She had brought brandy-the conventional remedy for swooning females. Karen hated brandy, but she didn't say so. The beverage lived up to its reputation; after a few sips her hands stopped quivering.
She let Cheryl take the glass and then leaned back against the cushions. The color had returned to Cheryl's face; she had been as white as a bleached petticoat. Sipping her own brandy, she said, "We're going to make a great impression on the cops, both stinking of alcohol."
"Don't expect the cops to show up for a while. The weekend revelers are winding up their celebrations, and a little old break-in isn't going to impress the boys in blue."
However, it was not long before there was a vigorous pounding on the front door and Karen said in surprise, "Such enthusiasm. Cheryl, would you-"
Cheryl rose slowly. "I think maybe," she began.
"Oh, wait. Where's Alexander?"
"In the kitchen, I guess. Karen, I guess I should tell you-"
"You had better let them in before they kick the door down. I hadn't expected such zeal."
As she should have known, from the vehemence of the knocking and from Cheryl's hesitation, it was not the police. Naturally, she would call Mark, as well as the cops, Karen thought. He's her brother, after all.
There was another man with Mark, a muscular youngish man whose Hispanic ancestry showed in his olive complexion and opaque dark eyes. He was almost too handsome to be believable; one expected to see a makeup person hovering, and hear a director shout, "Ready for Take 2." A heavy mustache only partially concealed his delicate, finely cut lips. Like Mark, he was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Compared to Mark he looked as dapper as the male model he resembled. Mark had not shaved that day and his shirt was streaked with stains. Beer stains, Karen thought, remembering Mark's habit of using a beer can as a baton, waving it in the air to orchestrate his arguments, banging it on the table to emphasize a point. He was always very apologetic when it splashed on the furniture and people's clothes…
No one spoke for a few seconds. Then, with an irritated glance at his silent, staring companion, the dark man smiled in an embarrassed fashion. "I'm Tony Cardoza-"
Karen was still shaky and disoriented. "You can't be. Tony the cop? Tony the rationalist? Tony who spends his spare time arguing about old murders?"
Cardoza's smile faltered, and Mark found his voice. "What's the matter with you, Karen?" His eyes moved to the two glasses side by side on the coffee table and his eyebrows rose. "I might have known. Sitting here getting sloshed-you never did have any head for liquor-damn it, Cheryl, don't you know better than to give alcohol to an injured person? She could be concussed, or-or-"
Karen interrupted with a yell. "Watch out! Cheryl- grab him-"
It was too late. Alexander had only hesitated for a moment because he could not decide whom to bite first. His leap was one of his best ever. He caught Mark square in the calf and hung there, slobbering and growling, while Cardoza stared and Mark swore and Cheryl burst into a peal of slightly hysterical laughter.
The police arrived shortly thereafter. Cheryl carried Alexander away in disgrace, and although Cardoza identified himself to the patrolmen, he effaced himself thereafter, following Cheryl to the kitchen. Mark sat stiff and scowling, his arms folded, while an officer took down Karen's statement. The dignity of his demeanor was only slightly marred by his scruffy cheeks and chin and by the loose flap of denim that bared a sizable patch of hairy leg.
The statement didn't take long. There was little Karen could add to the bare facts: "I walked in the door and somebody grabbed me by the throat." Mark followed the policemen out. He had not spoken to Karen since his initial outburst.
Left alone, she drowsed off, and did not awaken until she heard Cheryl say softly, "Poor baby, she's worn out. I'm going to put her to bed. Mark, could you-"
Karen's eyes popped open. "I don't need to be carried. Mark, if you dare-I'm too heavy-"
"That's okay, I've been working out." His smile recalled an old, almost forgotten joke between them. His slim build and lack of inches had caused a lot of people, including Karen herself initially, to underestimate his wiry strength. In spite of herself, her stiff lip curved in an answering smile. But she stiffened again when his arms lifted her and held her close. Mark's smile faded.
"Relax, will you? I'm not about to take unfair advantage of you, not with a cop right at my elbow…"
"I-uh," said Cardoza. "I guess I'll be running along."
"Please don't," Karen murmured. "I mean-I'd like to talk to you, about what happened."
Mark started up the stairs, moving as lightly as if he were carrying an empty dress. Karen could feel the hard muscles under his thin shirt, but for all the emotion he displayed he might as well have been carrying an empty dress. Why did I do that? Karen thought wretchedly-and then, with a spurt of anger, And why does he have to be so supersensitive?
"I'm not even here officially," Cardoza protested.
He was still at the foot of the stairs, still talking, when Mark carried Karen into her room. Her shriek brought him bounding up. "What the hell-"
"Look-just look!" Karen cried. "Look what he did! All my things-all over-I spent hours washing and ironing-"
"Please-stop-kicking," Mark gasped. "I don't want to drop you on your-"
"Put me down!"
"Where?"
It was a reasonable question. The mattress had been dragged off the bed, trailing sheets and blankets. Every drawer in the dresser and chifferobe stood open, the contents tumbled as if by a giant beater or tossed helter-skelter onto the floor.
Cardoza leaned against the doorjamb breathing heavily. "Don't scare me like that," he said furiously. "I know the room is a mess, I saw it. So are the other bedrooms-"
Karen burst into tears and buried her face against Mark's shoulder.
"Crying over a bunch of clothes," Cardoza said, shaking his head. "I'll never figure women out. There I was thinking what a cool lady you were, kidding me and smiling sweetly-"
"That's a chauvinist speech if I ever heard one," Cheryl snapped. "It was delayed shock, that's what it was. I'd like to see how you'd behave after somebody choked you half to death and scared the fits out of you. And what's more, Tony Cardoza-"
"Okay, okay." Cardoza smiled at Cheryl affectionately, as he might have smiled at a pretty child. "I should have warned her, I guess. You too, Cheryl, I thought you were going to start bawling too."
"If you knew how much time and effort it took to get those clothes so nice and pretty, you'd be more sympathetic. No, put that down; it's sweet of you to try and help, but you're just making more of a mess."
Karen was in her bed, which had been restored to its proper state. Murmuring distressfully, Cheryl was smoothing and folding the crumpled garments. Mark was sprawled in the one comfortable overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out, his expression dour. Cardoza occupied the desk chair; arms folded, one ankle resting on the other knee, he looked quite at home. In fact, there was something insanely cozy about the whole business, and they were all drinking tea-which Cheryl seemed to consider a universal panacea-except Cardoza, who held a can of beer.
"I'm not driving," he had explained gravely. "But Mark can't have any."
Karen felt rather like a medieval monarch holding court, as those gentry were wont to do in their bedrooms, but even more like a sick child being visited by the grownups. Cheryl had bundled her into the least crumpled of the white nightgowns; it had long sleeves with ruffles on the cuffs, and it buttoned clear up to its ruffled neckline.
"So he got in through a window," Mark said.
"Must have. The back door was standing open, but we can assume he unlocked it after he entered the house- in preparation for the conventional quick getaway. The lock hadn't been tampered with, and one of the downstairs windows was unlocked."