Brian Freeman - Immoral

"A phone call would sure be nice once in a while," Andrea said. "This is three nights in a row, and I haven't known when I'll see you. You're not there for me. You're never there."

"This case-" Stride began.

"I don't care about the case," she said. "If it's not this one, it would be another one."

Stride nodded and didn't reply. She was right. And it was getting worse. He realized he was taking on parts of the investigations that should really be delegated down the line. Even K-2 had noticed it and asked him bluntly if he was looking for excuses to avoid going home. He said no, but deep down, he wasn't sure.

"How's Denise?" he asked. "I feel like I haven't seen you since then."

"That's because you haven't. You haven't asked me anything about it. Do you care? You don't know anything about me anymore."

Andrea waited, with her hands on her hips. When he didn't say anything more, she turned and stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp click. He heard the shower running.

The problems had begun a year ago. They had spent two years in relative peace, avoiding conflicts by not talking about them, but recently the troubles between them had come into the open. It started with the issue of kids, which Andrea wanted desperately and Stride didn't. He was too old by now. He would be over sixty by the time the kids left home.

Andrea persisted. Eighteen months after their marriage, with his reluctant acceptance, she went off the pill. They made love at every time of the day, to the point where there was no longer anything romantic about it. For all the trying, nothing happened. He tried to look disappointed that they couldn't conceive, but he was afraid that his real relief showed in his face. He knew what Andrea believed, that if she had had a baby with her first husband, then he never would have left her, and her life would still be perfect. She was afraid that if she failed again, she would end up losing Stride, too-so she had to get pregnant.

But it was not to be.

He told her over and over that it didn't matter to him, but misery gradually took over her face, and in the year since then, it had never really left. They were well on the road to becoming strangers.

He heard the shower shut off.

The door opened, and Andrea stood naked in the doorway, watching him. He could see beads of water on her bare skin, dripping on the carpet. She was biting her lower lip, and he could make out her face well enough in the shadows to see she had been crying. They stared at each other for a long while, silently.

It was as if she had read his thoughts, and they scared her.

"We need to talk," she said.

He heard it in her tone. He knew it was coming. Divorce. The only question was which one of them would say the word first.

"I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," Stride told her.

He spread his arms wide, and she came to him. He folded up her wet body in his grasp. He saw anxiety in her bloodshot blue eyes. He put his hands up to her face, cupping her cheeks, and they both smiled weakly, trying to make the pain go away. He was conscious of her naked body on top of his, and he responded automatically. He shifted, wanting to enter her, but she let go and rolled off him onto her back, tugging gently on his shoulder. He followed her, sliding on top. His hands slid behind her neck. He went to kiss her, but she turned her face away. He felt her legs spreading for him, her knees bending and coming up. She didn't move; she just held onto him as he slid into her. The sex was quick and unsatisfying. Eventually, he eased down on top of her, and they lay like that for several minutes. When he felt gentle pressure from her hands, he knew to roll off her. She kissed him, a brush of her lips, then got out of bed quickly before he could touch her.

He heard her clean herself up in the bathroom and watched her as she hurried to put clothes on. She didn't say a word. When she was dressed, she hesitated in the doorway. She looked at him with an empty expression on her face, then turned and left, leaving him alone.

He was in the midst of uneasy dreams when the phone rang, startling him awake. He noticed the clock and groaned as he fumbled for the receiver. It was nine-thirty, an hour past his morning meeting.

"I'm late," he growled into the phone. "Sue me."

Stride expected a sarcastic barb from Maggie. Instead, after a pause, he heard a low, teasing laugh that was new to him.

"Is that Lieutenant Stride? You sound like you just woke up."

He lay back in bed and closed his eyes. "I did just wake up. And I won't admit to being Stride until I make a pot of coffee. So how about we call this a wrong number?"

That's too bad. Someone named Maggie told me you give great phone sex."

Stride laughed, confused now, but also intrigued. "Not that Maggie would know. Who the hell is this?"

"My name is Serena Dial. I'm with the Las Vegas Metro Police. Unfortunately, I have news about an old case that you're not going to like, Lieutenant"

Las Vegas. Stride was immediately awake. It didn't matter that three years had passed-he knew why Serena was calling. Rachel. He heard the girl's name in his head and saw her body again in that amazing photograph.

The silence stretched out on the phone. Finally, Stride said, "I'm guessing you have her in custody."

"No. In the morgue."

"Rachel's dead?"

He didn't understand. In his idle fantasies, when someone from Las Vegas called him, Rachel was still alive. Sometimes he imagined Rachel herself would call.

"Dead. Murdered. Dumped in the desert. I know this causes problems for you."

Stride wondered if he was dreaming. "When?"

"Last few days, as near as we can tell," Serena told him.

She really was alive, Stride thought Until now. "Do you know what happened? Who killed her?"

"Not yet," Serena said. "But if you can pick me up at the airport this evening, maybe we can work it together."

"You're coming here?"

"That's where the trail leads, Lieutenant To Duluth."

Maggie readily confessed to everyone who drove with her that her body wasn't made for driving a truck. She sat on a phone book to make sure she could see over the steering wheel, and the accelerator and brake pedals had blocks to allow her feet to reach them. Before she married Eric Sorenson two years ago, she owned a miniature Geo Metro. But Eric, an ex-Olympic swimmer, didn't fit in her small car, and so their first purchase together was a much larger vehicle, in which Eric could ride without hugging his knees on his chest.

Stride didn't like driving with Maggie. She wasn't the greatest driver to begin with, and the jury-rigged modifications to make her body SUV-compatible didn't help. He also suspected she drove more recklessly with him, purely out of spite. He tried not to jam his foot into an imaginary brake or to wince audibly at the many close calls.

It was early evening on Thursday. Serena Dial's plane from Las Vegas, via Minneapolis, was expected in half an hour. As they climbed farther from the lakeshore, heading up Miller Hill toward the Duluth airport, the air roaring between the open windows got warmer.

Maggie shook her head. The light ahead of them turned red, and she honked her horn as she sped through the intersection, not slowing down.

"She was alive the whole damn time," Maggie said. "Archie Gale's going to love this."

Stride nodded wearily. "Dan won't be happy to learn that he prosecuted a man for murdering a girl who wasn't dead. I don't think it's going to give his campaign a boost."

"Have you told him yet?" Maggie asked.

"Not yet I asked K-2 if I could hold off until tomorrow. The detective from Vegas agreed to keep it under wraps until we could tell Emily."