Sweet Revenge

share?”
    “No, thanks. Is that your breakfast?”
    “Mmmm.” She poured his juice, gesturing casually to a chair as she went to the stove to pour her coffee. “Have you lived next door long?”
    He was tempted to mention nutrition but managed to control himself. “Just a couple of months.”
    “It must be great, fixing it up the way you want.” She took another bite of the pasta. “Is that what you are, a carpenter? You have the hands for it.”
    He found himself pleasantly relieved that she hadn’t asked him if he played ball. “No. I’m a cop.”
    “You’re kidding. Really?” She shoved her carton aside and leaned forward. It was her eyes that made her beautiful, he decided on the spot. They were so alive, so full of fascination. “I’m crazy about cops. Some of my best characters are cops, even the bad ones.”
    “I know.” He had to smile. “You’ve got a feel for police work. It shows in the way you plot a book. Everything works on logic and deduction.”
    “All my logic goes into writing.” She picked up her coffee, then remembered she’d forgotten the cream. Rather than get up, she drank it black. “What kind of cop are you—uniform, undercover?”
    “Homicide.”
    “Kismet.” She laughed and squeezed his hand. “I can’t believe it, I come to visit my sister and plop right down beside a homicide detective. Are you working on anything right now?”
    “Actually, we just wrapped something up yesterday.”
    A rough one, she decided. There’d been something about the way he’d said it, the faintest change of tone. Though her curiosity was piqued, it was controlled by compassion. “I’ve got a hell of a murder working right now. A series of murders, actually. I’ve got …” She trailed off. Ed saw her eyes darken. She sat back and propped her bare feet on an empty chair. “I can change the location,” she began slowly. “Set it right here in D.C. That’s better. It would work. What do you think?”
    “Well, I—”
    “Maybe I could come down to the station sometime. You could show me around.” Already taking her thoughtprocesses to the next stage, she thrust her hand into the pocket of her robe for a cigarette. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
    “I could probably work it out.”
    “Terrific. Look, have you got a wife or a lover or anything?”
    He stared at her as she lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. “Not right now,” he said cautiously.
    “Then maybe you’d have a couple of hours now and again in the evening for me.”
    He picked up his juice and took a long swallow. “A couple of hours,” he repeated. “Now and again?”
    “Yeah. I wouldn’t expect you to give me all your free time, just squeeze me in when you’re in the mood.”
    “When I’m in the mood,” he murmured. Her robe dipped down to the floor but was parted at the knee to reveal her legs, pale from winter and smooth as marble. Maybe miracles did still happen.
    “You could be kind of my expert consultant, you know? I mean, who’d know murder investigations in D.C. better than a D.C. homicide detective?”
    Consultant. A little flustered by his own thoughts, he switched his mind off her legs. “Right.” He let out a long breath, then laughed. “You roll right along, don’t you, Miss McCabe?”
    “It’s Grace, and I’m pushy, but I won’t pout very long if you say no.”
    He wondered as he looked at her if there was a man alive who could have said no to those eyes. Then again, his partner Ben always told him he was a sucker. “I’ve got a couple hours, now and then.”
    “Thanks. Listen, how about dinner tomorrow? By that time Kath will be thrilled to be rid of me for a while. We could talk murder. I’m buying.”
    “I’d like that.” He rose, feeling as though he’d just taken a fast, unexpected ride. “I’d better get back to work.”
    “Let me sign your book.” After a quick search, shefound a pen on a magnetic holder by the phone. “I don’t know your name.”
    “Its Ed. Ed Jackson.”
    “Hi, Ed.” She scrawled on the title page, then unconsciously slipped the pen into her pocket. “See you tomorrow, about seven?”
    “Okay.” She had freckles, he noticed. A half dozen of them sprinkled over the bridge of her nose. And her wrists were slim and frail. He shifted the book again. “Thanks for the autograph.”
    Grace let him out the back door. He smelled good, she thought, like wood shavings and soap. Then, rubbing her hands together, she went upstairs