Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

Yet the nature of these minutes they spent together was ambiguous. Though they talked intimately Breck had not kissed her; though they flirted he seemed bashful. Their contact was plentiful but often seemed accidental: fingers brushing when passing coffee cups, shoulders easing against each other when they stood side by side. She once shamelessly seated her breasts against his arm as she leaned forward to look at an article on learning disabilities. She thought he had returned the pressure but she couldn't be sure. In any event he neither backed away nor prolonged the moment.

She didn't know whether to expect a proposition or not.

A proposition she would, of course, refuse.

She believed she would refuse. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to leave. She now touched his arm and he swayed close to her and Diane sensed again the boundary between them that was continually being redefined. They were like teenagers.

Today she believed this barrier was clear and solid. Jamie was only thirty feet away, in his room, and although Bill was at work it wasn't unheard of for him to drop by at this time of day, stay for dinner then return to the office. She and Breck looked at each other for a long moment and she was vastly relieved when he looked at his watch and said, "Must depart, madame…" (She was also pleased that he said this frowning with genuine disappointment.) He gathered his notebooks.

That was when Diane kissed him.

Like a sly college girl, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Sarah was out of sight then pushed scholarly Breck into the corner of the room and kissed him fast, open-mouthed, then stepped away.

Ohmygod ohmygod…

Panic bubbled inside her. Terrified – not that one of her children had seen, not that word would get back to her husband. No, a more chilling fear: what if he hadn't wanted to?

Breck blinked once in surprise. He put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her quickly to him. As he kissed her hard, his forearm was leveraged against her breast and his hand made one slow sweep along the front of her blouse then wound around to the small of her back. They embraced for a long moment then Diane willed herself to break away. They stood staring at each other, two feet apart, in surprise and embarrassed defiance.

He whispered, "Can I see you before you go? I have to."

"I don't know. The deputy'll be watching us like a hawk."

"I have to see you. Let's get away somewhere."

She thought. "I just don't see how."

"Look, I'd like to tape Sarah taking some tests. If you're not going to be back for a couple weeks I should do it before you leave. Maybe you could come with us to the school. We could have a picnic."

"I don't know."

"I want you," he whispered.

Diane stepped away, rubbed her hands together. She stared out the window at her daughter prancing about in the grass.

"Did I say something amiss?" Breck asked.

Oh, my. All theses highfalutin' words, all these snappy things he does for Sarah, all the places he's been, and what is at the heart of it all – him being a man and me being a woman.

Do I want this or not? I just can't tell. For the life of me I can't tell…

But she said nothing. She kissed him once more, quickly, then led him by the hand to the door. They walked out to his car and she said to him, "It'll be a couple weeks at the most." In a whisper intended to convey grave significance she added, "I think it's for the best anyway, don't you?"

"No," he said firmly. "I don't."

The big problem with the My-T-Fine Tap was the dirty plateglass windows. They let in bleak, northern, cool light, which turned the afternoon patrons all pasty and sick.

Also, sitting at a table you could look up under the bar and see the mosaic of twenty years' worth of gum wads.

Corde ordered an Amstel, so tired he wasn't even thinking it was a weekday, and Kresge said, "I just want to get this right. It's okay to drink light beer on duty?"

Corde changed the order to an iced tea. They sat on stools upholstered in jukebox red vinyl, squinting against the glare. People used to tell Sammie to fill up the window with plants (they died) or blinds (they cost too much). He'd say it's an ugly room who gives a damn anyway. Which it was and nobody did so they all stopped complaining.

Corde asked, "What are we doing here?"

"Waiting for her, " Kresge said, and pointed to the woman in her late fifties, slender, short, with foamy gray hair. She was walking through the door on the arm of an older man, balding and also thin.

"Hey, Wynton," the woman called. "How's Darla?"

"Tina, Earl, come on over here for a second." The couple walked over and Kresge said to Corde, "They eat here 'most every day. She and Darla're bridge buddies." Kresge introduced Corde to Earl and Tina Hess. Earl was a lanky retiree of about sixty. His protruding ears and hook nose were bright with a May sunburn.

"What's that uniform you got yourself, Wynton? The school got you all duded up?"

"Got a new job."

"Doing what?"

"I'm a deputy."

"No kidding," Earl said. "Like Kojak."

"He's still got himself some hair left," Corde said. "But not a lot."

"We come for the tuna plates," Tina said. "You want to eat with us?"

Corde shook his head and turned the session over to Kresge, who said, "We've found ourselves a picture and we were thinking maybe you could tell us where it is, Tina." He turned to Corde. "Tina worked for Allied Office Supplies."

"Sales Rep of the Year fifteen years running. My last year I lost to D.K Potts but only because he got himself the Instant Copy Franchises up in Higgins which are owned by the Japanese and I won't comment on that."

Kresge continued, "She's traveled all over the state. Knows every city, bar none."

"Three years ago I put a hundred thirty-seven thousand miles on my Ford. You ever put that much mileage on a car before she rusted? I should bet not."

"No, ma'am," Corde admitted.

"She didn't tell you about the transmissions," Earl said earnestly.

Kresge said, "We've got to find the building that's in the picture."

"That's a sort of tall order," Tina said. "Do I have to testify or anything?"

"No."

"I was hoping I would. You watch Matlock ?"

"'Fraid I don't," Corde said. Kresge set the photograph on the table.

"Why's it wrapped up?" Earl asked, poking the plastic bag.

"Evidence," Kresge said.

"Why's it burned?"

"Was in a fireplace," Corde said. "You know where that is?"

"Not much to go on." Tina squinted and studied it. She held it toward her husband and he shrugged. Tina said, "No idea. Why you so interested?"

"It'd help us in an investigation."

She handed it back. "Sorry."

Kresge, taking the failure personally, said, "It was a long shot."

Corde kept the disappointment off his face. "Thanks anyway."

"Were you part of that layoff at Auden?" Earl asked Kresge.

"Layoff?"

"They let near to three hundred people go. Professors and staff."

Kresge whistled. "Three hundred? No. I left before that happened."

"After that professor killed that girl," Earl said, "a lot of people took their kids out. It was in the Register, didn't you read it?"

Tina said, "I wouldn't send my kids to any school that hired professors like that. I can't blame them." The couple wandered off to a booth.

As Kresge and Corde stood and dropped bills onto the bar Tina called from across the room, "Hey, Wynton, got an idea: Why don't you ask somebody in the Fitzberg C of C where that is."

"Who?"

"The Chamber of Commerce."

"That's Fitzberg?" Corde asked, pointing at Kresge's breast pocket where the burnt photo now resided.