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  “You play rough, Anthony.”

  “Homicide is a rough line of work.”

  “Nettie’s husband was a violent, abusive alcoholic who didn’t even have the courtesy to lay down and die when he should have.”

  “From what I was told, I believe that’s all true.”

  “Thanks.” Randi took another sip of her wine.

  “Then we’ll leave Nettie Sisson alone for a minute,” he said. “How about we get back to Elizabeth’s book?”

  “I’ve been wondering when we would.”

  “You probably know all the players she mentions, or most of them anyway. Maybe you could have a look, let us know whether you believe the stories are real or fantasy. Might actually jog your own thinking some.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know a woman named Celia?”

  Randi shook her head. “I don’t think so. You have a last name?”

  “Wish I did. It’s in one of the chapters there.” He smiled. “She’s not one of your patients you’re not telling me about?”

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  “Depends what I’m after.”

  “So what are you really after here?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Elizabeth’s murderer.”

  “For one thing,” he said, holding her gaze for a moment.

  “What else are you after?”

  He hesitated, then broke into an embarrassed smile. “More wine?”

  “I thought only psychologists are supposed to answer a question with another question.”

  He picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. “What was the question?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Are you asking me to read her diary?”

  “I would like you to.”

  “All right.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  “Let me read it first.”

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  As they finished their meal he asked her why she chose to live in the suburbs. “I told you how I got here,” he said. “But you’re an attractive single woman. Assuming you haven’t given up on finding a new relationship, what’s the point of living in the midst of all these married couples.”

  “And divorcees,” she reminded him.

  “Well good,” he said with a grin, “if you’re after a divorcee, that makes me a candidate.”

  She wiped her lips with the paper napkin, placed it on the table and said, “It’s late, I really should go.”

  “No dessert?”

  Randi laughed. “I generally don’t have dessert after breakfast. Anyway, it’s been a long day.”

  She stood, leaving Walker no choice but to get up too.

  “Let me help you clean up,” she said as she picked up her dish.

  “No, it’s okay. Gives me something to do.” He fumbled for the right words, then settled on the truth. “I wish you weren’t leaving so soon.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice. “I should go.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  They were face-to-face now. “Your, uh, sweatshirt, I . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “Actually, don’t worry about anything.” He picked up the brown envelope and handed it to her. “This copy is for you. It’s highly confidential, of course. Please don’t let anyone else see it, and get it back to me when you’re done.”

  She looked down at it, feeling guilty for not telling him about the notes.

  He said, “I think you owe it to yourself to read this.”

  It seemed to her an odd thing for him to say, but she let it go.

  When he walked her to her car they found the rain had stopped and the dark sky was clearing in the moonlight.

  He said, “Maybe we can do this some other time, without the interruptions.”

  Randi hesitated before saying, “You know, I think I’d like that.”

  Walker laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

  She tossed her damp blouse in the back seat and got in her sedan, the envelope in hand. She started the engine and rolled down the window. “Next time, I won’t have to wear the sweatshirt, will I?”

  He smiled. “You know, maybe you’re not as edgy as I thought.”

  She nodded, waiting.

  “But you definitely have a quality,” he said.

  “A quality? Now there’s a neutral review if ever I heard one.”

  “No, no, I mean a good quality.”

  “When you figure out what it is, you be sure to let me know.”

  He began to say something, but she just smiled and pulled away before he could answer.

  As Walker trudged back to his apartment he shook his head and said, “Damn,” out loud.

  “Is that you Anthony?” Mrs. Shapiro called from inside.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  Walker told her he was fine, bid the old woman good night again, and headed back up the stairs. He opened the door and had a look around his empty apartment, then switched on the television to see what happened in the Yankee game as he went about clearing the table.

  CHAPTER 23

  The next morning, Mitchell Avery was going to leave town whether his wife liked it or not. He had traveled on business trips for years. Joan should have gotten used to it by now. Instead, she seemed to be complaining more than ever.

  Before he left for the airport, she decided this was the moment to remind him again that he was not doing his fair share in raising their children, that he needed to devote more time to their upbringing.

  “When was the last time you helped any of them with their homework? Or asked what they were doing in school? Or looked at one of their book reports or science projects? Why should the entire responsibility fall on my shoulders?”

  Mitchell decided to take a pass on her inquisition. He said that he loved his children. He reminded her that he took them on trips and bought them things, although at the moment he could not recall which trips and what things. He told her that he felt all of the appropriate paternal feelings he should feel toward his son and daughter. He believed in quality time, not quantity of time.

  Joan laughed in his face. “Name any of the children’s teachers.”

  He responded with an angry glare.

  “Go ahead, Mitchell, take a guess what grades they’re in.”

  At least he got that one right.

  Then she mentioned Kyle. Not “the children” this time, but Kyle. “You think I don’t know?” she asked angrily. “You think I’m a fool?”

  He assured her he did not think her a fool, but that was as far into the topic as he was willing to delve.

  “You can’t run away from the dangers here, Mitchell. You can’t run away from the possibility . . .”

  But he cut her off. He told her there was no real danger, and that they had time to deal with the problem.

  “No,” Joan told him, “the dangers are real and the time is irreplaceable.” She told him to save the nonsense about quality time for his sessions with Dr. Conway and his comrades in group therapy. His son needed him and, by the way, so did she.

  “We need you at home, not off on some boondoggle playing golf or sitting watching baseball and football games at the country club. And when you are home, we don’t want you reading business reports or napping in front of the television. We want you fully engaged with us, we want you to be part of this family.”

  Jesus, thought Avery as she went on and on, what the hell does the woman expect from me? I earn a great living. My family lives a comfortable life. We live in a wonderful house, travel everywhere, buy everything we need. What am I supposed to do? Sit around the living room with the kids and have discussions about video games and the problems in the Middle East? I work my ass off most days. Am I supposed to come home from the office and then act like I’m some stay-at-home father from a fifties sitcom? Where the hell is this woman coming from?

  But he knew exactly where
she was coming from. He knew this had nothing to do with his children and nothing to do with the time they spent together. This was about the trip he was taking this morning, telling her he would be spending two days at business meetings in Nashville, knowing he was lying.

  He marveled at her ability to sense these things, even though there was no way she could possibly know that he would actually be spending those two days in Miami. For Joan, it was enough that she suspected the truth, because at this point she trusted her instincts far more than she trusted him.

  And yet, even after all this time, and all this therapy, and all the guilt and tears and arguments, and all the rest of it—even now the affair was too sweet, too great a temptation for him to resist. And this time he was certain there was no risk of Joan finding out again, because this time he was going to be especially careful.

  So, when she finally began to run out of steam and stopped ranting at him, Mitchell told her that he loved her, making the statement with all the sincerity of a used-car salesman, went downstairs to bid his children good-bye, and set off for the airport.

  Later that day, when his plane was supposed to be landing in Tennessee, he actually arrived at Miami International. He decided to call home at once, get that part of the program out of the way. He walked into the main terminal, took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hello Mitchell,” his wife said.

  “The kids okay?”

  “Fine. Where are you? It’s noisy, I can barely hear you.”

  “I’m in the airport at Nashville,” he said. “Just got in.”

  Joan could hear the garbled sound of various announcements and boarding calls in the background. “Oh,” she said.

  “I’m looking for my contact here. He’s going to pick me up. I’m not sure where I’ll wind up today, so I figured I’d call you now, before things get too hectic.”

  The public address system behind his voice was becoming more distinct to her.

  “You know how it goes with these deals,” he said, oblivious to the loudspeaker that announced arrivals and departures in the background.

  Joan nodded at the phone. The words coming from behind him were unmistakable now.

  “Look, I’ll call you when I get settled somewhere. I should wrap this up and be home on the early flight day after tomorrow.”

  “All right,” she said numbly.

  “Love you,” he said.

  Joan only said, “Good-bye,” and hung up, but the words still echoed in her head. The first time she thought it was her imagination. The second time it was clear. The loudspeakers inside the terminal had been shouting it out, as if wanting to be sure that she heard. She could not even draw a deep breath, the pressure in her chest was so painful. All she could do was listen to the words echoing in her brain.

  “Welcome to Miami International Airport. Baggage claim is located on level . . .”

  CHAPTER 24

  Randi Conway spent her Sunday reading SEXUAL RITES. One chapter after another leapt off the pages. As Walker predicted, she certainly knew the players. She was familiar with their descriptions, and too many of the incidents.

  She also knew this was no fantasy, this was a catalog of Elizabeth Knoebel’s predatory conquests, narrated with a cynicism Randi recognized as Elizabeth’s true voice.

  Yet, among all of these graphic anecdotes and derisive musings about men and women, there was one chapter that left her trembling with rage.

  SEXUAL RITES

  By Elizabeth Knoebel

  Notes for Chapter 11

  I was in New York City one evening after attending a seminar at the Hilton. I met him after the last lecture, in the hotel bar. He was having a cocktail with another man. I stood there, looking around for a colleague. He asked if I needed help. I told him a girlfriend was supposed to be meeting me, but it appeared she had changed her plans. He offered to buy me a drink but I refused. Then, after he insisted, I reluctantly accepted.

  We eased into a conversation, and he asked me what I did.

  “I’m a therapist,” I told him.

  “What kind?”

  “Private and group counseling.”

  “Marriages? Divorces?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Marriage,” he said with a wry smile. “An imperfect condition, even in the best of circumstances, which I guess is good for your business.”

  I suggested he might be in need of some therapy, not to mention an original thought.

  “That’s cold,” he said with a grin, but told me he would consider therapy if I would stay for another drink.

  I told him I had to leave.

  “Now I’m the one who’s being stranded,” he said. He pointed out that his friend had already gone on his way. Then he called to the bartender.

  “I’ll stay another minute,” I told him, “but I’m not so sure about a second drink.”

  “You’re a careful woman, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re very inquisitive.”

  “Maybe. If I become too inquisitive, let me know.”

  “I think I already have,” I told him.

  I was handed a second vodka tonic.

  He was comfortable with himself, a handsome man with dark hair, blue eyes and a determined look that told me he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  After the drinks at the bar, we had dinner. Later we went to a club where the band played jazz on a small stage that looked out into a dark room. He asked for a table in the rear where there was less of a crowd and the music was not as intrusive. I excused myself to visit the ladies’ room. He said he would order cocktails for us. He told me he would choose “something special.”

  I returned and, after a few sips of the fruity drinks he had selected, I began to feel far more intoxicated than I had earlier.

  “This is strong,” I told him.

  He nodded his agreement and said, “Good.”

  He told me he was from Boston, in town for a few days on business.

  I told him I was single, but I don’t recall if I told him that I lived in Connecticut. I do remember admitting that I was already in no condition to drive home that night.

  Later, seated side by side on a banquette in the rear of the jazz club, he leaned toward me and we kissed. I felt no inhibitions about embracing in public that way, which is quite unusual for me. I was overcome by a sense of relaxation that was mixed with confusion. I was also feeling extremely aroused.

  We ended up back in his hotel room, although I was not able to recall how we got there.

  He ordered champagne, even though the additional wine was unnecessary. I recall the bottle in a frosty silver ice bucket on the credenza. I can still see him tearing off the foil and using his thumbs to work the cork free, sending it bouncing off the ceiling before it fell to the floor. The frothy wine spilled over the neck of the bottle as he lifted it and poured my glass full. I only took a sip, barely able to stand now, almost dropping the glass. He took it from me and placed it on the nightstand. Then he took me in his arms.

  He kissed me gently at first, the tart flavor of the wine on our lips. We were standing in the middle of the room, the lights soft, the quiet strains of music coming from somewhere I could not identify.

  I remember laughing, then falling sideways onto the bed.

  He began to undress me, unbuttoning the front of my chiffon blouse, his hands reaching in to feel my breasts. He lowered his head to kiss them, then gently bit at them. He stopped to unbuckle his belt, undoing his pants and letting them drop to his ankles and kicking them away. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. All I could do was lie there on the bed and watch, feeling as if any sense of self-restraint had somehow vanished.

  He finished opening my blouse, then slipped off my skirt. His hands moved up and down, massaging my breasts, stroking my skin. I was wearing nothing now but filmy, white satin tap pants, and he reached down and caressed my ass underneath the silky panties, then pulled those of
f too.

  He slowly brought his palms along the inside of my thighs, running up and down, repeating the motion again and again. I grew wetter under his touch as he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, his bare chest pressed against the softness of my breasts.

  I felt as if I could not move.

  My desire was mixed with the muddled notion that I had abandoned my own instincts. His tongue found its way down my breasts and across the flat of my stomach. Then he shoved his fingers inside my pussy, not tenderly now but with force, and roughly stuck a finger up my ass.

  It was as if he had become a different person, but I felt detached from the event, as if all I could do was observe it from somewhere above.

  He pushed me on my side, one hand still jammed inside me, and began using the flat palm of his other hand to slap my bottom. He hit me harder and harder, the smacks against my fleshy ass stinging as they became more forceful. When he returned his attention to my breasts, he was no longer gentle with his touch. He squeezed my nipples between his strong fingers until I uttered a ­distant-sounding scream. He told me to shut up and, when I didn’t, he slapped me across my face several times, hard enough to make my jaw ache.

  I lay there helplessly as he pushed me onto my back and climbed on top of me, grabbing me by the hips and lifting me to him. He forced himself into me, jamming his cock in as hard as he could, the pain making me cry out again. I began to sob but he ignored my tears, rocking back and forth and thrusting with an angry energy. Then he abruptly stopped, pulled away, and forced me onto my stomach. I remember him binding my hands behind my back, perhaps with his necktie, I could not see. Then I felt a searing pain as he rammed his way into my ass.

  He held my arms tight as he fucked me from behind. I wanted to scream, but my face was pressed to the bed. All I could do was weep uncontrollably as he heaved and groaned until he was spent, then collapsed onto me with all of his weight.

  Even when he was done, I could not move. It was late, I had too much to drink, and I had too much of whatever he had slipped into my cocktail at the jazz club. Soon I fell into an uncomfortable and fitful sleep.

  When I awoke in the hotel room early the next morning, he was gone. As I began to recall what I could of the brutal night, I dragged myself out of bed. I was so sore that I limped as I walked to the bathroom. There were black-and-blue marks on my ass and neck and breasts. My wrists were sore. My jaw was swollen and bruised.