“You mean somebody else killed Kathy?” she said. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Jackie frowned and looked down, and then shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “Who else could possibly— No. That’s crazy.”
“That’s exactly my point,” I said. “Sane and solid citizens usually don’t do these things.” And I have to say I spoke with some expertise here.
She thought about it, sipping her coffee, and finally she sighed and shook her head again. “No,” she said. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but … I don’t believe it.”
I looked at Jackie, wallowing in needless misery, and in one of the strangest moments yet, I realized I wanted her to smile, laugh, feel the sun and the wind on her face and know true joy, or at least finish her coffee without bursting into tears. “What if I can prove it was somebody else?” I said, and she looked half startled.
“How?” she said.
I smiled, and it was very nearly a real smile. “This is what I do,” I said. “In all modesty, I have to admit that I am pretty good at forensics.”
“And one or two other things,” she said, but she heard herself being lighthearted and looked guilty. She turned away again, frowning.
“All I’m asking is to let me look at the reports and talk to Vince before you decide that you don’t deserve to live anymore,” I said.
A long moment later, she looked back to me, and if there was no actual hope on her face, at least she didn’t look completely miserable anymore. “All right,” she said. She took another sip of coffee, followed by a deep breath, and she let a determined look settle onto her face. “Fine,” she said. She put the cup down and reached for the two covered dishes on the tray, then hesitated. “Which one is mine?” she asked.
“Both of them,” I said, and she raised an eyebrow. “Well, I wasn’t sure—I mean, I got your regular church-mouse breakfast,” I said, tapping one of the silver covers, “but I thought … Anyway, there’s also an omelet and some bacon, in case you wanted something more, because, um …” I finished lamely, sounding far too much like Rita.
“Because I worked up an appetite last night?” she said.
“Well—yes, I guess so.”
She smiled. “I did,” she said. “But we start work in front of the cameras tomorrow, so …” She shrugged and lifted the cover off the toast and grapefruit juice. She put the cover aside and picked up a piece of toast, crunching at it and sipping the juice.
I eyed the other cover, the one over the omelet, and whether I was truly hungry or just needed something to do, I lifted the cover. “If you’re sure,” I said. “I mean, it’s really very good.”
Jackie sipped her juice. “I’m sure,” she said.
I ate the omelet.
When I was done, I poured more coffee into Jackie’s cup, and then into mine. We sipped, and the silence grew, and I wondered whether I should start babbling, just to fill the silence.
“Listen,” she said at last. I looked at her attentively. “Last night …” She sipped again, and then looked away. “It was very nice,” she said.
“Very nice,” I said. “I mean, nice doesn’t really seem adequate.”
She
looked back at me and flashed a brief smile. “I’m glad you think so,” she said. “But …” She shook her head and looked down at her feet. “There’s always a but, isn’t there?”
“I don’t, um … Is there? I mean, always?” I asked.
Jackie looked up at me again and made a kind of rueful smile. “Yeah, always,” she said. “I mean, right now it’s, ‘Wowee, thank you, Jesus, one more time’—but things are always different in daylight.…” She was probably right, and for a brief moment I wanted to try it in daylight to see how different it was, but Jackie didn’t seem to share that mood; she sighed heavily and looked away again.
“I was scared last night,” she said. “I was sure he was in the hotel, coming for me, and—” She paused abruptly and blinked at me. “Not that …” she said, looking very uncomfortable. “I mean—it was something I really wanted to do. With … you.” She looked at her knees. “You have this … I don’t know. Something about you that …” She pursed her lips and gave her head two very small shakes. “I don’t know. Like you’re this … normal man, secure and … and … solid? Ordinary? No, maybe comfortable?” She shook her head again. “And at the same time there’s this feeling I get like you’re one of the bad boys I used to like, with a switchblade in your pocket or something, and the combination is so …”
She looked up at me, and her tongue came out across her lower lip. She sighed, and looked down again. “I really do like you, Dexter,” she said. “I mean, really. But … we live in different worlds, and you know. I’ll go back to L.A., and you’ll go back to your wife.”
“I don’t have to,” I said, and it was out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying.
She looked at me very seriously, and I looked back. Then she shook her head. “You have kids, and … Let’s just not make this complicated, all right?”
“It’s not that complicated,” I said.