shirt, and a tweed blazer. Natty, like last night. He led me to a large open room
with about ten metal desks, some but not all with computers. There was only one other cop at a desk, though I noticed five
or six others standing around a table in a glassed-in conference room. Anybody who’d had Saturday off had probably been called
in because of the murder.
“I appreciate your doing this twice,” he said, indicating with an outstretched hand that I should take a seat in a plastic
stack chair next to his desk.
“No problem,” I said, though I was looking forward to it with the same enthusiasm I reserved for a leg wax. As I sat, my eyes
scanned the desktop area. There were a bunch of files, one stuck with a Post-it note with the words
Det. Jeffrey Beck
written on it (so
that
was his first name), a walkie-talkie, a green mug filled with pencils. No photos, no knickknacks, nothing personal at all—unless
you could count a schedule of Boston Patriot games taped to the desk lamp. He lowered himself into his swivel chair and leaned
back in it, making it groan. I noticed that in the bright light of day, his eyes really were the darkest blue I’d ever seen.
They looked as blue as the part of a map that shows where the ocean is deepest.
“You feeling okay?” he asked. “You had a pretty rough time last night.”
To my utter surprise and horror, I felt myself blush.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Thanks. It was all such a shock. I’d come up here from New York City expecting to discover the benefits
and joys of reflexology, and the next thing I know I’m giving mouth-to-mouth to a mummy.” Shut up, Bailey, I told myself.
You are talking way too much.
He took me in deeply with his eyes, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. Maybe he was wondering what reflexology was.
“Let me get you out of here as quick as possible, then,” he said, tapping a few keys on his computer. “Here’s what’s gonna
happen. We’ll run through the same questions I asked you last night. Once I print out your statement, you’ll sign it. After
that I need to take your fingerprints so we can tell which are yours at the crime scene. I also need a piece of your hair.
That way we eliminate your hair and DNA from any we discover on the body.”
“Fine—will it hurt?” Oh God, why was I trying to be cute?
“Will what hurt?” He looked at me seriously.
“The hair removal.”
He allowed himself a small grin. “Only momentarily.”
He started the questioning, traveling basically the same ground he had the night before. As I answered, he typed quickly and
confidently, barely looking at the keys. Once or twice he glanced at the written notes he’d taken the night before. Mostly,
he kept his eyes on me.
His manner was a notch warmer than it had been last night, yet I felt nervous, as if someone were tossing my stomach up and
down like a tennis ball. Why was I feeling so discombobulated? It must be because of the way he held on to my eyes, I thought.
And because he was so darn attractive. Those eyes. That gray hair. His soft, full mouth. And whereas some of the cops I’d
spotted in the conference room looked as though they’d had Butterball turkeys stuffed under their shirts, Beck was taut, clearly
in terrific shape.
By the end of twenty-five minutes, I’d shared everything I could possibly think of. But he had one more question.
“Have you had a chance to think about what we discussed last night?” he asked solemnly. My heart took off like a startled
titmouse. I had no idea what he meant.
“I—I’m sorry, I’m not following,” I said.
He sighed lightly in a way that suggested he was summoning a wee bit of patience. “I asked you last night to think about whether
you may have noticed anything suspicious in the parking lot when you walked back there. As you can probably deduce from the
timeline, you were clearly at the scene around the same time the murderer was. Are you
with about ten metal desks, some but not all with computers. There was only one other cop at a desk, though I noticed five
or six others standing around a table in a glassed-in conference room. Anybody who’d had Saturday off had probably been called
in because of the murder.
“I appreciate your doing this twice,” he said, indicating with an outstretched hand that I should take a seat in a plastic
stack chair next to his desk.
“No problem,” I said, though I was looking forward to it with the same enthusiasm I reserved for a leg wax. As I sat, my eyes
scanned the desktop area. There were a bunch of files, one stuck with a Post-it note with the words
Det. Jeffrey Beck
written on it (so
that
was his first name), a walkie-talkie, a green mug filled with pencils. No photos, no knickknacks, nothing personal at all—unless
you could count a schedule of Boston Patriot games taped to the desk lamp. He lowered himself into his swivel chair and leaned
back in it, making it groan. I noticed that in the bright light of day, his eyes really were the darkest blue I’d ever seen.
They looked as blue as the part of a map that shows where the ocean is deepest.
“You feeling okay?” he asked. “You had a pretty rough time last night.”
To my utter surprise and horror, I felt myself blush.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Thanks. It was all such a shock. I’d come up here from New York City expecting to discover the benefits
and joys of reflexology, and the next thing I know I’m giving mouth-to-mouth to a mummy.” Shut up, Bailey, I told myself.
You are talking way too much.
He took me in deeply with his eyes, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. Maybe he was wondering what reflexology was.
“Let me get you out of here as quick as possible, then,” he said, tapping a few keys on his computer. “Here’s what’s gonna
happen. We’ll run through the same questions I asked you last night. Once I print out your statement, you’ll sign it. After
that I need to take your fingerprints so we can tell which are yours at the crime scene. I also need a piece of your hair.
That way we eliminate your hair and DNA from any we discover on the body.”
“Fine—will it hurt?” Oh God, why was I trying to be cute?
“Will what hurt?” He looked at me seriously.
“The hair removal.”
He allowed himself a small grin. “Only momentarily.”
He started the questioning, traveling basically the same ground he had the night before. As I answered, he typed quickly and
confidently, barely looking at the keys. Once or twice he glanced at the written notes he’d taken the night before. Mostly,
he kept his eyes on me.
His manner was a notch warmer than it had been last night, yet I felt nervous, as if someone were tossing my stomach up and
down like a tennis ball. Why was I feeling so discombobulated? It must be because of the way he held on to my eyes, I thought.
And because he was so darn attractive. Those eyes. That gray hair. His soft, full mouth. And whereas some of the cops I’d
spotted in the conference room looked as though they’d had Butterball turkeys stuffed under their shirts, Beck was taut, clearly
in terrific shape.
By the end of twenty-five minutes, I’d shared everything I could possibly think of. But he had one more question.
“Have you had a chance to think about what we discussed last night?” he asked solemnly. My heart took off like a startled
titmouse. I had no idea what he meant.
“I—I’m sorry, I’m not following,” I said.
He sighed lightly in a way that suggested he was summoning a wee bit of patience. “I asked you last night to think about whether
you may have noticed anything suspicious in the parking lot when you walked back there. As you can probably deduce from the
timeline, you were clearly at the scene around the same time the murderer was. Are you
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