"Time out! I was lying here peacefully. You're the one who came in, slithered out of her pants, and-"
"Bastard! Rotten bastard! It's what you wanted, the old slap and tickle."
"Wrong. I wanted more."
She stood and turned away. With the candlelight behind her, her profile appeared in silhouette. "And I didn't want to be treated as a need-satisfying object as you would your mother."
"My mother? I never knew my mother."
"It shows. Your suckling my breasts was the manifestation of an obsessional need."
"Where I come from, it's considered appropriate, even appreciated by many females of your generation."
"Really? Boasting now of your prowess, adding another notch to your belt."
"No, damn it! I think we made a mistake here. We weren't ready for this. You shouldn't-"
"Blast and damn! It's my fault, is it? Why didn't you send me away?"
"Because I wanted you. I just don't know what you expected."
"Not a bloody thing! You're all alike."
"I'm glad it isn't personal."
"It is, you blockhead. Have you ever tried talking, comforting? Afterward, you didn't say a word unless your silent melancholia followed by snoring is considered suitable communication among females of my generation."
Suddenly I wasn't lonely anymore. I wanted to be alone. I was tired of having my head analyzed and my lovemaking criticized. I went on the offensive. "As long as we're talking about mothers, you were downright rude to your mother today."
"Now you're an expert on etiquette as well as orgasms, is that it?"
"My granny taught me to be kind to stray cats, to wipe my shoes before coming in the house, and to pee before I got in the shower. I figured out on my own it isn't nice to call your mother a tramp in front of company."
"You think you know everything, don't you?"
"I know you're a grown-up lady and so is your mother, and the two of you ought to just let each other live the way each one wants."
She sighed and her shoulders sagged. When she spoke, it was softer. "It's best if you stay out of what doesn't concern you and what you know nothing about."
"I'm willing to listen, to learn."
She thought it over before speaking, then said, "My father didn't die. That's been her story for twenty years, but the truth…"
Somewhere down the corridor, a telephone rang.
"The truth is he simply left when he learned he'd been cuckolded."
"I'm sorry," I said, then realized I just expressed sorrow at learning her father was likely still alive.
She sat in silence a moment. "Is that all you have to say?" she asked. "You really don't know anything about me and you give no indication of wanting to know."
From somewhere I heard a muffled voice, answering the phone.
"I'm sorry, Pamela. But after getting roughed up yesterday, being driven halfway across Britain today, and rolling with you between the sheets, I am not up to par in the conversation department. Next time I'll have my devastatingly witty repartee ready."
"Next time! How utterly presumptuous. And keep your wit to yourself, thank you. I'm talking about communication, sharing feelings, not wisecracking."
Boom! Another mood shift. I propped myself up on an elbow and studied her in the darkness. I couldn't make out her face, just the chiseled outline of that perfect profile against the flickering light. "Pam, whatever I did or didn't do, I'm sorry. Now, why don't we get dressed? It must be about dinnertime."
She laughed. "Dinner was hours ago."
"Oh."
"Don't worry. Mum will understand."
"Good. Some mothers would be-"
"That would be the pot calling the kettle black. But who am I to talk? God, I hate myself when I'm so easy."
I heard footsteps outside the door, then a sharp rapping.
"Jake, wake up!"
"C'mon in, Charlie," I said.
Charlie Riggs swung the door open and bustled in. At least it looked like Charlie, bushy beard and all. I just had never seen him in a crimson kimono and pink satin bedroom slippers. The sight of Pamela Maxson standing by the bed froze him.
"Oh my," he said. "Dr. Maxson, so sorry to intrude." He looked down at himself. "It's most irregular, I know. But my pants are in your mother's bedroom. That is…she wanted to show me the workmanship on the four-poster with its painted cornice. It dates from 1785, you know. Of course you know. It's your house, after all. But I had never seen such workmanship…and well, oh, dear me…"
"I understand," Pam said evenly.
Charlie seemed to sigh. "There's a phone call. For Jake…from Miami…Detective Rodriguez."
I grabbed my shorts and started for the door without asking, so Charlie just blurted it out.
"Priscilla Fox is dead," said the man in the crimson kimono.
CHAPTER 24
"I get you out of bed, amigo?" Rodriguez asked.
"Forget it. What happened?"
"Nick had the kid for the weekend. The missus was home all alone, talking whoopee on the computer till about eleven. We got the printout. Around midnight, best we can figure, she has a visitor. Must have known the guy, no sign of a break-in. Anyway, she ends up strangled."
"Sexual assault?"
"Well, the ME says she had sex within an hour of death. Seminal fluid reveals type-A blood. But the place is neat as a pin. There's no evidence of violence other than the bruises on the neck. Nothing missing from the house. A neighbor found her today when she didn't show for a ladies' lunch."
"An organized murder scene," I said.
"Ey, you're learning the jargon, counselor. Anyway, to my practiced eye, it looks like consensual sex followed by manual strangulation."
"Just like Mary Rosedahl."
" Verdad, five'll get you ten, same guy did all three. The way I figure, he was fooling around with Marsha but couldn't talk her out of her pants, so he just offed her. The Rosedahl girl and Priscilla were easier, that's all."
So the killer wasn't a drooling maniac or one of those social outcasts collecting bottle caps in a rented room. More like a demented Don Juan.
I thought about Priscilla Fox. Pretty and tough. Cynical and smart. Lonely and dead.
I remembered her in leotards and sneakers. Stretching and aerobicizing, dieting and fretting. Fighting middle age and winning. So long, Nick, hello, world. Picking up the pieces without missing a step. At least that was the side she showed. But at night, in the lonely hours, huddled over the passionless box with its microchips and electronic blips, she reached into the darkness, blindly groping for warmth and rapture. Surely there must be someone out there just as appealing, just as hungry, just as deserving of love.
No. No, Priscilla, I wanted to shout through time and space. Bolt that door against the night. The creepy crawlies aren't all on the late show. They drive Chevys and mow their lawns and order home-delivery pizzas. They spank on aftershave and make chitchat and smile through lying lips. They kiss and then they kill.
"How's Nick taking it?" I asked.
"Pretty hard, though he tries not to show it. Most guys I know would just be happy, no more alimony."
"Most guys you know are cops, coroners, and criminals. Gives you a jaundiced outlook, Rod."
"Maybe, but Nick's tops in my book. And so is…was Prissy."
"Didn't know you were acquainted," I said.
"For years. Nick and Prissy would double-date with Maria and me before we got divorced. After Nick moved out, I'd see Prissy for dinner once in a while."
He paused and I listened to some overseas buzzing and hissing.
If he wanted me to ask about their relationship, he had a long wait. Sometimes the best questioning technique is total silence.
"It wasn't romantic or anything," Rodriguez continued. "Just friends. Nick knew all about it, didn't give a shit."