Theresa Monsour by Cold Blood Page A

owner of the finger?”
    Murphy folded the paper and set it down. “They ran out of stuff to say about the disappearing bridesmaid. Sweet’s the latest angle, you know.”
    â€œOn that cynical note, I’m outta here.” He pulled on his jacket.
    â€œWhat about breakfast? I’ve got omelet fixings.”
    â€œNope. Early shift. By the way, that showerhead is leaking.”
    â€œI’ll add it to the list,” she said. “Right after the paint job and new deck railing and a second shower.”
    â€œI’ve offered to help. I spend enough time here.”
    She shook her head. “It’s my own damn fault.” She’d saved for repairs at one point, but blew it all on upgrading her galley. She had to have a great kitchen. “I’m a big girl. I’ll figure it out.”
    He kissed her on the cheek and left. The sound of the door slamming made her feel sad. Another weekend spent together and not a word uttered between them about their relationship. She couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. What they’d said to each other that mattered. Lately they both kept moving and doing because when they weren’t in motion, they had nothing to say to each other. It used to be the silent moments they shared were intimate and comfortable. Now they were awkward. First-date awkward. Not a good sign for the marriage, she figured. Something had changed, and she decided it was her fault. The affair had hit her harder than she expected. She was spending too much time thinking about it, analyzing the word itself. Affair . Had it lasted long enough to be called that? She and Erik had slept together only once. If it wasn’t an affair, what was it? She avoided thinking about the other A word. Adultery . Whenever it crossed her mind, she told herself itwasn’t adultery because she and Jack were separated at the time and working on getting back together. Like they were now. It seemed as if they were always working on it. What did Erik say? If it takes too much work, maybe it isn’t there . She had to admit she missed him. Missed his hands on her. His mouth. She ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “Damn you, Erik.” She shivered, cold in her damp running clothes. She’d have to turn up the temp on the boat; winter was on the way.
    She ran upstairs, pulled off her clothes and turned on the shower. She stepped into a lukewarm spray; a new water heater moved up a notch on the home improvement list. She heard ringing while she was drying off. She twisted the towel into a turban around her wet hair and went into the bedroom to search for the cell phone. She fished it out from under the covers. “Murphy.”
    The Homicide commander: “Got a little job for you this morning.”
    â€œLet’s hear it.” She braced herself. Commander Axel Duncan was new to the job but not to the department. He’d worked in Vice for years. Since moving to head Homicide he’d shaved his beard, cut his wild blond hair and stopped dressing to pass for a drug addict, but he was still behaving like a loose-cannon undercover cop. His act wasn’t translating well in Homicide; he summoned his detectives at all hours to send them off on strange missions. Some of the other cops called Duncan “Yo-Yo.”
    â€œThat Moose Lake case,” he said. “They haven’t been able to reach her ex. Baby-sitter says he took off with the kids Friday night.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo he’s a West Sider. Check out his place. See if anyone’s seen him or his kids. Sniff around the garage. Maybe he’s a sentimental fool and took part of her home in the car trunk.”
    â€œThey’re looking at him for this?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œDon’t suppose anyone’s explored the nine hundred other possibilities.” The state had a medium-security prison in Moose Lake with nearly nine hundred male