In the dusk across the room, his leather jacket sagged over a bench, seeming to radiate some animal heat of its own. Dressed like a biker and trying to look inconspicuous. Ruefully, she grinned. And that awful car. Then she frowned, searching for the source of a low sound. I don't believe it. She blinked at the cat. The thing snores. She felt herself sinking back toward sleep. Now, if I could just teach it to spit, I wouldn't need a man in my life at all.
Without opening his eyes, Steve stretched across the rumpled bedding to draw a finger along her stomach. "...soft..."
"..."
"Did you say something?" he mumbled.
"...m..."
"Beg pardon?"
Sprawled in a languid stupor, she rolled and mumbled into his shoulder. "I thought you were asleep." Her knees slid up beneath the sheet, and her legs wrapped around him, slackly.
Murmuring something that sounded like "I am," he molded himself against her.
The blanket slipped down, and she wriggled on her side. Imbibing the musky smell of him, she toyed with the tightly curled hairs at the back of his neck, then languorously stroked the bright dusting of fur on his shoulders, remembering the warmth of his mouth and the taste of his tongue. Honey-colored light streaked his chest, and her fingers traced the muscles that braided his arm, traced the prominent veins. She brought his hand to her mouth, kissed his fingertips. Golden hairs glinted even on the backs of his hands.
He drew her damply into the nook of his arm. "You're a very beautiful lady."
"I was just thinking the same thing."
"And modest too."
"I meant about you, stupid."
"I'm a beautiful lady?" He twitched back the sheet. "If you'll notice..."
"Shut up, idiot." She smacked playfully at his head. "And I can't believe this hair. Like animal fur."
His limbs wound hot and moist around her. "And you haven't commented on my almost canine sensuality."
"Idiot." Her laugh blurred against his chest.
"Doesn't say much about your judgment, does it? What kind of a cop are you anyway?"
"The world's worst. Haven't you figured that out by now?"
"I think there's some pretty stiff competition for that title just in this bed."
"Stiff what?" She stroked him.
"Stop that. Hussy." In retaliation, his hand slipped silken between her legs.
"Oh." Her words flowed in a warm rush. "This scar on your stomach. It's not from an operation, is it?" Everything had changed from this morning on the beach. Even their voices sounded different, she thought, like the voices of happy strangers, and they couldn't stop touching each other. "So jagged." She leaned forward and tried to kiss it, but he shifted away. "There's another. You're lucky to be alive, my boy." She traced a line beneath his chin and down the side of his throat, until her hand hesitated. "My God." Her voice cracked. "One of them did this to you. This is what you meant, isn't it?"
The bed quaked as he turned away and sat at the edge of the mattress.
"Steve...I still can't believe any of this is happening." She watched his back. "Look at me."
"Uh...do you have that list of properties here?"
He barely turned his head, but she glimpsed his eyes: dirty ice.
"You have it here? The addresses you found in Chandler's office?"
"I have it." She rolled away.
"We should begin checking them."
"Of course." She reached for the clothes she'd thrown off earlier. "I didn't mean to waste your time. Should we divide them?"
"Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean we had to..." He tried to pull her toward him, but she continued to dress. It seemed the light clarified every freckle on her pale arms and legs. "Kit, there's no reason for you to be involved in this any further, I'll..."
"Don't even try it." Fingers trembling, she zipped her jeans. "We'll take turns watching the apartments."
"No, if you insist on coming with me, we'll..."
"Barry, Steve, whoever the hell you are..." She squinted at the window. "The only possible excuse for my not having informed the authorities already is for us to be handling this ourselves. We should have moved on it by now, but here we are instead. So tell me again how committed we are to saving lives. Do you want to eat something, before we get started?"
He shuffled through the blankets. "Kit."
Shrugging away from his touch, she tugged her blouse on, then hurried out of the room. As she walked, the cat pressed at her ankle.
What am I doing? She got out a skillet and began to root through the refrigerator. He's just sitting on the bed, waiting for me to say something. Her hand went to a package of ground meat, and her fingertips pressed it. Gelid. Grainy. Deep pink dotted with white. At the crinkled bottom of the cellophane, a tiny amount of red fluid had gathered. Swaying, she closed the refrigerator and leaned against the door while the room swayed; then she rushed for the bathroom. An unblinking feline gaze observed her.
Leaning on the sink, she listened to his movements in the next room. I won't be sick. She twisted a faucet, and water gushed. She watched it beat against the basin and splash across her blouse; then she adjusted the flow and cupped her hands to bathe her face. It cooled her burning eyes, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she cringed. She tugged at the sleeves of her blouse. It made her look bony, boyish. Salt spray and the pillow had made a bizarre frizz of her hair, which now curled chaotically in a coppery mesh. The cat scraped at the door. "Can't you leave me alone for five minutes?" She turned the shower on full blast before letting her clothes fall in a heap, as though she couldn't bear to touch them. They smell of the beach. She stood under the water a long time. Everything smells of the beach.
Afterward she wiped the skin of steam from the mirror and combed her hair straight back before wrapping herself in a white terry cloth robe. Maybe he's right. She had to wipe the mirror with a towel again to see herself, the image smeared and blurred around the edges. Wet, her hair looked almost chestnut. Maybe all I care about is a chance to take the killer down myself. What would that get me anyhow? She shrugged the thought away. Out of here? Is that what I want?
She found him sitting in the armchair, his face buried in her notes, and she walked past without speaking. Finding her slippers, she headed back into the kitchen.
Moments later, cooking odors twined through the warm air. Or do I just want him? She'd pulled the curtains aside, and the last of the light pooled in the center of the table where the cat fitfully purred. "Who said you could sleep on the table?" But the cat just lifted its head, squinting at her. The electric clock on the wall whirred softly. It seemed a reassuring noise, so normal, making nonsense of all their talk of monsters. In the next room, a chair scraped, and a few seconds later she heard the shower. Slicing onions and peppers, she prepared an omelet for them, annoyed with herself at the amount of effort she put into it, disgusted with her own transparent need to impress him with her domestic skills.
The cat slid off the edge of the table and leapt to the windowsill. "What do you want from me, cat? This never letting me out of your sight business is getting on my nerves. You're not hungry. You won't let me pet you." She moved to the old china cabinet and got out her best dishes and linen. "So what is it?"