Jessica Andersen - Under the Microscope

She stirred, forcing a weak smile at the joke. “That’s one rescue I’ll hold you to, Vasek.” She looked down at her hands. “It’s not the warrant. Or not just the warrant. It’s everything.” Her gesture encompassed the vehicle, the passing scenery and the two of them. “On Monday I was sitting in my office with two of my most trusted employees watching the first of the Thriller ads debut on national TV. Now it’s Friday and I’m a fugitive, thanks to one of those trusted employees. I’ve got no home, no office, and quite possibly no way to fix either of those things.” She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing.”

“You’ve got me,” he said without thinking.

The words hung motionless for a few heartbeats, then sank with a sigh.

Raine was exhausted by the time they pulled off at a hotel outside New York City rather than fight the weekend traffic. She’d done little more than sit in rental cars-they’d switched from the sedan to a pickup truck near D.C.-for the past few days, but her bones ached and her joints pinged a protest when she dropped down from the vehicle.

She must have groaned, because Max chuckled softly. “Come on. You hit the shower and I’ll order food.”

Max rented two rooms and they met in his for dinner without even discussing it. Still bone-tired, though less achy after her shower, Raine headed back to her room after nearly falling asleep in her rubbery room service pasta.

This time, though, there was no good-night kiss.

As Raine lay in bed, rapidly fading toward sleep, she realized it was because they had reached a plateau of sorts, or maybe a pinnacle. One more kiss, one more touch might unbalance their equilibrium and send them hurtling down one side of the mountain or the other.

She snorted into the darkness, which smelled of cheap hotel. “And the award for the worst metaphor of the night goes to…Raine Montgomery!”

But thinking of her and Max was better than thinking of a warrant with her name on it. Easier than thinking of Baby Summerton, or a girl named Minni whose “kin” hadn’t mourned her death.

Simpler than thinking about what came next.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, they set off just after eight. Max had pushed the schedule back because he was familiar with the city, and figured traffic shouldn’t be too awful on a Saturday morning.

A rolled cement truck on the bridge meant they didn’t get to the stately old brick home until near 10:00 a.m. There, they found a computer-generated flier pinned to the door.

“Memorial services start at ten,” Raine read, then frowned. “The examiners released Denise Allen’s body awfully quick, didn’t they?” Then she winced. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it to.”

“Valid point, though.” Max frowned at the flier, which offered directions to a nearby church. “Either they’re holding a memorial now and planning the burial for later, or someone leaned on the morgue to expedite processing.” He glanced over at her. “I’m betting on the latter.”

Her eyes had gone hollow in her face. “We should go to the service.”

Though he’d been thinking the same thing, Max wished there were another way. Raine was doing her best, but the interviews were taking a toll. She’d become more and more withdrawn as the days had passed.

Regardless of whether it was toxicity or murder, four innocent women had died because of her drug.

Before he could say anything, she shot him a look. “Don’t coddle me, Vasek. I’m fine.”

He nodded shortly. “Let’s head over to the memorial, then.”

Despite what most television cop dramas suggested, Max had no hope that the killer would be sitting in a back pew. But the gathering might give them access to friends and family members who might have additional information on Denise’s lifestyle.

There had to be a pattern somewhere. A risk factor. A reason the women had died.

Or been killed.

The church was a few blocks from the Allens’ stately home. It, too, spoke with the quiet under-tones of old money, which was evident in the profusions of fresh off-season flowers and the plush cloth of the bolsters and curtains. Vivid stained glass windows showed scenes of sin and redemption and God’s forgiveness, and the air carried the scents of incense and lilies.

Max drew a deep breath and felt something loosen in his chest. Though he had attended church less and less frequently over the past few years, the sounds and sights and smells reminded him of childhood services. Most of the neighborhood congregation had been related to him in one way or another, and the services had been simple and easy for his younger self to understand.

Honor thy family and neighbors. Protect those weaker than yourself. Do no harm.

It was the last two he kept getting stuck on when it came to Raine, he thought as they took a pew six rows from the back so as not to disturb the seated mourners or the memorial, which was already in progress.

A closed casket of polished wood sat at the front of the room, draped with flowers. An enlarged photograph of a woman in her mid-thirties sat atop the flowers, propped up so the mourners could see Denise Allen as she’d been in life.

A podium stood to the left of the casket; a man in cleric’s robes stepped away from the microphone and gestured a tall, gray-suited man forward.

Gray Suit leaned too close to the microphone, eliciting a hum of feedback when he started to speak. He eased away and tried again. “I know it might seem strange for me to eulogize my ex-wife, but just because we were divorced doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other anymore. Let me give you an example.” He launched into a rambling story about the gym workouts he and Denise had apparently shared until her death. The longer he spoke, the more he used the word I and the less he actually said about his ex-wife.

“Nice guy,” Max muttered. He glanced over at Raine, saw her fidget uncomfortably in her seat. Leaning close, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Sorry. Churches give me the creeps.”

Before Max could ask why, a tall, willowy woman with ash-blond hair and a feminine black suit leaned into their pew. “Is there room for one more?”

“Yes. Please join us.” Raine scooted over until the edge of her tailored business pants brushed up against Max’s jeans.

The woman glanced at their casual clothing, but didn’t comment. She faced forward for a minute before she grimaced and whispered, “He’s so full of it.” She turned to Raine and mouthed, “Don’t you think so?”

Raine made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know him well.”

“You must know Denise from the shelter, then?”

“Something like that.”

Max gave Raine points for playing it off so casually, though he did get a kink of amusement that the woman had apparently placed them in the soup kitchen Ike had noted as one of Denise Allen’s regular haunts. Then again, he supposed three days of doing laundry in hotel sinks hadn’t done his and Raine’s wardrobes any favors.

The blonde leaned closer and confided, “Doug is a real piece of work. As you can see, he likes to be the center of attention.” She gestured to the front of the room, where the speaker appeared to be suppressing tears as he talked about how much the divorce had affected him. “I’m surprised he’s up there, though. I would’ve thought he’d be hiding out.”

That got Max’s attention. “Why is that?”

The blonde’s eyes flicked to him. “Because Denise wasn’t using the jazz juice with him, that’s why. She was at a party with me.”

“Jazz juice?” Max prompted, aware that Raine had gone still.

The woman’s lips curved. “That’s what we call it, anyway. It was Denise’s idea-Thriller dissolved in champagne. Double the bubbles.”