Memory of Murder

Chapter 5

She was prettier than I had expected, and younger.

Her hair was dark, and long. She wore it pulled back in a ponytail, like a young girl.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

I wonder if I should have kissed her.

There’d been a moment there, when she’d come through the doors, emerging into the sunlight like a diva onto her stage, when it had seemed almost as though she’d expected him to. And, Alan had to admit, when he’d wanted to. Very much wanted to. The kiss he’d planted on her several days ago in the car still haunted him, burning itself into his memory at the most unexpected times, the remembered sensation becoming more intense with each replay.

Today she was wearing a sweater in a color that was somewhere in the neighborhood of red and orange and pink and that made him think of ripe fruit, and her cheeks seemed to pick up some of that, making them more vivid than he remembered. Her eyes seemed brighter, too, shining bright blue out of that thicket of dark lashes. He didn’t know what it was about those eyes-he wasn’t the sort to think in literary imagery, and once again the only thing he could find to compare them to in his mind was Elizabeth Taylor. Movie-star eyes.

He didn’t kiss her. He stepped toward her almost reflexively, but something stopped him, some inner voice warning him that it wasn’t the right thing to do, at least not then. And the moment passed.

She came to him, smiling, one hand holding back her hair, although the breeze off the ocean seemed benign enough that it probably wasn’t necessary. A sign of the awkwardness she was feeling, he thought. The same uncertainty he was experiencing, and which wasn’t natural to him, at least not that he could recall.

“Hey, babe,” he said, then wanted to chomp on his tongue. It wasn’t that he’d never called a woman “babe” before, but it had never before felt so wrong. Lindsey Merrill was definitely not a “babe,” which got him to wondering what kind of endearment would feel right, if their pretended relationship had happened to be real. He’d called her “honey,” and “Linz,” if his memory served, and none of those had felt right either.

“My daughter, Chelsea…Chelse, say hello to Lindsey,” he said, more brusquely than he meant to.

Chelsea dutifully muttered, “H’lo.”

“Hi, Chelsea,” Lindsey said, holding out her hand. Which Chelsea didn’t seem to have a clue what to do with, and Alan made a mental note to speak to her mother about maybe it being time to teach the kid some basic social graces. Covering up the awkward moment with a light touch on Chelsea’s arm, Lindsey added, “I love your jacket-pink is definitely your color.”

“Thank you,” Chelsea said-he was glad at least for that. “My mom bought it for me.”

“I hope you brought your bathing suits,” Richard said, every inch the jovial host. “Hard to believe it’s November, isn’t it? Pool water’s warm, and if it does get chilly later on, the heater over there does a pretty good job. What do you say, young lady? Feel like going for a swim? Plenty of time before we eat.”

Chelsea glanced over at the pool, where several children of various ages were engaged in a game of Marco Polo, then turned a look on Alan he knew could be roughly translated as: I’d rather have my head shaved.

“Uh…maybe a little later?” he suggested, directing a look of appeal at Lindsey. The awkwardness of the whole thing was beginning to make his jaws ache. What had he been thinking of, to bring Chelse along on what was essentially police business?

“Of course,” Lindsey was saying, and she slipped an arm around Chelsea’s shoulders and scooped up her backpack. “I’m sure you’d rather get your bearings first, wouldn’t you? In the meantime, how about if I show you where you can stash your stuff?”

Mutely, Chelsea nodded. Alan quelled another impulse to kiss Lindsey, this time out of sheer gratitude. He might have debated with himself whether it would be more productive to stay and chat with Richard Merrill rather than accompany the girls on their house tour, but his daughter’s death grip on his arm pretty much took the matter out of his hands. So, he found himself trailing after the two of them into the house, following Lindsey’s very nicely rounded bottom up a zigzagging flight of stairs.

If he’d been able to kid himself up to now about whether or not he was attracted to the lady for real, that would’ve put any remaining illusions to rest for good. No doubt about it, Lindsey Merrill had gotten under his skin. The only remaining question was, what was he going to do about it? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d met someone in the course of an investigation that made him regret the personal and professional code of ethics that put any such liaisons off-limits. Though it might be the first time he’d doubted his ability to stick to it.

“This was my room when I was growing up.” Lindsey had paused in an open doorway and turned to wait for Alan and Chelsea to join her. “Chelsea, if you like, you can leave your stuff in here. Then, if you feel like swimming, you can just come back up and change. Okay?”

“Oh, wow.” This, unexpectedly, from Chelsea, who was standing in the doorway, peering into the room.

A few steps behind her, Alan’s first general impression was of a whole lot of pink. Then he got close enough to get a good look. He looked at Lindsey and lifted his eyebrows.

“What can I say?” she said with a small shrug, amusement glittering in her eyes. “I’m a girl. I liked dolls.”

“I’d say so.” He’d moved past her, and his fascinated gaze was taking in what seemed to him like a museum of little-girlhood. Although he had to admit that, even with its very feminine pink, cream and pale green color scheme, it was in good taste, not too overwhelmingly frilly. The walls were pale green, the furniture painted cream, window curtains, bedspread and rugs all in various shades of pink. Dolls, along with a stuffed animal or two, sprawled on the bed amongst an assortment of pillows in those three colors, and filled most of the space in a rocking chair upholstered in pink, green and cream stripes. A low table in one corner of the room held a large Victorian-style dollhouse that looked both custom-made and expensive. A shelf ran all the way around the room, up high near the ceiling, and every inch of it was occupied by more dolls-most, he was pretty sure from being the father of a daughter, were Barbies. Bookshelves held books, but there were a few dolls and a couple of teddy bears tucked in here and there, as well. The only departure from the doll theme, as far as Alan could see, were the framed and matted black-and-white photographs of children playing on beaches hanging on the walls, and a collection of framed youth soccer team photos arranged above a small study desk.

“It didn’t look like this when I went away to college, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lindsey said dryly. She was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, watching him, and her smile was crooked and unreadable. “My decorating scheme at the time was probably best described as late Springsteen-casual. My mom did this after I got pregnant and she found out I was having a girl. I was kind of amazed to discover she’d saved all this stuff.”

Alan nodded, but discovered he didn’t have anything to say in response. Because he knew, now, what that little bit of a smile on her face was trying to disguise. I was having a girl. Susan Merrill had created this room for her granddaughter, the baby who had died. Lindsey’s baby.

“Careful,” he said to Chelse, who was trying to peer into the open back of the dollhouse, and found his voice was filled with gravel.

Lindsey’s was firm and unemotional. “No, no-she’s welcome to play with anything in here. It’s time someone did.” To Chelsea she added with a smile, “Feel free, dear.”

“Cool,” said Chelsea, but she was moving on, pausing now to study the soccer team pictures. In each of them Alan noticed, a younger, slimmer, darker-haired Richard Merrill, obviously one of the coaches, stood behind or a little to one side of the double row of little girls in their team jerseys.

Chelsea leaned closer, then touched one of the photos, pointing to a slender, long-legged girl with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Is this you?”

Lindsey nodded. “That’s me. We were the Red Devils. We won the championship that year.”

“You were pretty.” Chelsea’s voice had a wistful note, and Alan felt his stomach clench.

“Geez, Chelse,” he said with an uneasy laugh. “Were?”

Then he felt like a real jerk when he saw both Lindsey’s and his daughter’s cheeks turn pink. The latter threw him a look, a little grimace of embarrassment. “Dad, I didn’t mean…”

Lindsey laughed and said, “It’s okay, I know what you meant.”

But Chelsea stumbled on, frowning and earnest. “I mean, you were pretty when you were a kid. Now, I think you’re beautiful.”

Oh, boy. Nice save, Chelse. Alan couldn’t think of a thing to say to that, either. Then Lindsey threw him a look, and he thought the shine in her eyes might be tears. Just keeps getting better and better, he thought.

“Why,” she said softly, touching Chelsea’s shoulder, “what a sweet thing to say.”

And while Alan watched in agonized silence, his daughter got even pinker, then said, “I really like your hair.”

“Thank you,” Lindsey said, looking genuinely touched.

“I want to get mine cut,” Chelsea went on, “but my mom won’t let me. She says not until I’m older. And my dad says I have to do what she says.” She cut her eyes at Alan, who could only lift his hands in mute wonderment. He was thinking he hadn’t heard that many words come out of his daughter’s mouth all at once in months.

Lindsey gave him a quick, uncertain look, as if she realized the path she now found herself on might be leading her into a place she had no business going. She cleared her throat, then said gently, “Oh, Chelsea. Your mom just doesn’t want you to grow up too fast.”

“But I’m already almost ten. I should be able to get my hair cut if I want to.”

This time, Lindsey didn’t even look at Alan. She reached out and touched Chelsea’s hair, then let the ponytail slither through her fingers. “Trust me, you’ll have lots and lots of chances to decide what you want to do with your hair. And you can also trust me when I tell you, you’re probably going to regret a lot of those decisions.”

“I know.” Chelsea moaned, clearly unconvinced.

Lindsey smiled. “I know how you feel-I do. When I was ten, I couldn’t wait to be a teenager. Then when I was thirteen, I couldn’t wait to be fifteen, so I could get my learner’s permit.” She threw a glance at Alan, who had been unable to stifle a groan, then went on, speaking only to Chelsea, and softly, now, as if the two of them were alone in the room. Her smile had changed in some subtle way he couldn’t name, but that made his throat ache anyway. “I always wanted to be…whatever was out there ahead of me. Now, I kind of wish I’d paid more attention to how much fun it was to be ten.”

Chelsea tilted her head quizzically, and didn’t reply.

“What the hell was that about?”

They were on their way down the stairs, having left Chelsea in the pink, green and cream room, now thoroughly engrossed in the dollhouse.

Lindsey glanced at him in surprise. “What was what about?”

“You…Chelsea.” He tried to make his voice light, casual. “What were you two doing, bonding?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just talking to her, that’s all.”

“Yeah, and she was talking to you, probably more words strung together in complete sentences than she’s spoken to me in a whole day, lately.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was a bad thing.” She spoke quietly, but her voice sounded strained. Edgy.

Ashamed of himself, Alan tried to backpedal. “It’s not, just…unexpected.”

He’d begun to understand that he’d wandered into territory that was unfamiliar to him; these emotional, mother-child interactions weren’t something he encountered much in his line of work. He didn’t know why watching Lindsey communicate with his child had stirred him so. It had seemed to come so naturally to her, and he wondered if what he felt was as simple a thing as jealousy, because lately he’d been feeling his relationship with his daughter slipping and communication a challenge, at best. Fear clutched at his belly when he thought of losing his little girl, watching her turn into an uncommunicative stranger, and after that, what next? Drugs? Everything that went with that? He’d seen too much not to know the dangers that lurked outside his protective embrace.

He wanted to say something to her, to Lindsey, to make it right, but everything he thought of seemed to bump up against the fact that she was a woman who had lost a child. He didn’t know what to say to a woman under those circumstances, outside the standard phrases he was trained to use in his job, the phrases that came from habit, from a barricaded place where emotions could not encroach on the job he had to do.

I’m sorry for your loss.

He suddenly flashed on the mother of one of the victims of the weekend gang war, on her knees in the parking lot of the Whataburger, clutching her hair as if she would tear it out, and wailing at the sky. Then, on the mother of the wounded flower girl as he’d seen her in the hospital that day, still wearing her wedding clothes stained with her child’s blood, her face bleached with fear, a young woman suddenly turned haggard and old.

He glanced at Lindsey, who evidently felt the look and returned it, lips set, eyes hurt and accusing. He drew breath to power an apology, but before he could deliver it, she said tightly, “You were the one who started this whole thing, pretending to be a dating couple. You were the one who wanted to come here today. Maybe you should have gone over the rules of engagement with me first.”

“You’re right,” he said on a gusty exhalation. There was more he wanted to say but couldn’t think how, there in the middle of a flight of stairs with his daughter above and her father below, and a job he’d come there to do waiting for him to get to it. “You’re right. So, do you think I could have a look at those albums and yearbooks now?”

A look of vulnerability flitted across her face, and then she tightened her lips again. “Sure. They’re in the den, I think-or Dad’s office, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Let’s see the office first.”

She felt like a traitor. Guilt and nerves made her stomach churn and her legs wobbly as she led the way down the carpeted downstairs hallway to her father’s office. His private, personal space. Not that she hadn’t always been welcome there; her dad had had no secrets from her, or anyone else, she was sure of that. But, she reminded herself, Alan couldn’t know him as she did; he would have to find out for himself.

“In here,” she said, then caught a breath and waited with pounding heart for Alan to slip past her before following him into the room.

It looked the same, smelled the same, seemed exactly as it had always been, except for the computer that now took up space on his desk, and the all-in-one printer-copier on a smaller desk set at right angles to the big one. She watched Alan take it all in from his position just inside the doorway, with his cool cop’s eyes that didn’t miss a thing: the desk with its rather ostentatious green leather executive’s chair with brass studs the glass-front cabinet that held her dad’s collection of Oriental art-an exquisite ivory Confucius he’d found at a yard sale, a jade temple jar, cloisonné bottles, a hand-painted Chinese fan, an old Chinese coin almost as big as a computer disk sitting upright on a carved rosewood stand. She’d played with them all as a child-except for the fan, which was too fragile, her dad said. Bookcases filled with an eclectic selection of books, and magazines neatly contained in wooden sleeves. The antique reproduction globe that sat on the floor beside the recliner chair where her dad sometimes napped, the pictures on the walls, signed prints of watercolors by a well-known artist who specialized in painting children and the play of sunlight and shadow. One, her favorite, of a mother sitting in a rocking chair holding a sleeping baby, he had taken down after Isabella died, and she’d known then how deeply he, too, had felt the loss of his only grandchild.

Tears stung her eyes-tears of anger and resentment rather than sadness. Anger at the circumstances that had made her bring this intruder into her father’s private space, resentment of him, this cop, this detective, who would sniff and snoop and prod and pry, and who could never ever know her father as she knew him.

But after all, she reminded herself, she’d started this. He was only doing what she’d asked him to do.

She blinked the tears away and said abruptly, “The yearbooks are over here,” as she moved past him to cross the room.

But she saw that, instead of following, Alan had paused at the desk and was opening drawers, one after the other, rifling through, then closing them again. “Doesn’t lock up his desk,” he commented, more to himself than to her.

She answered him anyway. “Why should he? He doesn’t have anything to hide.”

He had pulled out the wide center drawer. “It’s been my experience,” he murmured absently, “that everyone has something to hide.”

Lindsey yanked a yearbook off of a shelf and turned with it clutched to her chest, biting back a new surge of anger. “You don’t get it, do you? My dad is a good man. I keep telling you-” She stopped, cold clear through, as her father’s voice came from just down the hallway.

“Lindsey? You guys in here? I’m putting the steaks on the grill…”

Alan slid the drawer closed without a sound and in two long strides was across the room. In the next moment, she felt his arms come around her and at the same time he turned her so that her back was against him and he was looking over her shoulder. His hands covered hers and he opened the yearbook she was holding in her hands. “Laugh…” he whispered with his lips touching her ear.

Laugh? But I can barely breathe.

It wasn’t even a thought, just a feeling, maybe panic. She couldn’t breathe, the air seemed to have grown too warm and thick. Her heart was pounding, so hard her chest hurt. So hard she thought he must be able to hear it.

“Laugh,” he said again, a growl this time, and she managed a weak titter that was more pain than amusement.

The heat from his body was soaking into her back. She could feel his heartbeat, firm and steady, not helter-skelter, like hers. She wanted to close her eyes and lean into the heat and the heartbeat, and let the strong arms around her take over for her weakening knees. Mortified, she thought: This is terrible. Terrible, how good it feels. Can I be so hungry for a man’s touch? “Lindsey? Honey-”

Alan turned, unhurried, to smile at Richard Merrill as he stuck his head through the doorway. He kept his hands on Lindsey’s upper arms because the way she was shaking, he wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand up if he let her go. And maybe because, while professionalism had taken over his conscious mind, making it aware of every nuance of voice and expression-his own, Lindsey’s, Merrill’s-his body was operating on another wavelength entirely. All its senses and instincts were tuned to the woman’s warm body so abruptly separated from his own, which was shrieking like a disappointed child: No! Wait! I want…

Meanwhile, his conscious mind was ignoring that voice and on full alert. There-did his eyes flick, just for an instant, toward the desk? Not a trick of the light, or a nervous tick. No-he looked at the desk. I’m sure of it. Something there. Something… The thrill of the hunt shivered through him, and goose bumps roughened his skin.

“Oops,” he said, with just the slightest note of apology, “hope you don’t mind. Your daughter’s been showing me your old high school yearbooks. You had some sports career.”

Merrill’s grin was wry, his shrug self-effacing. “Very small town. I was a big frog in a little bitty puddle.”

“Still. Pretty impressive. So, you played pretty much all the sports?”

“Well, the big three, anyway. Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. Everybody did. Like I said-small town. You know how it is.”

“Not really,” Alan said easily. “Grew up in Philly.”

“Ah.” Merrill nodded as if he understood.

Keeping his arm around Lindsey but holding the book in his other hand, Alan hefted it in a thoughtful way. “Must be nice, knowing everybody. Clifton. That’s in…Nebraska, right?”

“Right.” Merrill gestured with the tongs he was holding and seemed about to say something-most likely what he’d come there to say-but Alan interrupted.

“You still keep in touch with the gang?” Does he seem tense? Edgy? Imagination…no. Again, no. He’s definitely not comfortable with this subject. “Go back for class reunions?”

“Wish I could.” The other man’s smile was regretful, sad. And, Alan had to admit, now seemed completely genuine. “I’m afraid there’s not much there to go home to.” His glance flicked to Lindsey. “Clifton was destroyed by a tornado in nineteen fifty-six.”

Alan said, “Oh, man, that’s terrible,”

And Lindsey added in a faint, shocked voice, “Daddy, you never told me about that.”

Merrill gave an apologetic shrug. “I was away in college when it happened. My folks survived, thank God we had a storm cellar, but our house was destroyed. The whole town was leveled. A lot of people were killed. It was a bad time.”

“Hey, man, I’m sorry,” Alan said. “Surprised they didn’t rebuild. What happened to everybody?”

“The town was dying anyway-you know how it is, those little midwestern towns. The young people all go off to school, find jobs in the big city. Like I did. By the time the tornado hit, half the businesses on Main Street were empty.” This time the man’s shrug was dismissive. “Tornado just put the town out of its misery, I guess.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“Moved to Chicago. I was going to the University of Illinois in Springfield, but I transferred to the Chicago campus so I could help out. Things were tough. My dad never did really recover-died of a heart attack five years later. Mom passed away the next year.”

“Sorry,” Alan muttered.

Merrill waved the tongs as he turned away, with the abrupt manner of someone who finds the subject too painful to discuss. “Happens. Hey-just came to tell you two, I’ve put the steaks on the grill. If you like ’em rare, better get out here pretty quick. Honey-” he threw Lindsey a quick look “-I know you do, and I’ve got your favorite hot sauce. Son, how ’bout you?”

“Uh…same here, only hold the hot sauce. And,” Alan added, “Chelsea won’t eat much-she can have some of mine.”

Merrill smiled and again waved the tongs, once more the genial host. “Oh, we’ve got hot dogs and hamburgers for the kids, if she’d rather have that.” He turned to go, missing the dirty look his daughter shot at Alan as she tugged herself free of his encircling arm.

“Sure,” Alan said agreeably, reeling Lindsey back into his half embrace just as her father glanced back at them, “that’s fine.”

There was an odd, tense moment, then while Richard Merrill paused in the doorway of his office, still smiling, clearly expecting them to leave with him, and Alan stayed planted where he was, badly wanting to stay behind and check out that middle desk drawer. And while Lindsey trembled with impotent fury, nestled close to his side.

“Hon,” he said, aiming a toothy smile at her-and “hon” didn’t seem any better than “babe.” “You were going to show me some albums, remember?”

Lindsey’s mouth popped open, but it was Richard who spoke. “Albums?”

“Yeah,” Alan said, “you know-old photo albums. All the embarrassing baby pictures. She’s been promising me for weeks.”

Richard chuckled. “Aha-gotcha. Well, the photo albums are in the den. Lindsey knows where they are-in the big cabinet, honey, right where they’ve always been. But hey-if you want your steaks rare, better get on out there. Otherwise, I’m making no promises. Lindsey? You coming?”

What could Alan do but follow the man? And when they got out to the hallway, there was Chelsea, coming down the stairs, looking for him. So he had no choice but to join the group on the patio and eat and be sociable and try not to think about what might be hidden in that desk that Richard Merrill didn’t want him to see.

But he was for damn sure going to get another look at the desk, first chance he got.

Lindsey made it through dinner. She wasn’t sure how, because she was certain she was too upset to eat, but she knew if she didn’t, Dad would surely notice and wonder what was wrong. He would notice, of course he would. Because he loved her and knew her so well.

I should never have done it. What was I thinking, to involve the police?

Recriminations played over and over in her head like a bit of song that wouldn’t go away. She blamed herself more than Alan. How could she be angry with him for behaving like the cop he was? And he was in full cop mode, she could tell by the hard cold glitter of his eyes, the way they took in everything, analyzing, dissecting, scrutinizing everything. Everything about her home, her family. My life.

She got through the meal by concentrating on anything except her father. Anything except Alan and his sharp cop eyes. She concentrated on Chelsea, taking a lot of time making sure the little girl didn’t feel self-conscious and shy and was getting acquainted with the other kids. She had a nice long conversation with Barbara Norwood, catching up with all her kids and grandkids and their various achievements at school and dance class and sports, and of course Barbara wanted to know how her dear old friend and neighbor Susan was doing, so Lindsey spent quite a bit of time filling her in on how her mother spent her days. It was a beautiful day for November, so she thought about that, and about the fact that Thanksgiving was coming up soon, and what she was going to do about dinner this year. She laughed and smiled and chewed, and around her the friendly chatter of people she’d known since childhood rose into the autumn evening like the sounds of a midsummer garden: insect hum and birdsong, water sounds and laughter. She thought about that, and what nice people they were, and how lucky-

“Lindsey?”

She jumped and spilled iced tea into her lap. Alan’s hands were on her shoulders, his lips close to her ear. His hair, close-cropped as it was, tickled her cheek. “Oh, God, you startled me,” she said, and remembered to smile. Remembered it was all for show.

“Sorry.” His hands moved up and down her arms, raising goose bumps. “Getting chilly?”

“A little-dumping ice in my lap doesn’t help.” She was brushing vigorously at the ice chips on her pants, hoping it would disguise the bumpiness of her voice.

“Sorry,” he said again, but it was obvious his mind wasn’t on it.

She could hear a slight roughness in his breathing. His chin rasped her cheek like sandpaper. His breath smelled of barbecue, but not, she noticed, of beer. He was on the job; of course he wouldn’t be drinking. Somehow, that fact made everything snap into focus.

“The albums,” she said, her voice flat. “I suppose you want to see them now.”

“Yeah, I do, if you don’t mind.” And she felt his lips brush her cheek, nuzzle warm and moist into the sensitive places-her ear, her neck, her throat.

A wave of sensation rolled through her, along with a veritable tsunami of emotions, most of which were too complex to identify, just then. Anger, of course-that one she had no trouble recognizing-but anger of so many different shades and levels, it seemed there should be separate names for them all.

Chagrin, shame, frustration with herself, for experiencing desire-for that’s what the sensation was, she had to be honest about it-in response to caresses that meant nothing, that were all part of a charade. A lie.

Anger with him for casually choosing such a cover, apparently without giving a thought to her feelings. Resentment toward him for being able to carry off the pretense without a qualm. He could be calm and cool, feeling-she was certain-absolutely nothing for her personally. To him she was simply a means to an end. A cover.

Humiliation at the thought that he might somehow know how his touch affected her. That could not happen. She made up her mind she wouldn’t let it. It was all part of a job to him, one she'd asked him to do. For her.

He's doing this for me. The least I can do is try to help him.