the neighbor gave us.”

“The guy who was hanging around the Leery girl?”

“Right. Amos Reeder. Not much of a description because the neighbor only saw him come by once. Creepy looking was about the upshot, but she admitted she only saw him go to the Leerys' once, and there wasn't any trouble.”

Ben was already picking up his jacket. “We always check out creepy looking.”

“I got an address and rap sheet.”

Before he stuffed his pack of cigarettes into his pocket, he noted with some disgust that he only had two left. “What'd he do time for?”

“When he was seventeen he carved another kid up for pocket money. Reeder had a nickle bag of pot in his pocket and a line of needle marks on his arm. Other kid pulled through, Reeder was tried as a minor, got drug rehab. Harris said you and Jackson should have a talk with him.”

“Thanks.” Taking the papers, he headed to the conference room, where Ed had his head together with Bigsby on the Priest homicide. “Saddle up,” Ben said briefly, and started toward the door.

Ed lumbered beside him, already bundling into his coat. “What's up?”

“Got a lead on the Leery case. Young punk who likes knives was hanging around the girl. Thought we might chat awhile.”

“Sounds good.” Ed settled comfortably in the car. “How about Tammy Wynette?”

“Kiss ass.” Ben punched in a cassette of
Goat's Head Soup
. “Tess called a few minutes ago.”

Ed opened one eye. He considered it best to handle the Rolling Stones blind. “Problem?”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess. She wants me to have Thanksgiving dinner with her grandfather.”

“Whoa, turkey with Senator Writemore. Think he needs a caucus to decide whether it's going to be oyster or chestnut dressing?”

“I knew I was going to get grief on this.” More for spite than out of desire, Ben pulled out a cigarette.

“It's okay, I got it out of my system. So you're going to have Thanksgiving dinner with Tess and her grand-daddy. What's the problem?”

“First it's Thanksgiving, then before you know it, it's
Sunday brunch. Then Aunt Mabel's coming over to check you out.”

Ed dug in his pocket, decided to save the yogurt-covered raisins for later, and settled for sugarless gum. “Does Tess have an Aunt Mabel?”

“Try to follow the trend here, Ed.” He downshifted and brought the car to a halt at a stop sign. “You turn around twice and you're invited to her cousin Laurie's wedding and her Uncle Joe is punching you in the ribs with his elbow and asking when you're going to take the plunge.”

“All that because of mashed potatoes and gravy.” Ed shook his head. “Amazing.”

“I've seen it happen. I tell you, it's scary.” “Ben, you've got bigger things to worry about than if Tess has an Aunt Mabel. Scarier things.”

“Oh, yeah, like what?”

“Do you know how much undigested red meat is clogging up your intestines?”

“Jesus, that's disgusting.”

“You're telling me. My point here, Ben, is that you can worry about nuclear waste, acid rain, and your own cholesterol intake. Keep these things in the front of your mind and join the senator for dinner. If he starts looking like he's ready to welcome you into the family, do something to throw him off.”

“Such as?”

“Eat your cranberry sauce with your fingers. Here's the place.”

Ben pulled up at the curb then tossed his cigarette through the crack of his window. “You've been a big help, Ed. Thanks.”

“Any time. How do you want to handle this?”