The Delilah Complex

Fifty-Seven

“So, you’re the actress,” Jordain said as he took Dulcie’s hand to shake it. “Tough gig. How are you holding up?”

“Okay,” she said.

I could tell that she was curious about him. I’d explained that he was coming over to talk about a current case, but she wasn’t quite sure. She had some sixth sense about him. The same sense, I supposed, that I always had about her. So she hadn’t just inherited my mother’s love of acting, she’d inherited my intuition.

“I think openings are just the worst,” he said.

Dulcie looked at me with a crease between her brows, silently throwing accusations across the room like darts. I shook my head at her.

“I didn’t tell you that, Detective, did I?” Dulcie asked.

“No. I play piano, Dulcie. Jazz. I’ve done some big gigs. I know the drill. I know the shakes.”

“How long did it take you to get over it?” she asked in a fascinated voice.

“Never got over it, but learned to live with it. Lots of deep breathing. And focusing. Waiting to go on, I ask myself why I’m doing this to myself. And I always have the same answer. Because I want to make the music. Damn the audience.”

He was so good at being charming that it was almost suspect. I was glad I wasn’t going to have to see him anymore now that the case was solved. He was probably very good at lying, too. The other night with him had been an aberration. One I was not going to put myself in a position to repeat. He’d taken advantage of how stressed I was. How worried I was.

“Hey, it’s getting late,” I said, seeing that Dulcie had finished her hot chocolate. “Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

She gave me the pouty-mouth look that was the precursor to an argument, and I intercepted whatever it was that she was about to say.

“This is nonnegotiable.”

“Yes, Dr. Sin,” she retorted with just a shade too much sarcasm. I let it ride and repeated the suggestion that she take herself off to bed. She stopped at the door and turned to Noah. “It was really cool that you told me that stuff. Thanks.”

“It was nice meeting you. And I’m really looking forward to seeing you in that play,” Jordain said.

“Are you coming?” She seemed pleased, which really surprised me. Her response was immediate and heartfelt.

“If your mom invites me.”

“If she doesn’t, I will.”

I’d never seen my daughter flirt, and it shocked me. Not pleasantly, either. I had a jolt of foresight: in one split second I jumped from this one comment to her dating and me being home at night waiting to hear her key in the door.

Jordain and I went into the den.

“Is it him for sure?” I asked.

“Not sure. We think it’s him. One very interesting development is that he’s got that tattoo on his right foot, like the victims.”

“He does?”

Jordain nodded. His gaze focused on me. Unwavering. Intense. I wanted to look away but knew that would be suspect. I wanted to tell him, too. Just two words. But he didn’t need to hear them. He’d get them out of Paul Lessor now.

“What are your next steps?” I asked.

“We’re running the prints we found in the apartment. We’re checking his address book against the four address books we have of the victims. We’re looking for anything that ties these men together. We’re interviewing people he worked with. Trying to pinpoint where he’s been for the past few weeks. Looking for anything out of the ordinary. And about a million other things.” He stifled a yawn.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept more than four hours at a stretch?”

He smiled. Damn. That long, slow, slippery slide of his lips that affected me somewhere deep inside.

“Morgan, is there anything you can tell me about that tattoo?”

He knew that I knew. But how? Damn him again. I shook my head. They had him in custody. They’d figure it out now on their own. I wouldn’t have to betray any confidences or break privilege. I was almost light-headed with relief.

“But you know something we don’t.”

“Noah, don’t, please.”

“Shit.”

“If you’re going to start badgering me then I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“What do I have to do for you to ask me to stay?”

I didn’t say anything. A wave of cold spread over me. I gave an involuntary shiver.

“Why do I frighten you?”

I shook my head.

He didn’t relent.

“Do you even know?” he asked.

I shook my head again.

“I have a few ideas.”

“That’s good,” I said sarcastically.

“You want me to keep them to myself?”

“Yes, but I have an awful feeling you aren’t going to.”

“Have you been out on a date with anyone since your divorce?”

I could have told him that it wasn’t any of his business. Or just refused to answer. But I knew he wasn’t going to give up and I didn’t feel like fighting. Or at least that was my excuse. “No.”

“Do you think that’s giving your daughter the right message?”

“What?”

We were sitting together on the couch, far enough apart that we weren’t touching at all, but close enough so that I could smell his minty cologne. Close enough for him to reach out and brush my hair off my face.

“You know your hair is the color of the molasses that my mama used to cook with,” Noah said. “And your voice sounds like the water that whooshed by in the river outside our windows late at night.”

“You are shameless.”

“I’m smitten. I have been since I first met you. And even more than that since the other night. I didn’t think you’d be so hard to get over.”

“You make me sound like a flu.”

“Nope. The opposite. Being with you makes me wide awake, more aware of everything-of colors, tastes, even the smell of the air. After we’re together, when I’m alone again, there’s this sad riff that settles on me.”

I looked down, not wanting him to see the flush in my cheeks.

Smart man, he went back to what he’d been saying about Dulcie. “So do you think it’s a good idea for your daughter to see her mama give up on men? For her to see you throw yourself into your work and her? It’s too much pressure on a kid. It’s inhibiting to a teenager to have to worry if Mama is lonely and sad.”

“When did you get a degree in child psychology?”

He ignored the attitude in my voice. “Is her father dating?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Not good for another reason. Makes it look like men are stronger than women.”

This was like needles under my nails. Paper cuts on my fingerpads. Insects biting at my cheeks and neck. A dozen tiny unpleasant feelings erupted in me at once.

“How dare you,” I accused.

“What? Too close for comfort?”

“I am as strong as any woman she will ever meet. She sees that every day. I didn’t fall apart when my marriage did. I didn’t go running after a dozen men just so that I wouldn’t be alone. I didn’t start drinking or taking tranquilizers or doing anything unhealthy. I slept through every night. I never even intimated how lonely I was.”

He let my last few words linger in the air. It embarrassed me when I realized what I’d inadvertently said.

“Like who? Who told you how lonely she was and put all that pressure on you?”

My head jerked of its own accord. The sudden rush of tears that came to my eyes shamed me. He’d fooled me again. Once more getting me to tell him things and express feelings that I’d never admitted to before.

With one hand under my chin, he turned my face toward his. Reaching out with the forefinger of his other hand, he stopped a tear that was sliding down my cheek.

“You don’t have to tell me, Morgan. I can guess. But I want you to know you can tell me. It’s this crazy thing between us. I know things about you without knowing how. Will it help if I tell you it scares me as much as it scares you?”

“If it scares you, why don’t you go?”

“Because feeling scared like this is a big part of being alive.” And then without giving me a chance to object or move, he leaned forward and kissed me.

It was generous. Sustaining. He took nothing. Gave all.

Through my lips he transferred his want. His willingness to wait. His utter helplessness in the face of his desire. I accepted it all. Gave nothing back. He didn’t fight for it. Or try to pull it out of me. It was enough for him to offer it up to me.

“One day you’ll want to give it back,” he said in a deep, low voice that was like darkness falling. “I know you will. I don’t think I’m wrong. About other things, yes. But not you. Don’t ask me why. There is no reason on earth except I just know. It’s like when I have an idea for the piano. Sometimes it can take months for me to search out the whole composition. But that’s okay. The idea of it keeps me going. Because I know in my fingers, in my inner ear, in my soul, that the rest will come if I can just give it time.”

He kissed me again, this time putting a hand on each of my shoulders and pulling me very close to him and enfolding me in his arms.

For thirty seconds…forty-five. I just forgot. I wasn’t there. Not a woman sitting on a couch in her den with her daughter sleeping in another room. Not a therapist who had information that this policeman would do anything to get.

The sound of his blood beating in my ears and the feeling of his arms sheltering me blocked out any world that I knew or was used to.

Finally, before I could pull away, because that was what I knew I had to do, he did. Standing, he smiled down at me, a little wistfully. “You make me ache,” he said, and, without giving me a chance to say anything, left me there, sitting on my couch, looking around my den as if I’d never seen it before.