Read Online Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Cleeland
Ads: Link
he’s someone from law enforcement, isn’t it?”
Acton tilted his head in polite disagreement. “But the victims were not alarmed; the footprints show they walked abreast, and the posture of the bodies does not indicate a defensive struggle, or an attempt to escape.”
Doyle blew out a breath, stymied yet again. “Right you are; these victims would not have been comfortable and unsuspectin’ if they were walkin’ along with a law enforcement type.”
Acton offered, “It was not a bad idea, though; it does seem the killer knows his forensics.”
“Don’t humor me when I have a dumb idea,” she reminded him dryly.
“You never have a dumb idea,” he protested, and leaned to kiss her, which was very much appreciated and inspired her to take a break and close her laptop—sometimes it was best to stew about it for a bit, when she was coming up empty.
“It’s a crackin’ shame there are so many variables. Habib thinks if I can find another vigilante murder, the commonality may become more obvious.”
“The abundance of variables is what makes it all the more interesting.” Acton leaned back in his chair to review the city lights. “And consequently more satisfying when it is resolved.”
She hid a smile at the high-flying language. “Easy for you to say; you’re not the one sloggin’ through the dusty files.” Feeling stiff, she stretched her arms up over her head, holding one wrist with the other hand and then flinching at the contact with her bruises.
Immediately, he reached to take hold of one of her hands, sliding back the sleeve. Oh-oh, she thought; here we go.
He firmly pulled her chair around to face him, and began unbuttoning her shirt. “Stand up, if you please.”
“I’ll be warnin’ you, it’s not pretty.” She stood, and allowed him to peel off her shirt.
He lifted an arm and examined it. “Christ.”
“You mustn’t blaspheme, Michael,” she scolded gently.
He lifted the other arm. “ Christ .”
“It looks worse than it is; you of all people know that I bruise easily.” She smiled down at him, teasing. When they’d first married, he often bruised her during sex and was wracked with guilt afterward. Sometimes he still did, when he got carried away.
But he was not to be distracted. “Who did this?”
As this was not an avenue she wished to pursue, she said with finality, “A man who wanted drugs, I told you; I was helped by a passerby and we subdued him—it’s water under the bridge, it is.” He was furious—she could feel it—and it didn’t help matters that he was bosky, to boot. “Michael,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He met her eyes. “Why don’t you want me to know?”
“You already know the answer to that, my friend,” she replied softly. Let him think that she was worried he would run amok—which indeed he would, if he caught the slightest hint of what had happened. She bent down to kiss him gently, and he withstood this assault for a long moment—which only showed how upset he was—then pulled her onto his lap, albeit very carefully. “Let’s go to bed,” she whispered. “I want to show you some areas that remained unbruised; at least for the time bein’.”
Sometime later, she sat once again at the table, rosy of face and dressed in her robe, considering new ideas for search criteria based on their earlier conversation. Acton was on the sofa, supposedly reading a file, but she could feel him watching her. It didn’t bother her; he would watch her for hours, sometimes.
“I have a question,” he finally said.
“Ask away.”
“When are you going to wear the dress in your drawer?”
She raised her head, amused. She hadn’t worn a dress in many years, but on impulse had purchased a very chic black one, some months ago. It remained hidden in her drawer, awaiting an appropriate occasion. “It is impossible to surprise you, Michael. You are an incurable Section Seven.” The reference was to the anti-stalking law.
“The dress
Acton tilted his head in polite disagreement. “But the victims were not alarmed; the footprints show they walked abreast, and the posture of the bodies does not indicate a defensive struggle, or an attempt to escape.”
Doyle blew out a breath, stymied yet again. “Right you are; these victims would not have been comfortable and unsuspectin’ if they were walkin’ along with a law enforcement type.”
Acton offered, “It was not a bad idea, though; it does seem the killer knows his forensics.”
“Don’t humor me when I have a dumb idea,” she reminded him dryly.
“You never have a dumb idea,” he protested, and leaned to kiss her, which was very much appreciated and inspired her to take a break and close her laptop—sometimes it was best to stew about it for a bit, when she was coming up empty.
“It’s a crackin’ shame there are so many variables. Habib thinks if I can find another vigilante murder, the commonality may become more obvious.”
“The abundance of variables is what makes it all the more interesting.” Acton leaned back in his chair to review the city lights. “And consequently more satisfying when it is resolved.”
She hid a smile at the high-flying language. “Easy for you to say; you’re not the one sloggin’ through the dusty files.” Feeling stiff, she stretched her arms up over her head, holding one wrist with the other hand and then flinching at the contact with her bruises.
Immediately, he reached to take hold of one of her hands, sliding back the sleeve. Oh-oh, she thought; here we go.
He firmly pulled her chair around to face him, and began unbuttoning her shirt. “Stand up, if you please.”
“I’ll be warnin’ you, it’s not pretty.” She stood, and allowed him to peel off her shirt.
He lifted an arm and examined it. “Christ.”
“You mustn’t blaspheme, Michael,” she scolded gently.
He lifted the other arm. “ Christ .”
“It looks worse than it is; you of all people know that I bruise easily.” She smiled down at him, teasing. When they’d first married, he often bruised her during sex and was wracked with guilt afterward. Sometimes he still did, when he got carried away.
But he was not to be distracted. “Who did this?”
As this was not an avenue she wished to pursue, she said with finality, “A man who wanted drugs, I told you; I was helped by a passerby and we subdued him—it’s water under the bridge, it is.” He was furious—she could feel it—and it didn’t help matters that he was bosky, to boot. “Michael,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He met her eyes. “Why don’t you want me to know?”
“You already know the answer to that, my friend,” she replied softly. Let him think that she was worried he would run amok—which indeed he would, if he caught the slightest hint of what had happened. She bent down to kiss him gently, and he withstood this assault for a long moment—which only showed how upset he was—then pulled her onto his lap, albeit very carefully. “Let’s go to bed,” she whispered. “I want to show you some areas that remained unbruised; at least for the time bein’.”
Sometime later, she sat once again at the table, rosy of face and dressed in her robe, considering new ideas for search criteria based on their earlier conversation. Acton was on the sofa, supposedly reading a file, but she could feel him watching her. It didn’t bother her; he would watch her for hours, sometimes.
“I have a question,” he finally said.
“Ask away.”
“When are you going to wear the dress in your drawer?”
She raised her head, amused. She hadn’t worn a dress in many years, but on impulse had purchased a very chic black one, some months ago. It remained hidden in her drawer, awaiting an appropriate occasion. “It is impossible to surprise you, Michael. You are an incurable Section Seven.” The reference was to the anti-stalking law.
“The dress
Similar Books
