Sacred Sins (24 page)

“Your grandfather tells me you've been working too hard.”

“Grandpa worries too much.” She turned away to study a two-foot phallic tube that strained toward the ceiling. “But an evening here certainly takes your mind off everything else.”

“Such emotion, such insight,” a man in yellow silk bubbled to a woman in sable. “As you can see, the use of the broken light bulb symbolizes the destruction of ideas in a society that is driven toward a desert of uniformity.” Tess shifted away as the man gestured dramatically with his cigarette then glanced at the sculpture he raved about.

It had a G.E. seventy-five-watt bulb with a jagged hole just off center. The bulb was screwed into a plain wooden base of white pine. That was it, except for the fact that the little blue sticker indicated it had been sold. The price had been twelve hundred seventy-five dollars.

“Amazing,” Tess murmured, and was rewarded by a generous beam from Mr. Yellow Silk.

“It is quite innovative, isn't it?” Dean smiled down at the bulb as if he'd created it himself. “And daringly pessimistic.”

“Words escape me.”

“I know just what you mean. The first time I saw it, I was struck dumb.”

Deciding against making the obvious comment, Tess merely smiled and moved on. She could do a paper, she thought, on the psychological implications—mass hysteria—that prompted people to actually pay for esoteric junk. She stopped by a glass square that had been filled with various size and color buttons. Square, round, enameled, and cloth covered, they huddled and bumped together in the sealed box. The artist had called it “Population, 2010.” Tess figured a Girl Scout could have put it together in about three and a half hours. The price tag read a whopping seventeen hundred fifty.

With a shake of her head she started to turn back to her date, when she saw Ben. He was standing by another display, his hands in his back pockets and a look of unconcealed amusement on his face. His jacket was open. Under it he wore a plain gray sweatshirt and jeans. A woman in five-thousand-dollars worth of diamonds swept up beside him to study the same piece of sculpture. Tess saw him mumble something under his breath just before he glanced up and saw her.

They stared as people passed between them. The woman in diamonds blocked the way for a moment, but when she walked on, neither of them had moved. Tess felt something loosen inside her, then grow tight and uncomfortable again before she made herself smile at him and nod in a friendly, casual greeting.

“…don't you agree?”

“What?” She jerked herself back to Dean. “I'm sorry, my mind was wandering.”

A man who lectured hundreds of college students a year was used to being ignored. “I said, don't you think this particular sculpture shows the true conflict and eternal cycle of the man-woman relationship?”

“Hmmm.” What she saw was a jangle of copper and tin that may or may not have been welded into metallic copulation.

“I'm thinking of buying it for my office.”

“Oh.” He was a sweet and absolutely harmless English professor whose uncle played an occasional game of poker with her grandfather. Tess felt an obligation to lead him away from the sculpture, as a mother might lead a child whose allowance was hot in his hand away from a shelf of plastic, overpriced model cars. “Don't you think you should look around a bit, consider some of the other…” What did one call them? “Pieces first?”

“The stuff's selling like hotcakes. I don't want to miss out.” He glanced around the sardine-packed room then began to edge toward the owner. Greenbriar was hard to miss in an electric-blue suit with headband to match. “Excuse me, just a minute.”

“Hello, Tess.”

Cautious, calm, she looked up at Ben. The fingers around the minuscule handle of her cup dampened. Tess told herself it was the body heat in the overcrowded room.

“Hello, Ben. How are you?”

“Terrific.” He was lousy, had been lousy for exactly one week. She stood in the midst of what he considered the pomp and the pompous and looked as cool and virginal as a vase of violets among a forest of orchids. “Interesting gathering.”

“At least.” Then her gaze slid over to the woman at his side.

“Dr. Court, Trixie Lawrence.”

Trixie was an Amazon in red leather. In heeled boots, she stood an inch over Ben, with a mane of improbable red hair that exploded around her head in spikes, corkscrews, and kinks. The army of bracelets on her arm jingled as she shifted. On her left breast was a tattoo of a rose that peeked out from the low V of her vest.

“Hello.” Tess smiled and offered her hand.

“Hi. So you're a doctor?” For all her size, Trixie's voice was only a breathless squeak.

“I'm a psychiatrist.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Tess agreed as Ben made a business of clearing his throat.

Trixie took one of the quarter-sized quiches and swallowed it like an aspirin. “I had a cousin in the loony bin once. Ken Launderman. Maybe you know him.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Yeah, I guess you see a lot of people with their batteries low.”

“More or less,” Tess murmured, and glanced over at Ben. No trace of embarrassment there, she noted. He was grinning like a fool. Her own lips twitched before she lifted her cup. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

Ben rocked back on the heels of worn tennis shoes. “Just impulse. I busted Greenbriar about seven years ago. Little artistic business with checks. When he sent me the invitation, I thought I'd drop in and find out how he was doing.” He glanced over to see his host embrace the woman in diamonds. “Seems to be doing just fine.”

Tess tasted her cooling cappuccino and wondered if Ben kept on such friendly relations with everyone he'd arrested. “So, what do you think of the show?”

Ben looked over at the case of buttons. “Such blatant mediocrity, in a society that has singles' night at the supermarket, is bound to be rewarded with tremendous financial gain.” He watched the light bloom in her eyes, wishing he could touch her. Just once. Just for a moment.

“That's what makes America great.”

“You look terrific, Doc.” He yearned. It was the first time he believed he understood the true meaning of the word.

“Thanks.” With the clear-minded intensity she hadn't felt since childhood, she wished she looked terrific.

“I've never been to singles' night at the supermarket,” Trixie put in as she inhaled a plateful of quiches.

“You'll love it.” Ben's smile faded a bit when he looked over Tess's shoulder and saw the man she'd been standing with before. “Friend of yours?”

Tess turned her head, then waited until Dean worked his way through the crowd. Her neck was long, slender, circled by pearls that made her skin seem only more delicate. Ben could smell her cool, quietly sexual scent over everything else.

“Dean, I'd like you to meet Ben Paris and Trixie Lawrence. Ben's a detective with the local police.”

“Ah, one of the city's finest.” Dean gave him a hearty handshake.

The guy looked like a cover of
Gentlemen's Quarterly
and smelled like a Brut commercial. Ben had an irrational urge to grip his hand Indian-wrestle style and go a round. “You one of Tess's colleagues?”

“No, actually I'm on the staff at American University.”

College professor. It figured. Ben stuck his hands in his pockets again and took a small, telling step away from Tess. “Well, Trix and I just walked in. We haven't had a chance to absorb yet.”

“It's almost too much to take in in one evening.”
Dean cast a proprietary eye at the mangle of copper beside him. “I've just bought this piece. It's a bit risqué for my office, but I couldn't resist.”

“Yeah?” Ben looked at it, then stuck his tongue in his cheek. “You must be thrilled. I'm going to stroll around and see if I can pick up something for my den. Nice meeting you.” He slipped an arm around Trixie's sturdy waist. “See you, Doc.”

“Good night, Ben.”

I
T
was still shy of eleven when Tess stepped into her apartment alone. The headache she'd used as an excuse to cut the evening short had only been half a lie. Normally she enjoyed her occasional dates with Dean. He was an undemanding, uncomplicated man, the kind of man she deliberately dated in order to keep her personal life equally undemanding and uncomplicated. But tonight she just hadn't been able to face a late supper and discussion of nineteenth-century literature. Not after the art gallery.

Not after seeing Ben, she made herself admit, and slipped out of her shoes two feet inside the door. Whatever progress she'd made in soothing her ego and alleviating the tension since that last morning she'd seen him had been blown, quite simply, to smithereens.

So she'd start from scratch. A hot cup of tea. She took off her fur jacket and hung it in the hall closet. She'd spend the evening in bed with Kurt Vonnegut, camomile, and Beethoven. The combination would take anyone's mind off their problems.

What problems? she asked herself as she stood listening to the quiet of the apartment she came home to night after night. She had no real problems because she'd made certain she wouldn't. A nice apartment in a good neighborhood, a dependable car, a light and
consistently casual social life. That was precisely how she'd planned things.

She'd taken step A, and made certain it led to step B, and so on until she'd reached the plateau that satisfied her. She was satisfied.

She took off her earrings and dropped them on the dining room table. The sound of stone hitting wood echoed dully in the empty room. The mums she'd bought earlier in the week were beginning to go. Bronzed petals lay fading against the polished mahogany. Absently Tess picked them up. Their scent, sharp and spicy, went with her to the bedroom.

She wouldn't look at the files on her desk tonight, she told herself as she pulled down the zipper of her ivory wool dress. If she had a problem, it was that she didn't allow herself enough time. Tonight she would pamper herself, forget about the patients who would come to her office on Monday morning, forget about the clinic where she would have to face the anger and resentment of drug withdrawal two afternoons next week. She'd forget about the murder of four women. And she'd forget about Ben.

In the full-length mirror inside the closet, her reflection leaped out at her. She saw a woman of average height, slim build, in an expensive and conservatively cut ivory wool dress. A choker of three strands of pearls and a fat amethyst lay against her throat. Her hair was caught back at the temples with pearl-trimmed ivory combs. The set had been her mother's, and as quietly elegant as the senator's daughter had been.

Her mother had worn the choker as a bride. Tess had pictures in the leather-bound album she kept in her bottom dresser drawer. When the senator had given the pearls to his granddaughter on her eighteenth birthday, they had both wept. Every time Tess wore them, she felt both a pang and pride. They were a symbol of
who she was, where she had come from, and in some ways, what was expected of her.

But tonight they seemed too tight around her throat. She slipped them off, and the pearls lay cool in her hand.

Even without them the image changed little. Studying herself, she wondered why she had chosen such a simple, such a
suitable
outfit. Her closet was full of them. She turned to the side and tried to imagine how she would look in something daring or outrageous. Like red leather.

She caught herself. Shaking her head, she slipped out of the dress and reached for a padded hanger. Here she was—a grown woman, a practical, even sensible woman, a trained psychiatrist—standing in front of a mirror and imagining herself in red leather. Pitiful. What would Frank Fuller say if she went to him for analysis?

Grateful she could still laugh at herself, she reached for her warm, floor-length chenille robe. On impulse she bypassed it and took out a flowered silk kimono. A gift, rarely worn. Tonight she was going to pamper herself, silk against her skin, classical music, and it would be wine not tea she took to bed with her.

Tess put the choker on her dresser then pulled out the combs and lay them beside it. She turned down the bed and fluffed the pillows in anticipation. Another impulse had her lighting the scented candles beside her bed. She drew in a whiff of vanilla before she headed toward the kitchen.

The phone stopped her. Tess sent it an accusing glance, but went to her desk and picked it up on the third ring.

“Hello.”

“You weren't home. I've waited such a long time, and you weren't home.”

She recognized the voice. He'd called her before, at
her office on Thursday. The thought of a self-indulgent evening at home slipped away as she picked up a pencil. “You wanted to talk to me. We didn't finish talking before, did we?”

“It's wrong for me to talk.” She heard him draw in a painful breath. “But I need…”

“It's never wrong to talk,” she said soothingly. “I can try to help you.”

“You weren't there. That night you never came, you never came home. I waited. I watched for you.”

Her head jerked up so that her gaze was frozen to the dark window beyond her desk. Watched. She shivered, but deliberately moved closer to look out at the empty street. “You watched for me?”