J. Jance - Until Proven Guilty

Peters grinned. “That won’t be necessary, but you call us if you see anything strange around here, will you?”

Her red hair bobbed up and down. “I will,” she assured us, and we both knew it was true.

We questioned some of the other neighbors and then returned to Faith Tabernacle to canvass that area, looking for leads the whole time. We kept after it all day. For a while it looked as though we were going to come up empty-handed. We were still at it when yellow school buses started discharging passengers in late afternoon. Shortly after that a kid on a bike, probably junior high or so, rode up to where Peters and I were standing.

“You guys detectives?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“I saw someone on a bike this morning when I was on my paper route. I usually cut through the church parking lot to get to the house across the street. It’s the last one on my route. Someone was just leaving the front of the church. He was in a hurry.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

He shook his head. “It was too dark. I only saw the reflectors on the bike’s wheels.”

“What time was it?”

Again he shook his head. “I don’t know. My dad gets home from work about two — he’s a janitor — and he wakes me up. I deliver my papers and go back to bed. That way I can have breakfast with everybody else in the morning. I usually get home around three. This is my last house.”

He couldn’t give us much more than that. We took his name, address, and phone number and thanked him.

“Nice kid,” Peters said as we watched him wheel his bike back down the street.

“He came within an inch of getting himself killed this morning. If he’d seen him, I don’t think our killer would’ve hesitated pulling the trigger again.”

About six-thirty we went back to the department to dictate our reports. We finished about an hour later. Peters offered me a ride home, and I accepted. It had been a long day.

The lights were off in the apartment when I came in. I felt a jab of disappointment. I had hoped all day that Anne would be there when I came home. It had been years since someone had been at home waiting to welcome me. I fixed a drink and went to the bedroom to hang up my jacket. Anne was there in my bed, curled up and sound asleep. I beat a hasty retreat to the shower, overwhelmed with gratitude for my good fortune.

Clean-shaven and showered, I slipped into bed beside her. She snuggled against me. When I nuzzled her neck, she stirred. “Good evening, Sleeping Beauty.”

She smiled contentedly as my fingers caressed her breast. “Does that make you Prince Charming?”

“Or his grandfather.”

She laughed. “You’re not that old, are you?”

“I feel that old,” I replied. I studied her. She had to be over thirty, but she looked as young as twenty-five. I could feel my body hardening, wanting her, yet I held back, too. Her fingers trailed through the hair on my chest, drumming a tattoo that reverberated through my head.

“You don’t feel old to me,” she said. The texture of her nipple changed beneath my hand. She pulled her hair to one side, exposing the smooth skin of her bare neck. I kissed her there, feeling her body go taut, her response immediate and palpable. There was an urgency in her kisses, a hungry need that overtook us both. In responding to that need, age was no longer an issue.

Her lovemaking taxed my skill and knowledge, taking me far beyond the gradual experiments Karen and I had evolved together. Anne required nothing less than full satisfaction and gave it as well, her body an exquisitely tuned instrument responding vibrantly to the slightest touch.

It pains me to admit that in things sexual, Anne just flat knew more than I did. Later, as she lay in my arms, satiated and content, I remembered how much she knew and it began to bother me. I began to wonder how she had come to know so much. I began to want to piece together Anne’s romantic past. I was rational enough to know it was none of my business, but that didn’t stop me. It’s a kind of inquisitor mentality that makes me think I’ve been in this business too long. It also makes me realize what a prude I am. I guess deep down, like most men, I wanted the woman I loved to be a virgin. An adept virgin.

Eventually Anne slipped out of bed. “What do you eat around here?” she asked. “I’ve seen better-stocked refrigerators in motel rooms.”

“I don’t cook. I eat out.”

“When? I’m starved.”

“For what?”

“For food. Any kind.”

I thought about the Porsche and the fur jacket. I thought about the Doghouse. I thought about age and sex and money. We were worlds apart, yet I wanted us to end up in the same orbit. “Well, if you’re tough enough, I’ll introduce you to one of my favorite hangouts. Believe me, reservations won’t be necessary.”

She took a red sweatsuit out of her Adidas bag. I watched her pull it on, marveling at her sleek, firm body. I drew her to me and zipped up the top. “How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“Stay in shape.”

“Oh, that,” she said laughing. “I jog, I ride, do aerobics, lift weights. Anything else you’d like to know? Measurements, weight?”

“As a matter of fact, I want to know everything.”

“For instance,” she teased.

“I wrapped my arms around her. ”For instance, tell me about your sister, Patty. What happened to her?“

She stiffened in my arms. “No,” she said quietly. She moved away. I caught a glimpse of her face as she turned. A curtain had come down over her gray eyes. They were suddenly solemn and distant. “Don’t ask me that again.” It was a statement, not a request.

I had blundered onto dangerous ground, and I would do well to be more wary in the future. I see that in cops all the time, had seen it in Peters and myself. We can talk about crime in the abstract; just don’t bring it too close to home.

Anne reached into her bag, pulling out a brand-new pair of jogging shoes. She held them up for my approval. “I went shopping today,” she said in a halfhearted attempt at gaiety. It didn’t take.

We walked to dinner. I tried to recapture the evening’s earlier, lighter mood without success. Anne had crossed over her solitary bridge and left me alone on the other side. What exactly had she told me about Patty? I wondered. That she had died when Anne was eight? Why, then, did the mere mention of Patty more than twenty years later cause such a reaction?

Connie welcomed us with a knowing wink that set my teeth on edge. It got worse when she brought the menus. She gave Anne an appraising once-over. “I heard you were pretty, honey, but that don’t hardly do you justice.”

I bit. “How’d you hear that?”

She grinned. “I’ve got me some confidential sources. The clam strips are good tonight, and we’ve got liver and onions on the special.”

I watched for any hint of disdain as Anne perused the menu. There was none, no hint of snobbishness. She ordered the special, then waited, oblivious to her surroundings, still far removed from me and from the present.

“Hello,” I said at length, trying to get her attention. “Where are you?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you’d take me along when you go.”

She gave me a searching look. “How did you know I was somewhere else?”

“For one thing, I asked you twice if you wanted a glass of wine.”

Connie slung a cup of coffee in my direction and returned with one for Anne when I gave her the high sign. We were halfway through dinner when Maxwell Cole showed up. I thought it was an unfortunate coincidence. I found out later he had been in and out three times earlier in the evening looking for me.