There was a storm coming up from the southwest and the water was restless.

Abby turned so that she could look up into Jesse’s face. She had

drunk two Rob Roys before dinner, and they had shared a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“You look tired, Jesse.”

“Busy time at the office,” Jesse said.

“I know,” Abby said. “How many

television interviews have you

done?”

“Many.”

“And you always say it’s an ongoing

investigation and you can’t

discuss it.”

“I know.”

“I suppose they have to keep asking.”

“It’s sort of news

manufacturing,” Jesse said. “They do a stand-up in front of the police station and interview me, and ask me things like, have you caught the killer. And I say no. And they say, this is Tony Baloney live in Paradise, now back to you, Harry.”

Abby smiled.

“It’s not quite that bad,” she

said.

“I suppose not,” Jesse said.

“Sometimes they just ask if there

are any developments.”

“Are there?”

“Sure. We know that there were two

twenty-two-caliber guns

involved.”

“Two?”

“Un-huh. And we think he, she, or they drives a Saab sedan. And

we speculate that he, she, or they lives in Paradise.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Any connection among the victims?”

“Not that we can find.”

“You think the killings are random?”

“Don’t know. For all we know, he, she, or they had a reason to

kill one of the victims, and killed the others just to make us think it was random.”

“If that were the case,” Abby said,

“maybe the killings have

stopped.”

Jesse shrugged.

“Do you have a guess?”

“I try not to,” Jesse said.

“Sure, but you’re not just a

cop,” Abby said. “You are, after

all, also a person.”

“I’m better at being a cop. And

it’s best if cops don’t

hope.”

Abby was quiet for a moment. There was a break in the cloud cover and the moonlight shone briefly on the harbor, where the whitecaps were breaking, and the boats tossed at mooring. She sipped a little of the pear brandy. It was so intense that it seemed to evaporate on her tongue.

“I’m not so sure,” Abby said

after a time, “that you’re a better

cop than a person.”

“Lousy cop too?” Jesse said.

“No. You know that’s not what I

meant.”

“I know,” Jesse said. “Thank

you.”

They looked quietly at the foreboding whitecaps.

“I don’t feel good about breaking up with you the way I did,”

Abby said.

“You needed to break up with me,” Jesse said. “I am not really

available to anyone until I resolve all this with Jenn.”

“I know, but my timing wasn’t good. You were in trouble and I

…” Abby made a fluttery motion with her hand.

“It’s okay, Abby.”

She turned toward him and put her face up.

“It wasn’t okay,” she said and

kissed him hard with her mouth

open.

From a great distance, his ironic nonparticipant self smiled and

thought whoops! He kissed her back.

In bed she was urgent, and when the urgency had passed for both

of them, they lay side by side on their backs.

“Now it’s okay,” Abby said

softly.

“A proper good-bye?” Jesse said.

“I suppose so.”

“You’re still living with that

guy?” Jesse said.

“Yes … he’s out of town

tonight. Chicago.”

“You thinking of marrying him?”

“Yes.”

“You love him?”

“Oh God, Jesse, you’re such a fucking romantic.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jesse

said.

“He’s a nice guy.”

“You’re marrying him because

he’s a nice guy?”

“I’m marrying him because my clock is ticking fast, and he’s the

nicest guy I have found who wants to marry me.”

“You’re a practical person,”

Jesse said.

The overhead light was on in the bedroom, and as Jesse looked at

her naked body, he could see still a faint trace of sweat between her breasts.

“Most women are,” Abby said. “I

always get a laugh out of the

popular mythology about romantic women and practical men.”

Jesse nodded.

“It is sort of laughable,” he said.

“Would it bother him if he

knew?”

“Of course. But he’s no virgin and neither am I and we both know

it.”

“Do you feel like you’re cheating on him?”

“Yes, I guess so, a little.”

“But …”

“But you and I needed to be put to rest.”

“And this was it?”

Abby rolled onto her side and pressed her face against Jesse’s

chest.

“Yes,” she said. “This was

it.”

Jesse smiled and laughed softly.

“What?” Abby said.

“I’m the other guy,” Jesse said.

“The one I want to kill when

Jenn is with him.”

“Irony,” Abby said.

“You’ve always been a real bear for

irony.”

When she was dressed and her makeup was fixed and her hair was in order, Jesse offered to walk her to her car.

“I’m right in front of the Gray

Gull,” Abby said, “and besides,

it seems righter, somehow, if I kiss you good-bye here and go out the door.”

“Sure,” Jesse said.

They kissed, and when they were through, Abby turned and went out the front door without a word.

There were only a few cars in the parking lot. Abby was grateful

to get into her car and out of the wind. She started the engine and put it in gear and drove out of the lot. A red Saab sedan pulled out of the lot behind her. Both cars turned down Front Street.

35

She had been shot twice in the chest, as she got out of her car,

in the driveway of her house on North Side Drive, her body turned toward the back of the car, as if she had turned to see what was behind her. Anthony deAngelo had found her on routine patrol. She had fallen with the car door open, and one foot still caught on the edge of the car. Anthony had seen the car with its interior lights on and stopped to take a look.

“It’s Abby Taylor,” deAngelo

said to Jesse when he

arrived.

Jesse nodded. Dead people don’t look much different at

first, he thought. Just like live people except that they

don’t move. He stared down at her face. No, he

thought, it’s more than that. You look at them, there’s

something missing. Her position would have embarrassed her.

He

reached down and moved her leg and smoothed her skirt down. She was still flexible. Peter Perkins arrived with his crime-scene kit.

Suitcase Simpson was setting up lights. The ambulance pulled in.

Anthony was stringing the crime-scene tape.

“She live alone?” Suitcase asked.

“She lived with a guy,” Jesse said.

He was still looking absently down at the body.

“Nobody answering the door,” Simpson said.

“Or the

phone.”

“He’s in Chicago,” Jesse said.

Simpson stared at Jesse and started to speak. Then he didn’t.

One of the techs from the ambulance came over and knelt down beside Abby. He took her pulse automatically, though he knew she was dead.

“Just like the other ones, Jesse,” the tech said. “Two in the

chest.”

“Her purse is still in the car,” Perkins said.

“Cold night,” the tech said.

“Make time of death a little

harder.”

“She died within the last hour,” Jesse said.

The tech looked up as if he were going to ask a question.

Suitcase Simpson put a hand on his shoulder. The tech glanced at him. Simpson shook his head. Perkins began to photograph the crime scene. A few neighbors had straggled out into the cold, coats on over sleep wear, hunched against the cold, staring aimlessly. Jesse was motionless, looking down at the body.

“You know where this guy might be in Chicago,” Simpson