Tess Gerritsen: Ice Cold

“That’s it. Now you have to tell me.”

“If you’ll have dinner with me.”

She paused as the elevator opened and a man and woman emerged. They walked up the hall, arms linked, clearly together and unafraid to show it. The way couples should act, she thought, as the pair stepped into a room and the door closed behind them.

She looked at Douglas. “I’d like to hear that story.”

THEY FLED THE PATHOLOGISTS’ COCKTAIL PARTY EARLY AND DINED at the Four Seasons Resort in Teton Village. Eight straight hours of lectures about stabbings and bombings, bullets and blowflies, had left Maura overwhelmed by talk of death, and she was relieved to escape back to the normal world, where casual conversation didn’t include talk of putrefaction, where the most serious issue of the evening was choosing between a red or a white wine.

“So how did you break your leg at Stanford?” she asked as Doug swirled Pinot Noir in his glass.

He winced. “I was hoping you’d forget about that subject.”

“You promised to tell me. It’s the reason I came to dinner.”

“Not because of my scintillating wit? My boyish charm?”

She laughed. “Well, that, too. But mostly the tale behind the broken leg. I have a feeling it’s going to be a doozy.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “The truth? I was fooling around on the rooftop of Wilbur Hall and I fell off.”

She stared at him. “My God, that’s a really long drop.”

“As I found out.”

“I assume alcohol was involved?”

“Of course.”

“So it was just a typical dumb college stunt.”

“Why do you sound so disappointed?”

“I expected something a little more, oh, unconventional.”

“Well,” he admitted, “I left out a few details.”

“Such as?”

“The ninja outfit I was wearing. The black mask. The plastic sword.” He gave an embarrassed shrug. “And the very humiliating ambulance ride to the hospital.”

She regarded him with a calmly professional gaze. “And do you still like to dress up as a ninja these days?”

“You see?” He barked out a laugh. “That’s what makes you so intimidating! Anyone else would have been laughing at me. But you respond with a very logical, very sober question.”

“Is there a sober answer?”

“Not a single damn one.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to stupid college pranks. May we never live them down.”

She sipped and set down her wine. “What did you mean when you said that I’m intimidating?”

“You always have been. There I was, this goofy kid ambling my way through college. Partying too hard and sleeping too late. But you-you were so focused, Maura. You knew exactly what you wanted to be.”

“And that made me intimidating?”

“Even a little scary. Because you had it all together, and I sure as hell didn’t.”

“I had no idea I had that effect on people.”

“You still do.”

She considered that statement. She thought about the police officers who always fell silent whenever she walked into a crime scene. She thought about the Christmas party where she’d so responsibly limited herself to a single flute of champagne while everyone else grew raucous. The public would never see Dr. Maura Isles drunk or loud or reckless. They would see only what she allowed them to see. A woman in control. A woman who scares them.

“It’s not as if being focused is some sort of flaw,” she said, in her own defense. “It’s the only way anything gets accomplished in this world.”

“Which is probably why it took me so long to accomplish anything.”

“You made it to medical school.”

“Eventually. After I spent two years bumming around, which drove my dad totally nuts. I worked as a bartender in Baja. Taught surfing in Malibu. Smoked too much pot and drank a lot of bad wine. It was great.” He grinned. “You, Dr. Isles, wouldn’t have approved.”

“It’s not something I would have done.” She took another sip of wine. “Not then, anyway.”

His eyebrow tilted up. “Meaning you’d do it now?”

“People do change, Doug.”

“Yeah, look at me! I never dreamed I’d one day end up a boring pathologist, trapped in the hospital basement.”

“So how did that happen? What made you transform from a beach bum into a respectable doctor?”

Their conversation paused as the waiter brought their entrées. Roast duck for Maura, lamb chops for Doug. They sat through the obligatory grinding of the pepper, the refilling of their wineglasses. Only after the waiter left did Douglas answer her question.

“I got married,” he said.

She had not noticed a wedding ring on his finger, and this was the first time he’d said anything about being in a relationship. The revelation made her glance up in surprise, but he was not looking at her; he was gazing at another table, at a family with two little girls.

“It was a bad match from the start,” he admitted. “Met her at a party. Gorgeous blonde, blue eyes, legs up to here. She heard I was applying to med school and she had visions of being a rich doctor’s wife. She didn’t realize she’d end up spending weekends alone while I was working in the hospital. By the time I finished my pathology residency, she’d found someone else.” He sliced into his lamb chop. “But I got to keep Grace.”

“Grace?”

“My daughter. Thirteen years old and every bit as gorgeous as her mom. I’m just hoping to turn her in a more intellectual direction than her mom went.”

“Where’s your ex-wife now?”

“She got remarried, to a banker. They live in London, and we’re lucky if we hear from her twice a year.” He set down his knife and fork. “So that’s how I became Mr. Mom. I’ve now got a daughter, a mortgage, and a job at the VA in San Diego. Who could ask for anything more?”

“And are you happy?”

He shrugged. “It’s not the life I imagined when I was at Stanford, playing ninja on the rooftops. But I can’t complain. Life happens, and you adjust.” He smiled at her. “Lucky you, you’re exactly what you envisioned. You always wanted to be a pathologist, and here you are.”

“I also wanted to be married. I failed miserably at that.”

He studied her. “I find it so hard to believe that there’s no man in your life right now.”

She pushed pieces of duck around on her plate, her appetite suddenly gone. “Actually, I am seeing someone.”

He leaned in, focusing intently. “Tell me more.”

“It’s been about a year.”

“That sounds serious.”

“I’m not sure.” His gaze made her uneasy, and she dropped her attention back to her meal. She could feel him studying her, trying to read what she wasn’t telling him. What started as a lighthearted conversation had suddenly turned deeply personal. The dissection knives were out and secrets were spilling.

“Is it serious enough that there might be wedding bells?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

She looked at him. “Because he’s not available.”

He leaned back, clearly surprised. “I never thought someone as levelheaded as you would fall for a married man.”

She started to correct him, then stopped herself. Practically speaking, Daniel Brophy was indeed a married man, married to his church. There was no spouse more jealous, more demanding. She would have a better chance of claiming him if he’d been bound to merely another woman.

“I guess I’m not as levelheaded as you thought,” she said.

He gave a surprised laugh. “You must have a wild streak I never knew about. How did I miss it back at Stanford?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Basic personalities don’t really change much.”