1st to Die (Women's Murder Club 1)

Raleigh came into my apartment. He looked around with sort of an impressed nod, gazing at some of the pottery, a black-and-gold satin baseball jacket from Willie Mays, my terrace with its view of the bay. He held out the bottle.

“There’s one already open on the counter,” I said. “Pour yourself a glass. I’ll check on the food.”

I went into the kitchen, reminding myself that I had just come from the outpatient clinic for a serious disease, and we were partners, anyway. With an irrepressible flicker of excitement, I took out an extra place setting.

“Number twenty-four, Giants?” he called to me. “This warm-up jacket is the real thing?”

“Willie Mays. My father gave it to me for my tenth birthday. He wanted a boy. I kept it all these years.”

He came into the kitchen, spun a stool around at the counter. While I stirred the penne he poured himself a glass of wine. “You always cook for yourself like this?”

“Old habit,” I said. “Growing up, my mother worked late. I had a sister six years younger. Sometimes my mother didn’t get home till eight. From the time I can remember, I had to make dinner.”

“Where was your dad?”

“Left us,” I said, whipping together some mustard, grape seed oil, balsamic vinegar, and lemon into a vinaigrette for the salad. “When I was thirteen.”

“So your mother brought you up?”

“You could say. Sometimes I feel like I brought myself up.”

“Until you got married.”

“Yeah, then I sort of brought him up, too.” I smiled. “You’re pretty nosy, Raleigh.”

“Cops are generally nosy. Didn’t you know that?”

“Yeah. Real cops.”

Raleigh feigned being hurt. “What can I help you with?” he offered.

“You can grate,” I said, and grinned. I pushed a block of Parmesan and a metal grater his way.

We sat there as he grated, waiting for the pasta to cook. Sweet Martha padded into the kitchen and let Raleigh pet her.

“You didn’t seem yourself this afternoon,” he said as he stroked Martha’s head. “Usually, you handle Roth’s bullshit without even blinking. Seemed like there was something wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I lied. “At least not now. If you were asking.”

I leaned against the counter and looked at him. He was my partner, but even more than that, he was a person I thought I could trust. It had been a long, hard time since I had put my trust in anybody whose gender started with an M. Maybe, in a different time …I was thinking.

Tori Amos’s haunting voice hung in the air.

“You like to dance?” Raleigh suddenly asked.

I looked at him, really surprised. “I don’t dance. I cook.”

“You don’t dance…you cook?” Raleigh repeated, scrunching up his brow.

“Yeah. You know what they say about cooking.”

He looked around. “What I’d say is that it doesn’t seem to be working. Maybe you should try dancing.”

The music was soft and languorous, and as much as I tried to deny it, part of me just yearned to be held.

Without my even saying yes, my goddamn partner took my hand and pulled me from around the counter. I wanted to hold back, but a soft, surrendering voice inside me said, Just go with it, Lindsay. He’s okay. You know you trust him.

So I gave in and let Chris Raleigh hold me. I liked being in his arms.