Jeffery Deaver - XO

“I decided to play it safe and we got out through the side window of the safe house just as Myra arrived and engaged Tim.” A nod toward Raymond. “We know what happened next.”

P. K. Madigan pointed his spoon at the man in the wheelchair. “You sure you don’t want any ice cream?”

“Not my vice of choice,” the criminalist said.

Crystal Stanning walked into the sheriff’s office. “We just found the good Samaritan.”

“Who?” Madigan asked in blunt impatience. Apparently forgetting he was a civilian.

“The woman who gave Edwin directions when he got lost.”

Ah, Alibi Woman.

“Edwin was right. It was at the same time Sheri Towne was attacked. And she positively identified him.”

Madigan sighed. “Well, we got this one wrong, boys and girls. Get Sharp in here. I for one am going to apologize.”

A moment later Edwin was escorted into the office and he looked around a little bewildered. His hair was askew. He seemed a bit dizzy, though he was fascinated with Rhyme and the wheelchair.

Gonzalez explained what had happened-which included the revelation that most of the emails he’d received from Kayleigh were fake, not from her at all.

Dance noted his face fall. “She didn’t send them?”

Thick silence for a moment and Dance said, “She sent a few but, I’m sorry, Edwin, the ones actually from her were just form letters. Like she sent to everybody.”

Edwin slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “I never would’ve gotten so… you know, funny about her, if I knew. Think about it, somebody as pretty and talented and famous as her tells you she’s interested in you, that you mean a lot to her… what was I supposed to think?”

“I understand, Edwin,” Dance said kindly.

Madigan said, “I’m sorry too, son.”

Edwin said nothing for a moment, eyes again on the wheelchair. “So, I’m not a suspect or anything?”

“Nope,” Harutyun said.

He nodded and then focused on Madigan. “Well, then, I don’t have much interest in that complaint I made against you, Detective. And Deputy Lopez. I was just doing what I needed to. It was like self-defense, you understand.”

“I do, and that’s good of you, Edwin. Fact is, when it comes to Kayleigh, we all get a little overly enthusiastic.”

“I’d kind of like to leave now. Is that okay?”

“Sure is, son. We’ll get a statement from you later or tomorrow about what happened with Simesky and the woman-the kidnapping. I’ll have somebody get you home now. You’re in no shape to drive. You can pick up your car tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Detective.” Shoulders down, chest collapsed, he headed out the door. Despite the fact he was hard to read kinesically, Dance could see genuine sorrow in his posture.

IN THE SERVICE area of the sheriff’s office Lincoln Rhyme aimed for the ramp leading outside. He was accompanied by his New York companions, as well as Kathryn Dance and Michael O’Neil. “Time for a drink, I’d say, then back to San Jose.”

“Time for coffee in the van,” Thom corrected, his boss.

“ I’m not driving,” Rhyme replied acerbically. “ I can drink.”

“But,” his aide countered fast, “I’m sure it’s illegal to have open containers of liquor in a moving vehicle, even if you’re not driving.”

“It’s not open,” Rhyme snapped. “My tumbler has a lid on it.”

The aide said thoughtfully, “We could of course stay here talking but that just means we’ll get to the bar in San Jose that much later.”

Rhyme scoffed but the expression vanished as he said good-bye to the law enforcers and, with a smooth gesture, lifted his working right arm to Dance and gripped her hand. She kissed his cheek, then embraced Sachs.

O’Neil added, “I’ll see you both Sunday. I’m bringing the kids over.” He glanced at Sachs. “You’re interested, we just got the new H &K MP7.”

“The little bullet.”

“Right. Smaller than a BB, seventeen-caliber. You want to come out to the range and put some holes in paper on Monday?”

“You bet I do,” Sachs said enthusiastically.

“Kathryn?” O’Neil asked.

“I’ll pass, I think. I’ll hang out with Lincoln and Thom.”

And with Jon Boling too? she wondered, then stepped on that thought.

The trio from New York headed out the door.

O’Neil too said good-bye to the locals, and Dance walked with him outside into the sultry air.

“You in a hurry to get back?” she found herself asking. Hadn’t planned it. She was thinking they might have dinner, just the two of them.

A pause. She could tell he too wanted to stay. But then he shook his head. “Thing is, Anne’s driving down from San Francisco, picking up some things. I ought to be there.” He looked away. “And the papers’ll be ready tomorrow, the settlement agreement.”

“So soon?”

“She didn’t want much.”

Also, a woman who cheats on her husband and abandons her children probably isn’t in much of a position to demand much, Dance reflected. “You doing okay?” One of those pointless questions that’s usually more about the asker than the askee.

“Relieved, sad, pissed off, worried about the kids.” As lengthy a discussion of his emotional health as she’d ever heard from Michael O’Neil.

Silence for a moment.

Then he gave a smile. “Okay, better go.”

But before he turned Dance found herself impulsively reaching up, one hand behind his neck, her arm around his back, and pulling him close. She kissed him hard on the mouth.

She thought, No, no, what the hell are you doing? Step back.

Yet by then his arms were enveloping her completely and he was kissing her back, just as firmly.

Then finally, he eased away. Came in for one more kiss and she gripped him even harder and then stood back.

She expected an oblique glance-his waiting state-but O’Neil stared easily into her eyes and she looked back just as comfortably. Their smiles matched.

Brother, what have I done now?

Kissed the man I truly love, she thought. And that unexpected thought was more stunning than the contact itself.

Then he was in the car. “I’ll call you when I get back. See you on Sunday.”

“Drive carefully,” she said. A phrase that had set her on edge when her parents would tell teenage Kathryn the same. As if, oh, right, I was going to drive off the road until you reminded me.

But as a woman who’d lost one husband to the highway, it was a sentence she could not stop herself from uttering occasionally. He closed the door, glanced at her again and lifted his left palm to the inside windshield and she pressed her right to the glass outside.

He put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot.

“IF THAT DON’T beat all,” Bishop Towne said, sipping his milk.

“Right,” Dance said to him and his daughter, on the front porch of his house. “Edwin was innocent. Didn’t kill a soul. Totally set up.”

“He’s still a shit.”

“Daddy.”

“He’s a little fucking shit and I wouldn’t mind if he went to jail for something. But it’s good to know he’s not going to be a problem anymore.” The grizzled musician squinted at Dance. “He’s not, is he?”

“I don’t think so. He’s mostly sad that Kayleigh didn’t send him those personal emails and letters, the ones Simesky made up.”

“We should sue those bastards,” Bishop said. “The Keyholders? The fuck are they about?”

“Daddy, really. Come on.” Kayleigh nodded toward the kitchen, where Suellyn and Mary-Gordon were helping Sheri bake something fragrant with vanilla. But the man’s raspy voice probably hadn’t carried inside.

Kayleigh said, “I’m not going to sue anybody, Daddy. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”