absolutely certain you didn’t observe
anything?”
I paused a minute before answering, not because I needed the time to think, but because I wanted to offer the impression I
was doing just that.
“No, nothing,” I said finally, forming an expression on my face that I hoped suggested I had racked my brain so hard, I was
in danger of blowing a fuse. “In fact, I remember noticing how absolutely quiet it was back there. There were no cars in the
parking lot at that end, by the way. The killer was either gone or had parked the car someplace else. Or, of course, if it
was someone who worked at the inn, he didn’t need a car.”
He stared at me, expressionless. “Why do you say ‘he’?” he asked finally.
“Oh, just using the universal pronoun,” I explained. “Though clearly the body was wrapped up by someone awfully strong. Do
you have any theories yet?”
I hadn’t expected an answer, of course, but I thought I might get a bemused smile for my gumption. But no. Just more of that
staring thing. Burning a hole through my head.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said wryly. “You’re a writer. In fact, from what I hear, you write crime stories. When we catch the
killer, we’ll give you the exclusive.”
Before I could summon a flip comment, he rose from his seat and nodded his head toward the far end of the room.
“Let’s get those fingerprints taken care of.”
I trailed behind him toward an alcove. A few of the cops in the conference room paused in their conversation and checked me
out. It appeared as if the force were large enough to handle the case themselves without having to play second fiddle to the
state police.
Inside the alcove, a technician was waiting. He drew a pair of latex gloves out of a box, and stretched them onto his hands.
I nearly jumped when one of them made a hard snapping sound against the back of his hand. I had no idea why I felt so jittery.
Next he picked up a small set of scissors from the drawer, lifted one strand of hair from my head, snipped it, and sealed
it in a plastic bag.
Once the technician was done, it was Beck’s turn. From the top of the counter he picked up an inkpad and a white card. After
flicking off the top of the inkpad, he set it closer to me.
“Let’s start with your right hand,” he said. “Your thumb first and then the other four digits.”
I moved my hand over the pad, then hesitated.
“Here, I can help you.”
He took my right hand in his and pressed my thumb onto the squishy pad, lifted it, then moved it onto the card and pressed
again. He repeated the same procedure with each finger.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. Was he inquiring, I wondered, because my hand was as limp as an overcooked fettuccine noodle
and he was being forced to guide me, or because I wasn’t lobbing any cute remarks during the process?
“Yeah, fine,” I said.
When he was done, he handed me a tissue to wipe off the tips of my fingers. He glanced at his watch, turned, and strode back
across the room toward the lobby, clearly expecting me to follow.
“You’re just here for the weekend?” he asked as he held the door for me.
“Yes. Why? Will you need to talk to me again?”
“Possibly. Depending on how things develop. Thanks for coming down.”
The street was bustling outside, people finally out of bed and running their Saturday errands. I hurried along the sidewalk
to the Jeep and threw myself inside. And I just sat there, trying to get a handle on what had happened. There was no denying
it: When Beck had held my hand and pressed my fingers onto the inkpad, I had felt the hottest jolt of lust I’d experienced
in months.
CHAPTER 6
W AS I OUT of my mind? was all I could think as I fired up the engine. The guy was a too intense, apparently humorless, small-city cop.
I couldn’t believe he was making my heart pound so hard. This is what happens, I thought, when you go for months without physical
contact. You look
anything?”
I paused a minute before answering, not because I needed the time to think, but because I wanted to offer the impression I
was doing just that.
“No, nothing,” I said finally, forming an expression on my face that I hoped suggested I had racked my brain so hard, I was
in danger of blowing a fuse. “In fact, I remember noticing how absolutely quiet it was back there. There were no cars in the
parking lot at that end, by the way. The killer was either gone or had parked the car someplace else. Or, of course, if it
was someone who worked at the inn, he didn’t need a car.”
He stared at me, expressionless. “Why do you say ‘he’?” he asked finally.
“Oh, just using the universal pronoun,” I explained. “Though clearly the body was wrapped up by someone awfully strong. Do
you have any theories yet?”
I hadn’t expected an answer, of course, but I thought I might get a bemused smile for my gumption. But no. Just more of that
staring thing. Burning a hole through my head.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said wryly. “You’re a writer. In fact, from what I hear, you write crime stories. When we catch the
killer, we’ll give you the exclusive.”
Before I could summon a flip comment, he rose from his seat and nodded his head toward the far end of the room.
“Let’s get those fingerprints taken care of.”
I trailed behind him toward an alcove. A few of the cops in the conference room paused in their conversation and checked me
out. It appeared as if the force were large enough to handle the case themselves without having to play second fiddle to the
state police.
Inside the alcove, a technician was waiting. He drew a pair of latex gloves out of a box, and stretched them onto his hands.
I nearly jumped when one of them made a hard snapping sound against the back of his hand. I had no idea why I felt so jittery.
Next he picked up a small set of scissors from the drawer, lifted one strand of hair from my head, snipped it, and sealed
it in a plastic bag.
Once the technician was done, it was Beck’s turn. From the top of the counter he picked up an inkpad and a white card. After
flicking off the top of the inkpad, he set it closer to me.
“Let’s start with your right hand,” he said. “Your thumb first and then the other four digits.”
I moved my hand over the pad, then hesitated.
“Here, I can help you.”
He took my right hand in his and pressed my thumb onto the squishy pad, lifted it, then moved it onto the card and pressed
again. He repeated the same procedure with each finger.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. Was he inquiring, I wondered, because my hand was as limp as an overcooked fettuccine noodle
and he was being forced to guide me, or because I wasn’t lobbing any cute remarks during the process?
“Yeah, fine,” I said.
When he was done, he handed me a tissue to wipe off the tips of my fingers. He glanced at his watch, turned, and strode back
across the room toward the lobby, clearly expecting me to follow.
“You’re just here for the weekend?” he asked as he held the door for me.
“Yes. Why? Will you need to talk to me again?”
“Possibly. Depending on how things develop. Thanks for coming down.”
The street was bustling outside, people finally out of bed and running their Saturday errands. I hurried along the sidewalk
to the Jeep and threw myself inside. And I just sat there, trying to get a handle on what had happened. There was no denying
it: When Beck had held my hand and pressed my fingers onto the inkpad, I had felt the hottest jolt of lust I’d experienced
in months.
CHAPTER 6
W AS I OUT of my mind? was all I could think as I fired up the engine. The guy was a too intense, apparently humorless, small-city cop.
I couldn’t believe he was making my heart pound so hard. This is what happens, I thought, when you go for months without physical
contact. You look
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