“No. Very civilized and congenial.”
“Right. Dennis isn’t a caveman.”
She took a deep breath, he believed in order to control her vexation. “As I told you at the start of this inane and totally unnecessary conversation, Dennis is no longer a factor in my life.”
“Okay.” Crawford had heard what he needed to hear and was willing to let the subject drop there.
Then she asked, “What about you?”
“Regarding what?”
“Are you in a relationship?”
“No.”
“Have you been since your wife died?”
“No.”
She held his gaze until he relented with a shrug.
“None that lasted longer than twenty minutes.” He waited a beat before adding, “But until last night, they lasted longer than ninety seconds.”
Angry, possibly embarrassed, she turned her head aside to look through the windshield.
Feeling rather like a heel for having said that, he said, “Since Beth, no involvements. I’ve seized on a few random opportunities. Never when Georgia is around. Never in my house. And never without protection.”
At that last, she turned and gave him a pointed look.
He sighed. “Right.”
“Don’t fret. You’re safe.”
“The pill?”
A small nod, then she looked forward again. Possibly a whole minute passed before she spoke. “Sergeant Lester told me that you had loved your wife very much.”
That goosed him. “You and Neal talked about Beth and me?”
“In passing.”
“When?”
“Today at the morgue while we were waiting for the ME to conclude a call.”
Crawford hated the thought of Neal and her talking behind his back, analyzing that dark period of his life, and forming unenlightened opinions. “What was the context of this little chat? Did it make for stimulating conversation?”
“Not in the way you’re implying. Sergeant Lester didn’t disclose anything I didn’t already know. I’m aware of how deeply you were affected by your wife’s death.”
“Of course you are. You’ve got a whole file on my bereavement. Beth died, and I became drunk and disorderly.” Just like my old man did when my mom left. It had been on the tip of his tongue to add that. Fortunately, he caught it just in time and, in fact, decided he would be better off closing the subject.
He tapped down his anger and turned his head to look out the passenger window. In the rainy darkness, he could barely make out the shapes of the playground equipment. “Wettest day in recent history, and I’ve come to the park twice.”
“Twice?”
“Earlier today I brought Georgia here to play.”
“In the rain?”
He turned back to her and gestured that it hadn’t mattered. “We had fun anyway. She has this little rain outfit. Pink, of course. She likes all things pink. Anyhow, she fretted about getting the boots muddy.”
“That’s what they’re for.”
“That’s what I told her.”
They exchanged a private smile, which put him right back in her kitchen, when his arms were around her and he could feel her against him from knees to collarbone, feel her unbound breasts against his chest, and that perfect fit at the notch of her thighs that had stopped their breathing but sparked white-hot sex.
Her thoughts must have revisited that moment, too, because there was a sudden shift in the atmosphere inside the car. The air became denser. Every raindrop striking the windshield sounded extraordinarily loud and emphasized the awkward silence that descended over them.
Finally she said, “If that’s all…”
“It’s not.”
“Then what?”
“Your visit to the morgue.” He paused. “You took a good look at the body?”
Grimacing, she nodded.
“And?”
“And nothing. I didn’t recognize his face any more than I did the name Jorge Rodriguez.”
He watched her closely for several seconds, then said, “Will you do me a favor?”
“Within reason.”
“Close your eyes and describe the shooter to me.”
“Why?”
“I want to hear your description, in your own words, in detail. Every single thing you remember about him.” When she hesitated, he said, “I know it’s a bitch of a favor to ask.”
“Last night you were urging me to put him out of my mind.”
“If this wasn’t vitally important, I’d still be urging you to do that. But it is important.”
She regarded him with puzzlement, but he must have conveyed the seriousness of the request. She closed her eyes and took her time to conjure up the image. “When he barged through the door, the first question that flashed through my mind was, ‘Why is that person dressed like that?’ But then he fired the pistol and it registered with me what was happening.”
“Which hand was the pistol in?”
“His right.”
“Hair color?”
“Dark. But only a mashed-down fringe of it showed beneath the cap.”
“Straight hair? Curly?”
“Straight.”
“What kind of shoes was he wearing?”
“There were disposable covers over them.”
“Good so far. What else stands out in your memory?”
“Such as?”