Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

“Sit down, honey,” she said quietly. “Let me get dressed. Then we can talk.”

He grabbed her arm.

“You’ve got to believe me! It was an accident! I didn’t mean it!”

She leaned over to stroke his clenched hand and recoiled involuntarily. His breath.

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay, Peter. You’re okay.”

“I didn’t fucking mean to do it! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to burn it or her or anyone!” The sweat began to drop off of his forehead and nose. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She brought him to her breast and embraced him. He threw his arms around her neck and nuzzled against her ear.

“Hold me, Rina,” he said, kissing her cheek, her neck. He pulled her nightgown off her shoulder and exposed the delicate white skin, kissing it, licking it, gently biting the sweet-smelling flesh.

“Love me, baby,” he said softly. “Please love me tonight.”

Even before he was fully awake, he knew he was going to be sick. His main concern was making it to the bathroom. Upon opening his eyes, he realized to his horror that he wasn’t in his bedroom. He looked around without moving his head. The room was faintly familiar, but her fragrance was pervasive. Rina’s bedroom.

He had no memory of how he got there.

He was stripped down to his underwear, tucked under smooth soft sheets that urged him to go back to sleep. But his stomach lurched, letting him know that if he didn’t find a toilet soon, he’d upchuck in the bed. The house was quiet. Hopefully, no one was home and he could make a dash for the bathroom without being seen.

Forcing his body upright, his head spinning, he stood on his feet, buckled, but didn’t fall. On the second try, his feet were able to hold his weight and he staggered to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet. His guts caved in and afterwards he felt much better. On the bathroom counter were a hand towel, an electric shaver, and a bottle of aspirin. After downing two tablets and rinsing out his mouth, he washed his face and neck and shaved. Back in the bedroom, he found a set of tefillin and a siddur resting on the dresser. His clothes had been neatly draped over the back of an easy chair. On top of them were his gun and holster, and a note from Rina.

Coffee’s on the stove. Juice is in the refrigerator. Key’s in the door. Lock up and leave it in the mailbox when you leave.

He picked up the phylacteries but put them back down. Empty words. No sense being a hypocrite.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. What the hell had happened between them last night? He remembered the feel of her skin, remembered that he’d kissed her, but beyond that it was a blank. Not even a blur-a blank.

He had wanted her so much. And now to think they might have made love and he had no memory of it.

Life wasn’t fucking fair!

He checked his watch. It was close to ten. Morrison had told him to take a day off, but he was too keyed up. Might as well proceed.

Clementine had disappeared, no one Decker talked to had ever heard of the Blade, he couldn’t find Kiki, and nobody recognized the painted dude in the red robe.

A total bust.

He slumped in his chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Marge approached him.

“Not going too well, Rabbi?”

“It’s going shitty, Marge.”

“Well, I’ve got some good news.”

Decker perked up.

“It has nothing to do with the case,” she said. “Marriot and Bartholomew have returned to their posts. We’re back in Juvey and Sex Crimes.”

Decker tossed her a dirty look.

“Well, at least our victims can talk,” she pointed out.

“This case is eating at me.”

“No one’s stealing it from you, Pete. No one wants it. Stop being so hard on yourself. You took two bags of bones, identified them, and solved the Bates murder-”

“I don’t know who killed the Countess.”

“You know how Lindsey Bates was killed. Who gives a damn how the Countess bit it? She deserved to die.”

“I have to find out who’s behind it all. We can’t let this happen again.”

Marge sighed. “You’re right. So what’s your next step?”

“Damned if I know.” He snapped a pencil in two.

“By the way, Pete. Dr. Hennon called. She says Armbruster and the Countess are a match, just as we thought.”

Decker bolted out of his chair. “I just had a brainstorm. I’ve got to go down to the morgue and borrow a skull.”

“Who do the teeth belong to?” Hennon asked over the phone.

“I’m betting it’s the guy in the snuff film I told you about,” Decker said.

“But you don’t know the man’s true identity?”

“No idea.”

“So how am I supposed to match him up with the teeth?”

“I’m cutting a few stills out of the movie and I’m going to bring them over to you. Remember the photographic match you did on Armbruster before you got definitive results with the teeth X rays? How you lined up the cranium with the photo-”

“I don’t like to give an opinion based on photographic matches alone. It’s too easy to make a mistake.”

“I just want to see if the bones I found in the foothills match this creep in the movie. I’d like to see if I’m on the right track. Please, Annie.”

“I don’t know when I can do it. I’m booked solid.”

“I’ve got the skull. I’ll send it by, along with the stills. We’ll pay you extra for your time.”

“That’s not the point. The living before the dead, Pete.” She paused. “I’ll work it in somehow.”

“You’re a doll. I owe you one.”

“How about dinner?” Hennon suggested. “Just between friends? Or is that against your dietary laws?”

He should have kiboshed the invitation immediately, but something held him back. Goddam it, he wanted to go out on a normal date and eat normal food with a nice-looking woman. What was wrong with that? Just between friends.

“There are exceptions,” he said calmly. “Maybe we can work something out.”

He felt guilty as soon as he hung up the phone.

“Have a seat,” Rina said. “We’re just starting dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Decker. “I just came over to say thanks.”

“Please.” She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

Decker sat down. She handed him a yarmulke and he put it on without a word.

She placed a steaming bowl of creamy fish chowder in front of him. The soup was thick with chunks of white halibut, bits of diced potatoes, and lots of onions. In the middle of the table were slices of thick-crusted garlic bread, buttery and full of cheese. Rina poured him a bottle of chilled Dos Equis.

“I’m really not hungry,” he repeated.

“Don’t eat,” she said, quietly.

He stared at the soup, smelling its rich aroma. He was hungry. He was starved. But he refused to eat. He was acting like an asshole and didn’t know why. He was the one who’d shown up drunk as a skunk, acting like a lunatic. Why was he mad at Rina? And why the hell hadn’t he told Annie no?

Times like this reminded him that his divorce was a two-way street. He could hear Jan’s voice. You’re self-destructive, Peter. Her favorite word-self-destructive. She’d used it the day he’d quit the law practice; she’d used it the day she’d kicked him out of the house.

The boys slurped the last of their chowder and gave him sidelong glances. Quiet. He was making everyone uncomfortable. He stood up.

“I’ve really got to go, Rina.”

“Boys, I want to talk to Peter alone for a minute,” Rina said. “Please go to your room.”

“We didn’t bentch yet, Eema,” Sammy said.

“The avayrah’s on me,” Rina answered.

The boys left quickly.

Decker said nothing. Any remark would come out trite or stupid.