Charred by Kate Watterson Page A

around the stem of her glass.
    Rachel looked good, he thought. Older by a few years, but then again, they were older, undeniably. Still fresh, her auburn hair suited her fair complexion though it was cut shorter than he liked, but she wasn’t on television any longer, and maybe it was easier; he had no idea. She wore it brushed back from a face that had character; high cheekbones and a full mouth and large blue eyes. Her lipstick was a little dark, but then again she’d been on the dramatic side her entire life. Nice breasts and rounded hips completed the picture, along with a shimmery indigo dress and a silver bracelet on her wrist. She was cool and sophisticated and driven.
    He knew her life inside out. Lesson one: Never date a detective because he’s going to investigate your past.
    Hers was fairly interesting, at least from the standpoint that she was not necessarily television material, but she’d made it work.
    Farm girl from Indiana, majoring in telecommunications in college, which was a pretty innocuous degree for most, but she’d had every intention of using it all along, because Rachel was exactly like that. She had a plan, always, and it included television journalism from the very beginning. She had the looks, the poise, and had gone back to graduate school and was now a professor at the University of Wisconsin.
    Impressive.
    He hadn’t fared nearly as well and should have done much better.
    Ivy League background. Made detective when he was still fairly young …
    After fifteen years on the force there had been an incident that resulted in an investigation by internal affairs, a stinging slap on the wrist in the form of a temporary suspension, then the demotion. He’d been a little out of line maybe … it would be better if he could remember that particular evening more clearly. When a detective is called out, even if the charge is dropped, it really hurts his career.
    Still, obviously the burning was one of the cases that had been open when he was reprimanded, and he’d always regretted it. Like unfinished business, that loose thread left dangling, the door you weren’t sure latched securely behind you and nagged at you until you picked up the phone to get one of the neighbors to check …
    Gambolli’s was busy, which didn’t surprise him, even on a holiday when so many people were doing the great American cookout. It was easily one of the best restaurants in town. He’d ordered rigatoni with sausage and a marinara sauce, and predictably Rachel had gotten broiled fish and a salad. There was a reason her figure was still trim. The food arrived, whisked into place by an efficient waiter who actually had an Italian accent, and Carl picked up his fork before saying, “The last time the neighborhood was different. I wonder why.”
    “You aren’t assigned this case, Grasso.”
    The pasta was good, spicy but not too much. He really wasn’t fond of green peppers if they were cooked, but like this, they tasted good. “The chief thinks maybe I can help.”
    “Does he?” Her eyes took on a speculative glint he recognized. “Metzger wants you on this?”
    “Not officially.”
    “What does that mean? So … in your spare time you want to do extra police work?”
    He thought about that big, spacious house he’d inherited. The swimming pool in the backyard with the brick patio, how he’d had all the windows replaced last year, the kitchen remodeled; the lawn care service that came twice a week. But it was, essentially, empty except for him rattling around in it in the evenings and on his days off. Most people would be envious, but in truth, it just all bored him. A personal flaw probably, but he had others that were worse. He said succinctly, “Yes.”
    Her dress had thin straps and her shoulders were bare and dappled with freckles. He liked women who didn’t need to lather themselves in cosmetics, and her natural beauty had always appealed to him.
    “You know what,” she said quietly, giving him