feels alone might kiss, as if he’s somehow found an island to cling to.
My hands traveled up to his face. Next I wrapped my arms around his neck. Furiously, he unbuttoned my blouse, and I moved my hands down and undid his flannel shirt.
He cupped my breasts, still kissing me as if he truly needed me. We moved toward the bedroom. I unbuttoned his jeans, and we tumbled onto my bed. Wriggling out of my jeans, I was breathless. He climbed on top of me, his chest against me, and slid inside me. Finally, he stopped kissing me and moved his lips to my ear. “I would have died if anything had happened to you,” he whispered, then moaned.
We made love, the fever building, until weboth came at once. He collapsed against me. That’s how lovemaking always was with Jack. I rolled onto my side and allowed him to wrap his body around me. I felt a cold autumn breeze, and I noticed for the first time that my bedroom window was slightly open. I squinted in the reflected light from the streetlamps outside. Suddenly, I bolted upright in bed. “Oh, my God!”
“What?” Jack sat up, wrapping an arm around me.
“My laptop. It’s gone.”
Chapter 8
J oe Franklin and C.C. sat with Lewis and me in my living room over a good bottle of Australian pinot noir and a platter of cheese and crackers.
“Ever since I took on this suicide king case it’s been trouble.” I hadn’t seen the point of filing a police report on my laptop—I knew the chances of finding the thief were slim to none. Jack had been both angry and concerned. I tried to tell him that it was no relation to the case, but we both knew that, at least on the surface, it appeared someone didn’t want us digging aroundin the suicide king case. Dusting for fingerprints on the windowsill of my bedroom provided nothing useful—just masses of prints, mostly my own, since I used the window to combat the overactive radiator in my room.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” C.C. assured me when she and Joe arrived the next night to discuss the incident.
“What was on your laptop?” Joe asked.
“Not much. I use it for e-mail and some Web surfing. I had recently done a search on Falco—but I didn’t turn up anything anyone else doing a Google search couldn’t come up with. Whoever took it doesn’t know that. He may have assumed I kept a lot on it.”
What I didn’t say was I researched my mother’s case constantly—all right, obsessively—but I always did a backup and stored a ZIP disc and CD-ROM copies of my work in a second location—namely a safe in Quinn’s Pub.
“What did your detective friend turn up?” C.C. asked.
“Dead end. The plates, the car itself, appear to have been stolen.”
“I’d say the real suicide king wants our boy to remain in prison,” Lewis said.
“Either that or the brother is more nuts than I thought. I just didn’t read him as anythingmore than a distraught relative who’d just discovered that there was a chance his sister’s murderer might go free on a technicality.”
“A technicality?” Joe said, a little irate.
“I don’t mean it like that,” I said calmly. “It’s just that the average person has no idea of the accuracy of science. If people understood DNA evidence, then O.J. would be in prison instead of playing golf.”
Joe Franklin shook his head. “Whether it’s Harry or the real killer, it’d take a lot more than that to keep me from pursuing this—especially now.”
“Well,” Lewis drawled. “I’m rather fond of Billie, so much as I’d like to see your Mr. Falco released, I’d like to make sure we don’t get Billie here killed in the process.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come to you. I never would have intentionally put anyone in danger,” Joe said.
“The surest way to keep us all safe,” I said, “is to process the DNA sample ASAP so the results are out there. The bottom line is once we have those results, whoever is looking to stop us will have to realize there’s no
My hands traveled up to his face. Next I wrapped my arms around his neck. Furiously, he unbuttoned my blouse, and I moved my hands down and undid his flannel shirt.
He cupped my breasts, still kissing me as if he truly needed me. We moved toward the bedroom. I unbuttoned his jeans, and we tumbled onto my bed. Wriggling out of my jeans, I was breathless. He climbed on top of me, his chest against me, and slid inside me. Finally, he stopped kissing me and moved his lips to my ear. “I would have died if anything had happened to you,” he whispered, then moaned.
We made love, the fever building, until weboth came at once. He collapsed against me. That’s how lovemaking always was with Jack. I rolled onto my side and allowed him to wrap his body around me. I felt a cold autumn breeze, and I noticed for the first time that my bedroom window was slightly open. I squinted in the reflected light from the streetlamps outside. Suddenly, I bolted upright in bed. “Oh, my God!”
“What?” Jack sat up, wrapping an arm around me.
“My laptop. It’s gone.”
Chapter 8
J oe Franklin and C.C. sat with Lewis and me in my living room over a good bottle of Australian pinot noir and a platter of cheese and crackers.
“Ever since I took on this suicide king case it’s been trouble.” I hadn’t seen the point of filing a police report on my laptop—I knew the chances of finding the thief were slim to none. Jack had been both angry and concerned. I tried to tell him that it was no relation to the case, but we both knew that, at least on the surface, it appeared someone didn’t want us digging aroundin the suicide king case. Dusting for fingerprints on the windowsill of my bedroom provided nothing useful—just masses of prints, mostly my own, since I used the window to combat the overactive radiator in my room.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” C.C. assured me when she and Joe arrived the next night to discuss the incident.
“What was on your laptop?” Joe asked.
“Not much. I use it for e-mail and some Web surfing. I had recently done a search on Falco—but I didn’t turn up anything anyone else doing a Google search couldn’t come up with. Whoever took it doesn’t know that. He may have assumed I kept a lot on it.”
What I didn’t say was I researched my mother’s case constantly—all right, obsessively—but I always did a backup and stored a ZIP disc and CD-ROM copies of my work in a second location—namely a safe in Quinn’s Pub.
“What did your detective friend turn up?” C.C. asked.
“Dead end. The plates, the car itself, appear to have been stolen.”
“I’d say the real suicide king wants our boy to remain in prison,” Lewis said.
“Either that or the brother is more nuts than I thought. I just didn’t read him as anythingmore than a distraught relative who’d just discovered that there was a chance his sister’s murderer might go free on a technicality.”
“A technicality?” Joe said, a little irate.
“I don’t mean it like that,” I said calmly. “It’s just that the average person has no idea of the accuracy of science. If people understood DNA evidence, then O.J. would be in prison instead of playing golf.”
Joe Franklin shook his head. “Whether it’s Harry or the real killer, it’d take a lot more than that to keep me from pursuing this—especially now.”
“Well,” Lewis drawled. “I’m rather fond of Billie, so much as I’d like to see your Mr. Falco released, I’d like to make sure we don’t get Billie here killed in the process.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come to you. I never would have intentionally put anyone in danger,” Joe said.
“The surest way to keep us all safe,” I said, “is to process the DNA sample ASAP so the results are out there. The bottom line is once we have those results, whoever is looking to stop us will have to realize there’s no
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