Memory of Murder

Chapter 10

But when the man threw himself in front of her and my bullet went wild and missed its mark, I knew I had made a terrible-perhaps fatal-mistake.

He fought like a demon, even though his hands were bound. It was several minutes before I could regain control of the situation, and by that time, the woman had vanished in the darkness and fog. I searched, but could find no trace of her. At that point I could only hope the ocean had taken her after all.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

No one spoke. Holt looked at Alan, then Lindsey. After a long moment, he repeated it, in a voice rigidly controlled. “Why were they taken? There was no reason for them to be targeted-none whatsoever. That’s what’s always confounded me. It’s what confounded Baltimore PD. It’s damn hard to solve a case,” he growled, “when there’s absolutely no motive. No suspects. Nothing that makes any kind of sense.”

Alan cleared his throat. “Well, there is one thing.”

So Alan told him what Bob Faulkner, the retired Baltimore homicide cop, had said.

When he’d finished, Holt was staring at him, stony-faced. Brenna sat down on the arm of his chair and put her arm across her husband’s shoulders.

Lindsey whispered, “A mistake?” Her face was pale with shock. Alan wanted to go to her, tell her to sit down, for God’s sake. Hold her. But of course he didn’t.

They all sat in silence, listening to the noise the rain and wind made as if fascinated by it-such unfamiliar sounds in that part of the world. Alan thought there probably weren’t any words that could have expressed what they must be feeling, these two people whose lives had been turned upside down-forty years apart in time-by someone’s mistake.

If that’s what it had been.

Brenna rose abruptly. “Anybody want more coffee?”

“Yeah, Billie-thanks,” Holt said absently, and Alan said, “Billie?” He was tuned to pet names, it seemed.

Brenna turned to smile at her husband, but only said, “Long story.”

While they waited for the coffee, Holt made a visible effort to pull himself together and asked Lindsey to tell him about her mother.

His mother, too, Alan reminded himself. Most likely. There was real poignancy in that, he thought, but he had fortified himself against it; wallowing in the tragedy of these people’s lives, he told himself, wasn’t going to help solve the mystery of what had happened to Karen and James McKinney, and why.

He listened to Lindsey talk with only half of his attention, while he watched her avidly-watched the two of them, of course, but mostly Lindsey. It struck him how alike they were-not surprising, considering they were almost certainly brother and sister. He didn’t need DNA to know that, it was right there in front of him. They had the same general body type-tall and slim, athletic build. And the same thick dark hair-although Holt’s was a little more wavy and beginning to gray at the temples-and those same thick-lashed blue eyes.

Although Holt’s didn’t have quite the same effect on him Lindsey’s had.

What was it, he wondered, that made one particular person’s face so arresting to another? That made one face stick in his mind? Made him want to go on looking at it, never tire of watching it? He had no answers.

At one point he happened to glance over at Brenna, and found her watching him-watching him watch Lindsey-and there was something in her eyes…in her smile…that said, Yes, I know. I understand how you feel.

The cold squeezing sensation he felt in his belly was fear.

I can’t do this, he thought. Fall in love with her? Can’t happen. Can’t let it happen. No way.

“Look at the time,” he said abruptly, sitting up and glancing pointedly at his watch. “Lindsey-long drive ahead of us. We’ve kept you people long enough-didn’t realize it was getting so late.” He was on his feet, and instantly so were Holt, Brenna and Lindsey. Lindsey looked red-eyed and exhausted.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Holt reminded him. “We can sleep in-well, one of us can,” he added ruefully when his wife gave a huff of laughter and poked him with her elbow. “I guess with a toddler in the house, there’s no such thing as a lazy morning. But, hey, you two should think about getting a hotel room, staying in town overnight. Drive back tomorrow. You know the freeways are going to be a nightmare with the rain. Wish we had a place to put you, but-”

He and Lindsey both assured him they would be fine, as he’d said, tomorrow was Sunday, they had plenty of time. Eventually, they were able to take their leave, amid clasped hands and hugs and exchanges of addresses and phone numbers, including cell phones, and promises to keep each other up-to-date and in close touch. Alan had Holt’s DNA on a swab in a sealed evidence bag safely tucked away in his pocket.

In spite of the rain and the lateness of the hour-nearly midnight-being Saturday night, Hollywood was still clogged with traffic. Alan turned west on Sunset, figuring to make his way to the 405 freeway and thus avoid the nightmare through downtown L.A. However, the San Diego Freeway was also moving at a crawl, which was no big surprise to Alan. He’d become familiar over the years with Southern California drivers’ customary response to wet roads, which was to proceed at normal speed in complete disregard of the fact that a little moisture on top of several months’ buildup of oily scum would turn roadways into skating rinks.

After crawling along for half an hour or so, he looked at Lindsey and said, “What do you think?”

She looked back at him and said, “It’s up to you, you’re the driver.”

So, he took the next exit and headed toward Santa Monica. Not being familiar with that town, he headed straight for the beach, figuring that would be the most likely place to find hotels with vacancies on a rainy November night. He chose the first big franchise hotel he saw-a Holiday Inn, right on the beach-and left Lindsey in the car while he went in to ask about vacancies. He was lucky; two adjoining rooms were available on the fifth floor on the side of the hotel that overlooked the ocean. He put the rooms on his personal credit card, then went back outside to the car. The rain was still coming down hard, a rush of sound that muffled but didn’t drown the occasional boom of a wave thumping down on the shore at high tide. He slipped behind the wheel and slammed the door, cutting off the noise of storm and sea.

“Got us a couple of rooms,” he said, and Lindsey nodded.

The silence seemed to wait for something more, and Alan knew there were things that probably needed to be said but didn’t know what they were or how to say them. So, after a moment he started up the car and drove into the parking garage. As they waited for the elevator, he asked her if she was hungry. She shook her head. The elevator arrived and they rode up to the fifth floor in silence.

“Guess it’s this way,” he said, and took her elbow to steer her to the right as they got off the elevator. They walked side by side down the silent hallway, not looking at each other, looking at the numbers on the doors they passed.

“Here we are,” he said, stopping at the first of the two rooms. He fished the plastic room keys out of his pocket, selected one. “You take this one-I’ll be in the next one down.” He unlocked the door, pushed it open, stepped inside. A light had been left burning over the desk. He looked around, out of habit, mostly. Satisfied the place was secure, he handed Lindsey her key. “Looks okay. Well…have a good night-see you in the morning.”

He paused, and she nodded. He turned and headed for the door, knowing he should ask her if she needed anything. If she was going to be okay. He didn’t, probably because he was afraid of what her answer would be. And because he didn’t trust his own response. Coward. The voice inside his head was so strident, for a moment he actually hesitated, wondering if it could have been spoken out loud, not just in his own mind. He glanced back at her, but she was standing exactly as he’d left her, pupils so dilated in the dim light that her eyes looked like black holes in a white mask. He went out and shut the door firmly behind him.

In his own room, he repeated the automatic check, then crossed to the closed curtains and opened them onto the vast darkness outside. He took off his jacket and draped it on the back of the chair in front of the desk, reached for his holster before he remembered he wasn’t wearing it. He emptied his pockets onto the desktop-wallet, car keys, evidence bag with Kincaid’s DNA sample, some small change and the hotel key. He pulled his shirt off and was heading for the bathroom when the knock came.

His heart jolted, but not as hard as it should have, and he realized he’d been waiting for the knock. Expecting it. Hoping for it?

Tossing his shirt onto the bed, he strode to the door, glanced briefly through the peephole, then opened it. “Lindsey?” he said.

She didn’t look the way he’d expected her to-although what that was, he couldn’t have said. She looked…angry, he thought.

“I hurt,” she said. Her steady gaze seemed accusing.

“I know,” he said gently.

“No-you don’t. I don’t think you do. I mean, it really hurts-here, and here, and here. Physically.” She touched her face, her throat, her chest. “It hurts so bad, I wish I could take aspirin or something for it, but I know it wouldn’t help.” She took a breath, a shallow one, as if even that hurt. He stood back and made way for her to come in, but she stayed where she was, glaring at him. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”

“Who?” he asked, although he knew.

“Them-all of them. My mother, my father, those two people in the wedding picture, Holt, Jimmy, my dad. I keep seeing their faces…they’re in my head. And every time I see them, I hurt.”

“Empathy sucks,” he said, nodding.

“I can’t seem to stop it. I just…want…to make it…stop.”

“That’s a dangerous frame of mind to be in.”

She nodded, and a frown made lines between her brows. “I know. I guess that’s why people drink. Or take drugs. Or kill themselves.”

“That’s why my mother did.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that.

Her gaze didn’t waver, and he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. He decided he hoped she hadn’t. “I wouldn’t. But I thought of something else, and it seems to help.”

“What’s that?”

She snatched another breath, as if they were suddenly in critically short supply. “I thought of you. And the pain got a lot better. So, I thought I’d find out if seeing you in person would help even more.”

“And does it?” he asked somberly, a quiver of tender laughter deep within his chest.

“Yes.” Finally, she walked past him and into the room. He closed the door, then turned to find her gazing at him, arms wrapped across her body, eyes fierce and bright. “I keep thinking about how it felt when you held me the other day. I’ve thought about it quite a lot, actually. I thought it felt very, very good.”

“Yes,” Alan said. “I thought so, too.”

“So,” she said on another breath, “maybe you wouldn’t mind too much, holding me right now.” She gave him only a split second, then rushed on. “I know you think it’s a bad idea-I get that. I just want you to know I won’t expect anything-”

“Hush,” he said, and folded her into his arms.

But, after a small, faint gasp, she went on talking. “Except tonight. I just need you to get me through this night. Please help me…”

“Like the song says?” he asked with a husky laugh.

She pulled back to stare at him. “What song?”

“‘Help Me Make It Through The Night…’”

Nestled once more against his chest, her laugh was a tiny whimper of sound. “Oh. I was thinking of, ‘Make The World Go Away.’”

“I guess this probably beats the hell out of a bottle of Scotch,” he said after a moment, when neither of them had moved.

“I’ve never been much of a drinker,” she whispered, turning her face toward his. “Me, neither.”

What the hell, he thought as he took her mouth. It wasn’t the first time he’d known something was a bad idea and gone ahead and done it anyway.

She was glad when he turned the light off. Less glad that he didn’t undress her. Leaving that choice up to her might have derailed the whole thing, if she’d been less determined. Less desperate. But she’d disengaged her thinking mind when she’d left her room and gone to knock on his door, and it was without thinking that she took off her clothes in the kindly darkness and laid them neatly over the room’s only upholstered chair. She turned back toward him, and watched him in the faint light that leaked into the room from outside the uncurtained window, watched him tug the bedcovers back, then hold out his hand to her. She took it, and he drew her to the bed, then got in and held the covers open for her. Once again, leaving the choice up to her. She could come to him…or not.

She felt her heart thumping with appalling force inside her chest. Moving in a dream, not thinking, she sat on the edge of the mattress and lay down beside him. The cool, crisp sheets settled over them both.

She lay in the darkness with the rain pulling a curtain of sound around them, shivering at first, curled tightly against him-this man she barely knew-with her fist nested in his chest hair, the thump-thump of his heart loud in her ear and her hand rising and falling with his slow, even breaths. She closed her eyes, and the images came and played through her mind like an old-time newsreel, the faces, one after the other: A lovely young girl, the bride and her groom…like children playing at a make-believe wedding. A little boy, laughing and fat in his snowsuit, throwing snow at his mother. Her mother and father-her daddy, the one she knew and adored-gazing at her with love and pride. Her mother’s face as she’d seen it last, haunted and terrified…her dad’s face growing sadder and sadder by the day. Holt Kincaid, a grown man asking in a man’s voice a child’s question: Why?

The pain came and this time she didn’t fight it but let it wash over her in waves and waves, and he-this hardened cop, this man she barely knew-stroked her gently, so gently, until gradually the pain subsided and the shivering stopped and her body grew heavy and supple, and unfurled along his side the way a flower opens in the sun.

“I should have known you’d be so gentle,” she whispered. “So kind. You are a kind, gentle man, Detective Cameron.”

He gave a snort of laughter and growled, “That’s just what every homicide cop wants to hear.”

“I’m sorry. It’s true, though.”

“How do you know? You don’t know me that well.”

“Maybe not well, but I know that. I saw it that first day I met you, you know-the way you were with my mother.”

He didn’t reply, and after a moment she added, “I knew that you wouldn’t turn me away, even if you do think you shouldn’t-”

“Hush,” he said for the second time, and raised himself so that he loomed above her, big and solid in the darkness. His head swooped down, blotting out what light there was, and his mouth found hers unerringly.

She gave a gasp and sank into it-the sheer pleasure of being kissed, held, stroked. Sank into it as she would a hot tub, sighing with the pure sensual pleasure.

After a while-she lost all track of time-he lifted his head and said in a soft growl, “Maybe I’m not all that kind. Maybe I just want to make love to you. Did you ever think of that?”

She laughed, and just as softly growled back, “That’s okay, too. Make love to me, then.”

Her eyes closed and she didn’t notice or care; her body was doing what it wanted, with no direction from her thinking mind. She felt his lips brush her eyelids…his hands cradle her head while his thumbs stroked her cheeks…so lightly, so tenderly.

And it was the tenderness that was her undoing.

Prickles washed through her body in a stinging shower, a wave of longing that caught her unawares. It was pain, yes, but different from the other, the pain that had weighed her down and brought her to this almost-stranger’s bed in the dead of night. This was bright and breathtaking, and she let herself be carried on it, into a realm of fantasy…of possibility…of what if?

What if this wasn’t just for tonight, but for always?

What if it wasn’t just making love, but love?

What if I love him?

What if he could love me?

What if he does?

So easily, the lines between fantasy and reality blurred and ran, like watercolors in the rain. She felt as if she’d always known him, this man who held her and touched her so tenderly. His hands seemed to know her body better than she did. His mouth, his fingers, his body came into her most intimate places, not as explorers, but as loved ones welcomed home.

She felt safe in his hands. Beyond the gentleness, there was strength in this man. How did she know that? It wasn’t something she asked herself, then, her mind having disengaged from her body. It was just something her body knew. She was safe in his hands.

“Make love to me,” she whispered, not even remembering she’d already said it.

He didn’t reply with words, but simply did as she asked.

He’d never known a woman like this, so completely immersed in the act of making love, so utterly without reservation, self-consciousness or inhibition. Yet, not in a frantic way. Her body was pliant…relaxed, her movements so languorous and sweet he felt as though he could sink into her and lose himself there completely.

Her joy, her pleasure, her delight in his touch, his kisses, made him feel bigger, better, stronger. More. More of everything good and admirable than he’d ever felt in his life before. He felt blessed and yet humbled, as if he’d been entrusted with a great treasure to cherish and protect. Which should have been daunting, perhaps, except he also felt completely up to the task. Not only that, it seemed to him he was the only man alive who would be.

She sighed when he kissed her…swelled under his hands. He no longer heard the rain or saw the darkness, because the world was her, and him…nothing more. Just the two of them and then, so easily, so naturally, one.

Being inside her seemed so right, the only place he could be, then, the only place he felt he belonged, as if he’d come home after a long, long time in exile. He felt a swelling in his chest, an unanticipated sting behind his eyelids, and quickly ducked his head to claim her mouth again, releasing emotions in a way he could understand and allow-in passion.

Reaching under her, he drew her more closely against him and seated himself even more deeply inside her, and felt her move with him as if she were truly part of him, not a separate person at all. He didn’t ask himself, How can this be? How is it possible I’ve never made love with this woman before? Not then. It was only later that it occurred to him to wonder, and ask: Where was the strangeness, the getting-to-know-you awkwardness that went with having sex with someone for the first time?

But just then, at that moment, he could only go with it, immerse himself in it as she did.

They moved together in the same rhythms for an unmeasured time, letting their bodies set the pace, tuned to each other as if they listened to the same music. And when the music rose finally to its crescendo, they rode it out together, bodies arching, swelling, pulsing and clenching in tandem. They clung together, first in something akin to terror, then exhilaration, and finally, a kind of thankfulness…and sweet relief.

Afterward, they lay intertwined and uncovered, bodies slick and humid where they touched, already beginning to feel the chill where they didn’t. Even so, when he took his arm away from her to reach for the covers, she gave a little growl of protest.

He laughed softly and kissed her forehead, and when he had them covered up, gathered her close again. He heard her sigh, and for a few minutes more, let himself drift in the kind of contentment he hadn’t believed himself capable of. But as his body cooled, inevitably so did his mind. Reason returned. And responsibility.

Still holding Lindsey close to his side with one arm, he lay back on the pillows and swore, muttering under his breath.

From her nest on his shoulder the murmur came, “Regretting it already?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Regretting my own stupidity, I guess. And no-” he raised up to touch a kiss to her forehead “-I didn’t mean that, either. What I mean is, I didn’t even think about protection. I’m sorry. I think I even have a couple of condoms over there in my wallet. I just…forgot.”

“You can’t get me pregnant,” she said after a moment. “And I haven’t had sex since my divorce. I think I would know if I was…you know.”

“And I was tested fairly recently-got sliced up by a suspect in a domestic abuse case, so they tested me as a precaution. But that’s-”

“Is that what this is?” Her fingers traced the newly healed scar on his side, making him wince involuntarily. “Oh-sorry,” she cried. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t. But what I was going to say was, that’s no excuse. I should have remembered.” He let out a breath. “Well-”

He stopped, but the words he’d been about to say hung there between them, unspoken: Next time…

Would there be a next time? Tonight…maybe. Even probably-or today, since it was already Sunday. But beyond that? He couldn’t see it.

Her voice came, quietly and without much expression. “You do regret it, don’t you.”

“How could I regret what was probably one of the most amazing experiences of my life?” He felt exasperated, cornered, unnerved by his own unprecedented honesty.

She was silent for a moment, absorbing what he’d said. Then she drew a shaken breath and said, “It was for me, too. But I’m betting you’re not thinking the same things I am right now.”

“For instance?” It was a growl of futile belligerence.

“You don’t want this-what just happened between us-to happen again.”

“Not true.” Again…futile. His body was already calling him a liar, and she knew it.

“I don’t mean tonight,” she said, with both a smile and sadness in her voice. “You said once, this-us-is a bad idea. You still think so.”

“It’s not a matter of what I think, or want,” he said slowly, as if speaking to someone of limited intelligence. “It’s just what is.”

“Why? Is it because I’m part of a case you’re working on?”

“Partly.”

“What, is it against the law for a police officer to be involved with someone connected with an open case? Even if she’s not a suspect?”

He stirred restlessly, his thoughts becoming scrambled…scattered. Fatigue, he wondered, or the distraction of her body lying warm and round against him. “No, not against the law.”

“Department policy, then?” She stirred, too, and he felt her hand move, innocent of design, across his belly.

His voice seemed to come from there-deep in his belly. “Yeah, probably. Ethically…”

“So-it’s your policy. Your ethics.”

His laugh was harsh. “God, that makes me sound like such a prick.”

Her hand grew still. “I don’t mean for it to. I’m trying to understand. You’re a man of principle-I understand that. It’s one of the things that makes me…” She didn’t finish it, and instead, after a long pause, drew an unsteady breath. “So, what about when it’s all over? What then?”

“Lindsey…love.”

And there it was, the pet name he’d been looking for. Lindsey-love. And now realized had been there all along, only he’d been too afraid to say it out loud. Why? he wondered. Afraid it might be true?

He took refuge in a tried and true cop-out. “It’s not that simple.”

She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him, her bewitching eyes only smudges in the darkness. After what seemed an endless silence, she said very softly, “You think my father is guilty, don’t you? And you think I’ll blame you…hate you…for bringing him down.”

“Lindsey…”

In a quick, almost violent movement, she sat up, pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her voice sounded breathless and muffled. “I wouldn’t, you know. Even if he were guilty. Which I know he’s not. But if he were, I wouldn’t blame you.” Her head swiveled toward him. “How could I? You’re only doing your job. In fact, doing what I asked you to do. How could I blame you?”

He heard the anguish in her voice as she emphasized the last word and thought, Yes, there it is. “You would,” he said gently, raising himself on one elbow. “Or maybe more than that, you’d blame yourself. Whichever way it goes, it’s always going to be there between us.”

Again, a flurry of movement in the darkness as she shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be. People have overcome worse things. It’s only an obstacle if you let it be. And maybe-”

He heard a sharp intake of breath, as if she’d stumbled, and when she continued there was a new note of breathlessness and pain in her voice.

Which was just what it was like, he thought-stumbling over the truth. Like stubbing your toe in the darkness.

“Maybe you want it to be. Because…maybe what you want is an excuse.”

“An excuse?” he said. “For what?”

“An excuse not to try again.” She paused, and he caught a furtive movement-her hand, brushing her cheeks. “Like me. I know what it’s like, you know-to be so afraid of getting your heart broken, you won’t let yourself take another chance.”