His house was small, with a slate blue and cream color scheme, a concrete front porch, and a neat lawn with flowering shrubs along the walk. Flower boxes adorned the porch railing, but the geraniums were at the end of their season and a bit leggy. He’d left the front light on.
He unlocked the door, ushered her in, then reached around her to flip on the living room light.
His beeper went off. Startled, Max jumped and bumped into him. He didn’t so much as waver. Damn, the guy was built like an ox, but he smelled like an angel. Damn his aftershave, too.
He reached to his belt and tilted the beeper readout. His mouth curved in a disgusted frown.
“Gotta go? I can watch the DVD while you’re out, give you a report,” she offered.
“Your eagerness overwhelms me. It’s only Scro—Scranton. One call will get him out of my hair.”
Scranton; that was Coffee Breath. She’d met him at Witt’s station house the day she’d first told him about Tiffany. “Your partner?”
Witt rolled his eyes. She couldn’t tell if that was a yes or no. She perused his house while he went into the kitchen, presumably to use the phone.
The living room was tidy, paint still fresh and white, but the furniture was vintage seventies, and the carpet was a sculptured shag of the same era. This was not the style of a woman who always wanted more, and certainly not the style of a woman who insisted her toilets lids be down at all times. Bookcases lined one wall, filled with an eclectic selection of titles. Everything from male-dominated mysteries and espionage tales to The Iliad and Plato. She wouldn’t have branded him as the philosophical type.
In the end, Witt took less than five minutes to get rid of Scranton.
Max pelted him with questions the minute he returned. “Was this the house you lived in with your wife?”
“No. My grandmother’s. She passed away three years ago and left it to me.”
Wow, the lady must have been ooooold. “How long have you been divorced?”
“Four years.” He plucked the disk still clutched to her breast, grabbed the remote, turned the machine on, then pushed the open button. When the tray slid out, he laid the DVD in it. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the beige sofa. “Want some popcorn for the show?”
She stared at him, her limbs suddenly turning to jelly. She felt rushed. “You’re kidding me?”
In the midst of pressing buttons, he looked at her. “No, I wasn’t.”
“But ... well ... the disk ... it’s not a joke.”
She hadn’t really thought about what was on it. First she’d been freaked by Traynor, and then run. Then she’d been pissed at Cameron, and finally, she’d been sucked into sexy banter with the detective. It was only now that she found the possible content utterly terrifying.
“Can I see the rest of the place first?”
He straightened, tipped his head, then asked, “What?” as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d said.
“I want to see the house.” He was an idiot if he didn’t see right through that bogus excuse.
“You wanna see the bedroom?” An idiot or a sex maniac.
She wasn’t sure which boded better for her. She pursed her lips. “You have a one-track mind. I want to know where the bathroom is. I can’t sit still until I know where the nearest bathroom is. Call it a little quirk of mine.”
He laughed. His dimples came out. “You just wanna know if the toilet seat’s down.”
Damn. The man was a mind reader on par with Cameron. In some things.
He gave her the tour. The kitchen was white and black tile, white and black linoleum, and white appliances. No dirty dishes in the sink, not even a pot in the dish drainer. This was a definite point in his favor.
“You wanna check the refrigerator?”
“Huh?”
“Just to see if I’ve got any rotten food in there?” She raised her eyebrows at his words. “Yeah, Max, I see that little mind of yours working. You’re an open book.”
She wondered how obvious she was about other stuff.
Very obvious.
Cameron! She didn’t give him the pleasure of a smart retort.
The bathroom had the same black and white tile over the tub and on the counter. She liked the scheme. When Witt started to enter the bedroom, she held back.
“Chicken?”
Yes. “Of course not. But I want to know what you meant when you said I was exactly the woman to understand you.”
“Said that over an hour ago,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I’m just getting to it now.”
He shook his head in wonder. “An amazing mind. You don’t forget anything.”
“Not unless I want to. Now spill it.”
“You won’t like it.”
Hmmm. Scary stuff coming. She forged ahead. “I can handle it.”
He cleared his throat. She was glad that she’d made him at least a little bit nervous. “You ... seem to be capable of doing things ... most women would not be particularly proud of.” He was uncomfortable, a first for him.
A lesser woman would shrivel up and die right about now. Or melt into a mortified puddle of goo on the floor. Max squared her shoulders. “And your point is?”
“Figure someone like you could understand the things a man might not be proud of ... without hating him.”