He gestured and Suzanne followed him to the dead body lying on his stomach. She had to step around the pool of blood and felt saliva fill her mouth. With an enormous effort, Suzanne willed her stomach to stay right where it was. John’s arm slipped around her waist. She leaned into him, into the strength and the heat of him. At that moment, she didn’t care what Bud thought. She was just grateful for the support of that iron arm. Her legs were shaking and she knew he would keep her upright forever, if need be.
Three men were kneeling around the body. All three had carefully chosen the few places that weren’t spattered with blood. One was finishing up taking fingerprints using digital she remembered seeing on CSI, another was taking swabs, and the third was using tweezers to pick up fibers, putting them in a glassine envelope.
A bright flash behind her went off and Suzanne jumped.
“Steady,” John murmured, his deep voice a bare whisper, for her ears only.
She drew in a deep breath and nodded. John’s arm tightened around her. They were standing hip to hip but his attention was directed outwards. His face was remote; gaze cold and vigilant as it made its way in regular sweeps around the room. Were it not for his arm firmly about her, Suzanne would have imagined that he wasn’t even aware of her presence. And yet he knew every move she made.
Another flash went off, then another and another as the photographer, a short, sandy-haired man with a blond beard, circled the body. The flashes continued steadily until finally the camera was dropped, allowed to rest hanging against the technician’s chest by a leather strap.
“That about wraps it up, Lieutenant,” the photographer said, stepping back.
“Okay, Lou,” Bud said. “Stand by. We’re going to see who we’ve got here.”
Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Bud kneeled on a clear patch of floor. He studied the back of the dead man for a long moment. He reached out and pulled at the man’s right shoulder steadily until the dead man flopped over and settled on his back. “Okay, now.” Bud sat back on his haunches. “Who is he?” he asked, looking up at Suzanne then over at John.
She steeled herself and looked down.
The dead man had a long, narrow, deeply tanned face with regular features. Without the rictus of a painful death, he might have been mildly good-looking, though it was hard to tell. The wide-open eyes were a muddy brown, starred with deep lines in the skin around them, more a result of the effects of sun and weather than age. He had crooked, yellowish teeth. One eyetooth overlapped the incisor. The hair was dark brown, straight, shot through with a few gray hairs.
Bud was watching her. “Suzanne?”
She stared for another two minutes, nauseated, and then shook her head. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life,” she said firmly.
“John?”
John had only glanced at the dead man, and then had returned his attention back to the room. He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
Bud stood, dusting his hands. “Well, you might not know him, Suzanne, but he knows you. I need to ask you a few questions.” He looked over. “You, too, John,” he said, faint irony in his voice.
Suzanne didn’t need to ask what kind of questions Bud had for John, not with John’s knife through the dead man’s throat.
“Let’s take it to the couch,” John said, his arm still around her. Suzanne knew he was shielding her. They couldn’t see the body from the couch.
He settled her on the little couch, then sat down beside her, taking up about two-thirds of it. His left arm was behind her, her right side completely up against his left. He was effectively embracing her but that felt just fine. As a matter of fact, she had to clench her fists to resist the temptation to lean more heavily into him, to let his strength surround her.
His face was set and hard. He had placed the big black pistol on the coffee table, but close to hand, the butt facing him so he could pick it up and use it immediately if necessary. Though he was sitting, she could feel the coiled tension in his big body. At regular intervals, his eyes kept quartering the room, his gaze like a searchlight, only dark. She knew he had taken the measure of every person—two more technicians had joined the crime scene squad technicians milling around—and every object in the room. Something told her he was aware at all times of the position of every person and every object. And of her.
He might protect her, but he wasn’t going to comfort her. He was as remote and as untouchable—except in the most physical sense of the term—as someone on the moon. And yet he kept within touching distance of her at all times.
Bud sat down across from her, looking at her somberly, then he looked over to John. He pulled out a notebook.
“Okay, want to tell me what went on?”
John turned to her. You first, his look said.
Okay.
She ran a hand through her hair. It was still a little tangled, the quick swipe with the brush she’d allowed herself in the bathroom not enough make it smooth. She’d managed to wash her face and brush her teeth, though, which made her feel better. She put her hand down to straighten up and encountered iron-hard male flesh. John’s thigh. She snatched her hand away, only to find it caught in his.
His palm was hard, callused, his fingers curled tightly around hers. She didn’t pull her hand away, surprised at the comfort in that single touch.
Bud noted her hand in John’s but didn’t say anything. He looked at her expectantly. “Where do I start?” Suzanne asked.
“Why don’t we take it from when you came home last night? What did you do?” Bud looked at her expectantly and she felt a spurt of panic swell up in her chest. He wanted to know about last night?
“Last night?” she breathed, shocked.
Oh God, she couldn’t talk about it. The heat and the sex. Not in front of Bud. And how on earth could Bud know she and John had—
Oh.
It was after midnight. By last night, Bud meant a few hours ago. He didn’t mean—tell me about you and John and the wall. He meant—tell me about you and the dead man. Which was almost easier than the sex.
“Tell me about your day. Did you notice anyone following you? Anything unusual happen?”
“No, of course not.” Anyone following her? What a ludicrous idea. She started to shake her head then thought about it. She’d entered a new world, one in which she didn’t know the rules and had no survival instincts. In this new world, anything could happen. “I mean,” she corrected, looking at Bud and John, “maybe someone was, but I didn’t notice it. I probably wouldn’t. I guess I don’t think that way. But if anyone was following me, he had a very boring day. I met with a cloth importer, Cathy Lorenzetti, at nine o’clock in her office on Glisan. At ten I met with a colleague, Todd Armstrong, at his home. We had tea and discussed business. I spent the afternoon with a new client, going over the plans for the redecoration of her apartment. Not exactly the stuff thrillers are made of.”
Bud absorbed this information, making careful notes. “I’m going to be needing addresses and phone numbers.” Suzanne gave them to him. “And you got home around when?”
“Eight. It had been a long afternoon.” Very long, Suzanne thought. And tedious. “I was tired. I took a bath, had a light meal and turned in to bed.”
“That would be around what time?” Bud asked. He was taking copious notes, though she couldn’t imagine she was saying anything of any importance.
“Ten o’clock. I checked my watch and I remember hearing the grandfather clock—the one over there in the corner—chime ten.” Bud turned around to look where she pointed and nodded. “I read for about twenty minutes, then turned out the light. I might have dozed a little, off and on, but I was feeling restless.” Suzanne could almost feel John’s intense scrutiny beside her. He seemed to be listening to her with every cell in his body. Surely he must know he was a big reason she’d been unable to fall asleep. “Then I heard the clock chime midnight and I realized that I was having trouble falling asleep so maybe I should heat up some milk.”