Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

“Then you don’t feel Tess’s work as a psychiatrist has helped you in this particular case?”

As if she were sublimely unconcerned, Tess continued to eat.

“I’d like to say that,” Ben answered after a moment. “Because if I did it might be easier to convince her, or to convince you to convince her to stay out of it from here on. But the fact is, she’s helped us establish a pattern and a motive.”

“Would you pass me the salt?” Tess smiled as Ben lifted the lead crystal dish. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, but grudgingly. “That doesn’t mean I approve of her being involved.”

“Then I take it you’ve come to realize that my granddaughter is both a dedicated and stubborn woman.”

“I’ve gotten the picture.”

“I consider it an inheritance,” Tess said, and covered the senator’s big hand with hers. “From my grandfather.”

Ben saw the hands link and hold. “Thank God you didn’t get my looks.” Then, in the same genial tone, “I’m told you’ve moved in with my granddaughter, Detective.”

“That’s right.” Preparing for the inquisition he’d been expecting all evening, Ben fell back on the pear preserves.

“I wonder if you’re charging the city overtime.”

Tess laughed and sat back in her chair. “Grandpa’s trying to see if he can make you sweat. Here, darling.” She passed the senator more turkey. “Indulge yourself. The next time you gossip with the mayor, tell him that I’m receiving the very best in police protection.”

“What else should I tell him you’re receiving?”

“Whatever else I’m receiving is none of the mayor’s business.”

Writemore dropped another slab of turkey on his plate before he reached for the gravy. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s none of mine either.”

“I don’t have to.” Tess spooned cranberry sauce onto his plate. “You’ve just said so yourself.”

At five feet and a hundred forty pounds, Miss Bette shuffled into the room and cast an approving eye on the dent made in the feast she’d prepared. She wiped small, pudgy hands on her apron. “Dr. Court, there’s a call for you.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Bette. I’ll take it in the library.” After she rose, she leaned down to kiss the senator’s cheek. “Don’t be a nuisance, Grandpa. And make sure I get a piece of that pie.”

Writemore waited until Tess was out of the room. “A beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“You know, when she was younger, people often underestimated her because of her looks, her size, her sex. After you’ve lived more than half a century, you don’t take much on face value. She was just a bit of a thing when she moved in here with me. We only had each other. People would assume that I got her through the rough times. The truth was, Ben, she got me through. I think I would have crumbled up and died without Tess.

“I’m closing in on three quarters of a century.” Writemore smiled as if the thought pleased him. “When you do that, you start to look at each day in sharp focus. You start to appreciate little things.”

“Like feeling your feet on the ground in the morning,” Ben murmured, then catching the senator’s look, shifted uncomfortably. “Something my grandfather said.”

“Obviously an astute man. Yes, like feeling your feet on the ground in the morning.” Holding his wineglass, he leaned back, studying Ben. It relieved him that he liked what he saw. “Human nature forces a man to appreciate those things, even after he’s lost his wife and his only child. Tess is all I have left besides those small pleasures, Ben.”

Ben discovered he was no longer uncomfortable, no longer wait-ing to be backed into a corner. “I’m not going to let anything happen to her. Not just because I’m a cop and it’s my duty to shield and protect, but because she matters.”

When he leaned away from the table, the diamond in Writemore’s tie glinted from the light. “You follow football?” borne.

“When neither of us have to worry about Tess, you come to a game with me. I’ve got season tickets. We’ll have a few beers and you can tell me about yourself, things I didn’t learn from copies of your departmental record.” He grinned, showing a white set of teeth which were almost all his own. “She’s all I’ve got, Detective. I could tell you what your score was last week at target practice.”

Amused, Ben polished off his wine. “How’d I do?”

“Good enough,” Writemore told him. “Damn good enough.”

Surprisingly in tune, both men turned as Tess entered the room again. Ben only had to see her face to be out of his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was calm, without a tremor, but her cheeks were very pale. She stretched out a hand as she walked to her grandfather. “I’ve got to go, Grandpa. I have an emergency at the hospital. I don’t know if I’ll make it back.”

Because her hand was cold, her grandfather covered it with both of his. Better than anyone, he understood how much emotion she kept locked inside. “A patient?”

“Yes. Attempted suicide. He’s been taken to Georgetown, but it doesn’t look good.” Her voice was cool and flat, a doctor’s voice. Ben studied her carefully, but other than the lack of color, he could see no emotion. “I’m sorry to leave you like this.”

“Don’t you worry about me.” The senator had already risen. His arm was draped around her as he walked her from the room. “You give me a call tomorrow, let me know how you are.”

Something inside her trembled and shook, but she held steady. She pressed her cheek to his, wanting to draw a bit of his strength. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, little girl.”

As they walked into the snow-swathed night, Ben took her arm to keep her from slipping on the stairs. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“A fourteen-year-old boy decided life was too much to handle. He jumped off the Calvert Street Bridge.”

The surgical floor smelled of antiseptic and fresh paint. With the staff halved for the holiday, the halls were almost empty. Someone had covered a mincemeat pie in Saran Wrap and left it at the nurse’s station. It looked cheerful and miserably out of place. Tess stopped there as the nurse on duty filled out a report.

“I’m Dr. Teresa Court. Joseph Higgins, Jr., was admitted a short time ago.”

“Yes, Doctor. He’s in surgery.”

“What’s his condition?”

“Massive trauma, hemorrhaging. He was comatose when they took him up. Dr. Bitterman’s operating.”

Joeys parents?

“Down the end of the hall and to the left, in the waiting area, Doctor.”

“Thank you.” Steeling herself, Tess turned to Ben. “I don’t know how long this might take, and it won’t be pleasant. I’m sure I can arrange for you to wait in the doctor’s lounge. You’d be more comfortable.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“All right.” Unbuttoning her coat as she went, Tess started down the hall. Their footsteps sounded like gunfire in the tiled silence of the corridor. As she approached the door to the waiting area, she heard the muffled sobs.

Lois Monroe was huddled close against her husband. Though it was overwarm in the room, neither of them had taken off their coats. She cried quietly, with her eyes open and unfocused. A Thanksgiving special danced soundlessly from the television mounted high on the wall. Tess motioned for Ben to stay back.

“Mr. Monroe.”

At the sound of her voice his eyes shifted from the wall to the door. For a moment he stared at her as if he didn’t know who she was, then a seizure of pain ran through him, reflecting briefly, poignantly, in his eyes. She could almost hear the thoughts.