Brian Freeman - The Burying Place

She kissed his cheek, which was rough with stubble. Her lips traveled along his face in a soft line of kisses, until she reached his ear lobe, which she sucked between her teeth and bit tenderly. Her tongue flicked at his neck. She pressed her body firmly against him; he felt her need, and she was moist between her legs. Her fingernails scraped along his stomach. She flattened her hand there, undulating her fingers like waves. At his ear, her mouth whispered, 'I want you.'

Serena pushed her hand across his middle to the inside of his thigh and alternated between a penetrating massage and feathery caresses. From there, he felt her fingertips glide on to his shaft. Rubbing. Touching. Trying to arouse him. He wanted more than anything to feel his body react, but despite her attentions, he remained unresponsive. She didn't give up, but instead redoubled her energy, her hands alive and busy. She straddled him, her full breasts dangling over his chest. Her hips sank lower over his waist, and she caressed him with her body. She cupped his face, bent down, and kissed him full on, exploring his mouth with her tongue.

He stroked along the curve of her spine, and his touch felt clumsy. His mouth closed over each of her breasts in turn, and he felt her respond, but he knew it was artificial for both of them. The easy grace of their lovemaking had vanished and left them like strangers, unfamiliar with the other's body. He knew every inch of her skin and the touch she liked and how her t — s curled as she came to the edge and spilled over it. It wasn't that he had forgotten. He simply had nothing to give her.

'Serena,' he murmured.

She refused to give up, but her intensity felt forced. Her face grew flushed with frustration and humiliation, as if it were somehow her failure, not his. Eventually, she rolled off him. She faced the other way, toward the window. Her shoulders shook as she cried. He put a hand on her back, but when she didn't react, he pulled it away. He stared at the ceiling for a while longer, and then he turned to face the wall. When he put his head on his arm, he smelled her perfume on his fingers. He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep.

Maggie arrived early at City Hall on Monday morning. It was dark, and the roads were slick with an inch of snow. The old stone building took forever to heat up after the weekend, and the Detective Bureau felt frosty. She took off her ankle-length burgundy leather coat and replaced it with a wool pullover that Stride had left behind. The baggy sweater reached to the middle of her thighs, and she had to roll up six inches on the sleeves.

Even after three months, it didn't feel like her office. It would always be Stride's. She'd left his photographs on the bureau as a reminder that he was coming back. Standing under the harsh fluorescent light, she picked up each of the frames, which gave her a tour of his life. She saw Stride and Cindy, ten years younger, before the cancer stole her away. Maggie had liked Cindy a lot. Those were the old days, when Maggie was a kid, a Chinese immigrant slowly shedding her starchy upbringing and awakening to a new personality. Cindy had known all about Maggie's crush on Stride, but she had never shown even a glimmer of jealousy. Maggie wondered how Cindy would have felt about her slipping into Stride's bed six months after she died, only to be rejected by a man who didn't want to hurt her.

Maggie picked up the next picture, which was of Stride and Serena in Las Vegas, then just as quickly put it down, rather than stare at the two of them. The last picture on the bureau was of herself. She was on the beach behind Stride's cottage, her sunglasses pushed to the end of her bottle-cap nose, her bowl haircut windblown by the lake, her grin lopsided and sarcastic. She thought it was a terrible picture, but Stride had refused to let her replace it. He had taken it himself.

She sat down and propped her heels on the desk. Guppo had prepared his typically thorough report of the crime scene forensics near the Lester River, and she reread it, looking for details she had previously missed. Some connection among the victims. Some strange motive in the man's actions that night. She read it twice without finding anything, and the words blurred on the page.

'Knock knock,' someone said, startling her.

Maggie looked up. The husky frame of Troy Grange filled her doorway.

'Oh, hi, Troy,' she said.

'Is this a bad time?'

'No, come on in.'

The rest of the Detective Bureau was dark behind him. Troy, like Maggie, was an early riser. He sat in the chair in front of her desk, and the overhead light bounced off his bald head like a sunbeam.

'What's going on?' she asked.

'Well, first, I wanted to thank you for coming to the house on Saturday. You and Kasey both. I really appreciate it.'

'I just wish I had better news for you. I'm sorry.'

'I know. I'm due back at work today, but I'm still in a fog.'

'Take more time,' Maggie suggested. 'The director of the port will understand. I can have the chief call him.'

'It will probably do me good to work again,' he said.

'How's Debbie?' Maggie asked. 'Poor kid, this must be hitting her hard.'

'It's hard now, but it'll be worse later. I hate the idea of her growing up without her mother. I'm a guy. What the hell do I know about raising girls?'

'You'll do fine, Troy,' Maggie told him, smiling. 'But I know it's not what you planned.'

'No, I never signed up to be a single parent, that's for sure.'

'Was there something else you needed?' Maggie asked.

'Yes, but this isn't about Trisha,' Troy said. 'It may be nothing.'

'What is it?'

'I got a call late last night from a secretary in my office. She was pretty upset.'

'What happened?' Maggie asked.

'Well, she's dating a guy named Nick Garaldo. I know him. He's a young kid, twenty-something, a wiry little squirt. He works on one of the tugboats in the harbor. Solid and reliable, from everything I've heard about him.' 'OK.'

'He's missing,' Troy said.

'Oh? For how long?'

'That's the thing. It's just a day. This gal who called me, she talked to him on Saturday morning. They were supposed to meet for coffee at Amazing Grace on Sunday. He never turned up. He doesn’t answer his cell phone, and he doesn’t answer his landline. She went to his apartment, but nobody answers the door. He also had a five a.m. shift in the harbor this morning, and he's a no-show.'

Maggie frowned. 'It's too early to declare him a missing person.'

'Yeah, I know. I told her I'd report it and see what you can do. She swears this is not like him at all, and his boss says the same thing. He's never missed a shift without calling.'

'Where does he live?'

'He's got an apartment in the Central Hillside area downtown.'

'People pick up and move sometimes,' Maggie said. 'Especially from that area.'

'Sure they do. There's probably nothing to worry about, and he'll turn up tomorrow with a hangover. Or he'll call from South Padre Island or something. But his girlfriend was pretty upset.'

'Of course. What's his address?'

Troy recited the location of Nick's apartment on Fourth Street and Lake. It was one of the tough areas of downtown, a haven for drug dealers.

'I'll have someone check it out,' Maggie told him.

'I appreciate it.'

'In the meantime, if you need anything, just call me.'

'I will.'

Troy squeezed out of the chair, and they shook hands. She listened to his heavy footsteps walking away, and she heard the outer door of the Detective Bureau open and close. She was alone again.

Alone with a dead woman near the Lester River and three other women missing and presumed dead.

Alone with the photographs on Stride's bureau.

In the morning, they pretended as if nothing had happened between them.