“I never claimed there was anything supernatural about it.”
“Absolutely fascinated.”
“Well, it was an incredible murder. The killer was so bold. The room
was dark, sure, but there were eight people present when the shot was
fired.”
“But it wasn’t the facts of the case that fascinated you the most,”
Rebecca said. “It was the medium that interested you. That Mrs.
Donatella with her crystal ball. You couldn’t get enough of her ghost
stories, her so-called psychic experiences.”
“So?”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Jack?”
“You mean, do I believe in an afterlife?”
“Ghosts.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say?”
“I can say. I don’t believe in ghosts. But your equivocation proves my
point.”
“Rebecca, there are millions of perfectly sane, respectable,
intelligent, level-headed people who believe in life after death.”
“A detective’s a lot like a scientist,” she said. “He’s got to be
logical.”
“He doesn’t have to be an atheist, for God’s sake!”
Ignoring him, she said, “Logic is the best tool we have.”
“All I’m saying is that we’re on to something strange.
And since the brother of one of the victims thinks voodoo is involved-”
“A good detective has to be reasonable, methodical.”
“-we should follow it up even if it seems ridiculous.”
“A good detective has to be tough-minded, realistic.”
“A good detective also has to be imaginative, flexible,” he countered.
Then, abruptly changing the subject, he said, “Rebecca, what about last
night?”
Her face reddened. She said, “Let’s go have a talk with the Parker
woman,” and she started to turn away from him.
He took hold of her arm, stopped her. “I thought something very special
happened last night.”
She said nothing.
“Did I just imagine it?” he asked.
“Let’s not talk about it now.”
“Was it really awful for you?”
“Later,” she said.
“Why’re you treating me like this?”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes; that was unusual for her.
“It’s complicated, Jack.”
“I think we’ve got to talk about it.”
“Later,” she said. “Please.”
“When?”
“When we have the time.”
“When will that be?” he persisted.
“If we have time for lunch, we can talk about it then.”
“We’ll make time.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, wewill.”
“Now, we’ve got work to do,” she said, pulling away from him.
He let her go this time.
She headed toward the living room, where Shelly Parker waited.
He followed her, wondering what he’d gotten himself into when he’d
become intimately involved with this exasperating woman. Maybe she was
a nut case herself.
Maybe she wasn’t worth all the aggravation she caused him. Maybe she
would bring him nothing but pain, and maybe he would come to regret the
day he’d met her. At times, she certainly seemed neurotic. Better to
stay away from her. The smartest thing he could do was call it quits
right now. He could ask for a new partner, perhaps even transfer out of
the Homicide Division; he was tired of dealing with death all the time,
anyway. He and Rebecca should split, go their separate ways both
personally and professionally, before they got too tangled up with each
other. Yes, that was for the best. That was what he should do.
But as Nevetski would say: Like hell.
He wasn’t going to put in a request for a new partner.
He wasn’t a quitter.
Besides, he thought maybe he was in love.
At fifty-eight, Nayva Rooney looked like a grandmother but moved like a
dockworker. She kept her gray hair in tight curls. Her round, pink,
friendly face had bold rather than delicate features, and her merry blue
eyes were never evasive, always warm. She was a stocky woman but not
fat. Her hands weren’t smooth, soft, grandmotherly hands; they were
strong, quick, efficient, with no trace of either the pampered life or
arthritis, but with a few callouses. When Nayva walked, she looked as
if nothing could stand in her way, not other people and not even brick
walls; there was nothing dainty or graceful or even particularly
feminine about her walk; she strode from place to place in the manner of
a no-nonsense army sergeant.
Nayva had been cleaning the apartment for Jack Dawson since shortly