ON WEDNESDAY, A WEEK AFTER THE MURDER, SARAH FOUND herself following her old schedule. She had forgotten to reschedule her karate and kick-boxing sessions anyway, so she worked in the house until it was time for the classes, then devoted herself to the hardest workouts she had put herself through in a long time. It's exactly a week today, she kept thinking. Exactly a week. A week ago, the most important thing in her life had been finding out who'd sent her that pendant. Today, she couldn't remember exactly how the pendant looked. It had been relegated to unimportance by what had happened later that night.
She was supposed to go to a movie with Cahill that night. Remembering that she'd gone to a movie last Wednesday, too, she knew she couldn't do it. She called the number Cahill had given her, and he answered immediately.
"This is Sarah. I'm sorry, but I can't do a movie tonight."
He paused. "Has something come up?"
"No, it's just . . . it was a week ago today, and I went to a movie then, too."
"Okay." His tone was gentle. 'We'll do something else."
"No, I-" She wanted to be with him, but maybe after last night a cooling-down period was in order. She had managed to keep things from getting out of hand, or even progressing any further than they already had, but he was making serious inroads in her resolve. The cooling-down period was for her. "Not tonight. We're still on for tomorrow night, but I won't be good company tonight."
"Are you getting cold feet?"
Trust him to bypass sympathy and politeness, and go straight to the heart of the matter! "Trust me," she said wryly. "If my feet are cold, it's the only part of me that is."
He blew out a short, sharp breath. "You just made it impossible for me to sit down."
"I hope no one can overhear you."
He ignored that. "I'll be at home if you change your mind, or if you decide you want company."
"Thanks, Cahill." Her voice was soft. "You're a sweetheart."
"Told you you'd be calling me that," he said smugly.
No matter what, he could lift her spirits. She hung up feeling slightly elated, the way she always felt around him. The fizz saw her through the rest of that difficult day.
On Thursday night, on the way to the symphony, he said, "I have a friend who's dying to meet you. He's lowlife scum who thinks he can charm you away from me, but if you don't mind feeling dirty by association, he really, really wants to do some target practice with you. I have an extra weapon you can use, since we still have yours."
She laughed. "He's a lowlife scum who makes you feel dirty by association? Sure, I'd like to meet him."
"Thought so. How about tomorrow afternoon, about two o'clock, at that range you were at before."
"Two o'clock? Don't you have to work? Or are you sending me out to get dirty by association all on my own?"
"I'm off half a day tomorrow, and all of the weekend." He slanted an appraising glance at her. 'Wear that dress."
If that wasn't just like a man. "To target practice? In your dreams."
"You have no idea about my dreams," he said feelingly. In one of those swings of temperature so common to spring, the day had seen the mid-eighties and hadn't cooled down much with sunset. Sarah had dressed accordingly, in an sleeveless aqua sheath that made her warm coloring glow, and brought along a shawl to drape over her arms if she became chilled. The sheath clung in all the right places and skimmed others, and was cut low enough in front to show a hint of cleavage. Cahill had been eyeing that hint since he picked her up.
Prudently she didn't ask him about his dreams, because she was fairly certain he'd tell her. If Cahill had a shy bone in his body, she hadn't found it yet.
The symphony was wonderful; she loved classical music, and Cahill talked knowledgeably about the program, proving that he hadn't picked the symphony just to impress her. "Do you come to the symphony often?" she asked.
"Not as often as I'd like, but a couple of times a year, at least. I have to work it into my schedule."
"I can see how it would be tough making time for the symphony, what with all the ball games and the bowling."
He grinned. "Admit it. You liked cosmic bowling."
"I'd never bowled in the dark before." In fact, she'd had a ball Tuesday night; cosmic bowling was a hoot. The balls and pins were painted with glow-in-the-dark paint; the regular lights were turned off and the black lights turned on. Anything white, such as teeth or shoes, or a shirt, had taken on an unearthly glow. It was a little disconcerting to suddenly see teeth flashing at you in the darkness. The next time they went, though, she would make Cahill wear a white shirt so she could keep track of him.
She worked that night after he took her home and got up early the next morning to get in some extra time packing so that she could take off early to meet Cahill's friend. If anything, she was putting in more hours now than she had while the Judge was alive, but she was so wary of short-timing the family that she was doing the opposite. Cahill had a way of consuming time-witness this afternoon-so she wanted to have extra hours built up during the week as a cushion.
It was another warm day, eighty-seven degrees. She wore a pair of tan knit slacks with an elastic waistband for comfort, since she would be sweating on the practice range, a short-sleeved, V-necked T, and sandals, with heavy-duty sunscreen slathered on all exposed skin. "Damn," Cahill said when he picked her up. "I hoped you'd change your mind about the dress."
"Yeah, I could just see me bending over to pick up cartridges in that dress."
"Man, so could I," he said, sighing.
His friend, Rick Mancil, was the stocky man she'd seen him with at the range before. Rick had black hair, pale green eyes, and was as irrepressible as the Energizer Bunny. His opening line to her was, "If you get tired of putting up with this jackass, just give me a call and I'll have you at the altar before you can say 'Mrs. Mancil."'
"Believe him," Cahill drawled. "He's done it twice already."
Sarah blinked. "Married women you've dated?"
"Just married," Rick corrected. "But we won't talk about that."
She sensed that Cahill wanted her to show off her marksmanship for Rick, so she obliged. She and Rick got side-by-side targets; he exclaimed at length about his pistol, how accurate it was, how it had never jammed, and so on; she glanced at Cahill, who was leaning negligently against a post with his ankles crossed, and he shrugged, smiling. "He never runs down," he said.
"That's a good thing in a man," Rick said, winking at her.
Sarah looked back at Cahill. "Aren't you going to shoot?"
He gave a brief shake of his head. Rick said, ''e won't bring him into this. He beats me every time, the damn show-off. It's that military training of his, gives him an unfair advantage."
As far as that went, so did her own military training. Hers had been private, courtesy of her father, but training was training.
They began with the targets fairly close, moving them back after every clip. Sarah fired steadily, concentrating as she did when she was competing against her brothers. The buck of the pistol in her hand was as familiar to her as driving a car; she almost didn't have to think about what she was doing, the habit was so ingrained.
"I can't believe this," Rick complained good-naturedly. "Doc said you were good, but I'm good, and you're beating me on every target."
"Shoot left-handed," Cahill said to Sarah, and Rick gawked at him.
"Left-handed? She shoots both ways?"
Sarah simply switched hands and proceeded to empty the clip at the target. As usual, you could have covered all the holes in the target with a playing card.
"You son of a bitch," Rick said to Cahill, his tone disbelieving. "You brought in a ringer! She's a professional, isn't she?"
"I'm a butler," Sarah corrected. She had to admit she was enjoying herself, especially the byplay between the two men.
"Pay up," Cahill said, holding out his hand.
Growling, Rick pulled out his wallet and laid five twenties in Cahill's palm.
'Wait a minute," she said indignantly. "You made a side bet and didn't cut me in on the action?"
'What did I tell you?" Rick asked. "He's a jackass. "
"You didn't cut me in, either," she pointed out, carefully putting down her weapon and crossing her arms, glaring at them.
"Uh . . . "
"Say, 'I'm a jackass, too,"' Cahill prompted in an almost-whisper.
"I'm a jackass, too!" Rick repeated loudly. His pale eyes sparkled with laughter.
'Were you two in high school together?" she asked. "Just wondering."
"God, no. Can you imagine?" Cahill grinned as he put the money in his pocket.
"Not without shuddering, no."
Cahill clapped Rick on the shoulder. 'Well, buddy, it's been fun. We'll do this again when I need extra money, okay? We're going to leave you now; I have steaks marinating at home. We'll think of you with every bite."
"You do that," Rick said, managing a forlorn look. He even gave them a sad wave as they left, like a little kid being left behind while the other kids go off to play.
"God, he's exhausting!" Sarah said when they were in the truck. "Fun, but exhausting."
"Two ex-wives said the same thing. If there's such a thing as a manic-depressive who's always manic, that's Rick."
'What does he say about you? Other than that you're a jackass?"
"That I'm sneaky. And stubborn."
"I agree; they're good traits in a cop."
"Mmm. So you think I'm sneaky?"
Sarah looked at him, at ease behind the wheel, long legs encased in boots and tight jeans, a crisp white T-shirt molded to his torso. His lips were slightly curled in amusement, as if he knew where this was going. Oh, yes, he was sneaky.
'What's this about 'steaks marinating at home'? That's the first I've heard about these steaks, much less their location."
"I have a built-in grill, it's Friday, the weather's warm. What else does a red-blooded southern boy do but cook out? Besides, I know where you live; don't you want to know where I live?"
She did, damn it. She wanted to know if he was a slob, if he had one chair and a huge television, if his refrigerator had nothing but frozen dinners, cheese, and beer in it. She wanted to know if he left whiskers in the sink when he shaved, if he made his bed in the mornings or left the covers tossed on the floor. She definitely had it bad, so bad she wanted to groan.
'Where exactly do you live?" she asked, and he smiled at her capitulation.
"Down 280, in Shelby County."
The Birmingham metro area was spreading fast to the south; Shelby was the fastest growing county in Alabama, with businesses and subdivisions springing up almost overnight, which was why traffic on 280, the main artery into Birmingham, was such a nightmare. Property values in Shelby were soaring.
"How long have you lived there?"
"Just a year, since the divorce was final. I lucked out finding this house; actually, it belonged to a cousin who was transferred to Tucson. The house Shannon and I lived in sold almost immediately, so I had my split of the money from that as a hefty down payment and that got the mortgage payments down into the reasonable range."
"I suppose I thought you'd have an apartment, or live in a condo."
"I like the privacy of my own house. It's not a new house; it was built in the late seventies and needed some work done on it. I'm pretty good with my hands, so I've been doing the repairs, fixing it up."
She could see him as a handyman; he had that air of capability that said he could do pretty much whatever interested him. Maybe it was just her, but she thought men with hammers were sexy.
She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't a traditional brick house, with a yard that sloped away at the back, and a neat sidewalk bordered by trimmed hedges. The brick was a soft red, and the shutters were dark blue, the front door painted a shade or two lighter. The driveway curved around to the back of the house. "There's a full basement," he said. "The garage used to be there, but my cousin turned it into a playroom for his kids. Actually, it's a lot of house for just one person, but I like the room."
He parked beside the walkway, and let her in the front door. Either he'd just had in a cleaning service, she thought, or he wasn't a slob. The hardwood in the entry gleamed, and there was a fresh, lemony smell in the air.
His hand was a warm weight in the small of her back. "The living room," he said, gesturing to the left. The room was completely empty, the carpet spotless, and the curtains drawn. "I don't have any use for it, so I haven't bothered with furniture. Same with the dining room. The kitchen has a breakfast nook, and that's where I eat. The den is here."
The den was cozy, with a large fireplace, big windows looking out over the backyard, and an entertainment center with a big television. She felt gratified at that evidence of his guy-ness. He had furniture, though: an overstuffed sofa and two big recliners, plus the requisite number of end tables and lamps. All in all, it looked fairly civilized. The den was separated from the kitchen by a half-wall topped off with a row of white wooden spindles. "The kitchen needed work," he said. "I refinished the cabinets, put in that island." The wood cabinets had a natural finish that glowed with a soft golden color. The island was made of the same wood, with a smooth-surface cooktop surrounded by ceramic tile.
There weren't any dirty dishes in the sink. The counter surface held a block of knives, a microwave, and a coffeemaker, but that was it. The breakfast nook at the other end of the kitchen held a white table with a ceramic tile top in a yellow-and-blue pattern, and the four chairs grouped around the table were painted the same shade of yellow, while the rug underneath was blue.
"Are you sure you weren't in the Navy?" she asked, looking around at the spotless kitchen. Navy people learned to put everything in its assigned place, because there wasn't any spare room aboard a ship.
He grinned. 'What did you expect, a pigsty? The laundry may pile up, but I'm fairly neat. I do have someone who comes in every other week and does the basic cleaning, because I don't think of things like dusting. C'mon, I'll show you the rest of the house."
The rest of the house was a half-bath next to the kitchen, two good-sized bedrooms at the front of the house, separated by a nice large bathroom, and the master bedroom and bathroom suite at the back. His bed was king-sized, but then she would have put money on that. And it was made up. The room was neat, but it wasn't spotless; one of his shirts hung over the back of a chair, and a coffee cup with an inch of cold coffee in it sat on the dresser. "So that's where I left it," he said, picking up the cup. "I looked all over for the damn thing this morning."
She liked it that he hadn't straightened up the place, not that it needed much. He didn't have to have things perfect, and he wasn't trying to impress her. Perversely, she was impressed anyway, with his confidence and sense of self.
"I don't know about you," he said, "but I'm hungry. Let's fire up the grill and get those steaks on."
The steaks were filets, two inches thick and so tender she almost didn't need a knife. While the steaks were cooking, she microwaved two potatoes, tossed the salad, and heated the rolls. Instead of wine, he produced a jug of iced tea.
If he had put on some soft, gauzy, romantic music, she might have had a chance, but instead he turned on the television to Fox News Channel and had the news playing in the background. Maybe he wasn't trying to seduce her-at least not actively trying-but he was succeeding anyway.
After they had cleaned up the few dishes and put the kitchen to rights, working quickly and easily together, he said, "I want to show you the basement. I think you'll like it."
He led the way down the stairs and turned on the bright overhead lights.
The first thing she noticed was that the walls were very utilitarian, with bare pipes against the brick. The second was that he did some serious workouts down here.
To her left was an impressive set of free weights, and a punching bag hung motionless from a beam. There was a weight machine, the type that converted to accommodate all types of exercises, and a treadmill.
He stayed by the door while she wandered over to the free weights and ran her fingers over the cold metal of the dumbbells, then examined the weight machine and the computerized treadmill. He put a good deal of effort and money into staying in shape, though she bet the treadmill was used only during really nasty weather. A little rain wouldn't keep this man indoors; it probably took a downpour with a lot of lightning to do the trick. Idly she wondered how many miles a day he ran, but what interested her the most was the large exercise mat that covered a full half of the basement floor. There was only one use for a mat like that.
She knew he'd studied karate from the way he had leveled the robber with a kick, but he'd never mentioned it again, and with everything that had happened since then, she'd forgotten about it. She wondered why he hadn't brought up the subject, since he knew she studied karate. His silence couldn't be because he was at a lower level than she; Tom Cahill didn't have a fragile ego. Quite the opposite, in fact.
"You do your karate workouts here?"
He was leaning against the doorframe, one ankle hooked over the other, his arms crossed; his eyes were lazy and hooded as he watched her. He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. "It isn't karate so much as a mixture of a lot of stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"