Sam nodded, but gestured to the elevators. “Let’s go upstairs where it’s warmer, and I’ll tell McCord at the same time I tell you two.”
“McCord already left,” Shrader told her. “He had appointments.”
“With who?” Sam said, too disappointed to hide it.
“I don’t know, but his schedule’s on his desk, where it always is. He left a note on your phone. What did you get from Valente?.”
Sam told them what she’d learned, but the information lost much of its significance in the middle of the noisy, bustling first floor, where the facts and timing couldn’t be put into proper context, analyzed, and fully evaluated.
Shrader’s reaction was understandably noncommittal. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe he paid somebody to do the deed?” Distracted, he looked at his watch. “Womack and I are going to start checking out Solomon and his boyfriend. See you in the morning.”
Frustrated at having to wait to talk to McCord, Sam jogged up the stairs to the third floor and went to her desk. He’d been so upset about mishandling Valente’s interview himself that she couldn’t believe he hadn’t waited around to hear what she might have learned. On the other hand, McCord always kept his appointments and he expected everyone else to keep theirs.
Propped against her telephone was a folded note with her name written on it in his now-familiar handwriting. He had a remarkably legible handwriting for a man, Sam thought fondly—and then she remembered the astonishing thing he’d said to her on the way to the interview room this morning. In the uproar, she’d completely forgotten he’d been jealous of Valente and she’d been unable to bear that. She remembered the scene now though, in every poignant detail, right down to the knowing half-smile on his handsome lips as he said,
“;I think we got through our first lovers’ quarrel pretty well, don’t you?”
Sam’s heart did a swift little quickstep at the memory, so she firmly set the memory aside. She was not going down that path with Mitchell McCord—at least no farther down that path.
Calmly, she opened his note.
Sam—
In my center desk drawer is the file with notes from my interview with Valente this morning. Since you aren’t back yet, I assume you talked to him. Add your own notes to mine, while they’re fresh in your mind. I’ll be back by 5:30. We’ll talk then if I haven’t already reached you by phone.
Mack
He’d signed his note with his nickname for the first time, and Sam’s entire nervous system suffered a momentary meltdown. As far as she knew, very few people felt entitled to use that nickname. The mayor had called him “Mack” one day when he stopped by during a strategy meeting; Dr. Niles, the chief medical examiner, called him “Mack”; and so had his sister when she gave Sam a message for him one day. Everyone else called him “Lieutenant,” which was respectful and appropriate.
Sam was not a relative of his, or a friend of longstanding, or a political leader. If she were to use his nickname, she would be assuming a relaxed, easy familiarity with him that she did not have. Sam wasn’t certain if he, by signing his nickname, was subtly telling her she could have that familiarity with him. Or . . . should have it? Or . . . already had it?
Sam shook her head, trying to clear it, and headed for his office. The man was driving her crazy. He was assuming a relationship that did not exist, and then he was making her react as if it did. This morning, he’d looked at her with irate, narrowed blue eyes because he was jealous, but he had no right to be jealous, and she had no reason to melt with regret for making him jealous.
The problem, as she saw it, was that McCord was so beguilingly subtle, so brilliantly nonchalant, and so smoothly indomitable, that she never quite realized he was leading her onto very shaky ground until she was already there.
Sam had been having a recurring vision of herself being led docilely along a path through the woods, attached to McCord by a gossamer thread she couldn’t see or feel, and while she was looking around, admiring the flowers—and his muscular back and narrow hips—she was going to step off a cliff into thin air.
Inside his office, Sam studied his “desk calendar,” which was actually an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven spiral-bound daily planner with a full page allocated for each day. Thinking he might be able to return sooner than he’d written in his note, she looked at the crowded afternoon he’d scheduled.
His mornings were usually blocked out for whatever work he could accomplish in his office, by phone or computer, and for the intensive meetings he held with Sam, Womack, and Shrader.
Afternoons were set aside for appointments, interviews, and whatever legwork he wanted to do. McCord handled departmental and administrative business by telephone, but he did almost everything else face-to-face, which required an astonishing amount of legwork.
He’d mentioned yesterday that he’d made arrangements to meet with every law enforcement official he could find who’d ever dealt with Valente on a personal basis, and as Sam ran her finger down his list of appointments, she could see that he’d started that process. Four consecutive afternoons were covered with them, starting at noon today with Duane Kraits, the arresting officer who’d successfully busted Valente on the manslaughter charge.
McCord was particularly interested in that case for the same reason Sam had been: It involved Valente’s only violent crime, and it was the single instance where the charges against him had stuck. As Sam looked at McCord’s busy afternoon schedule, she realized there was no way he would finish up and be back before five-thirty.
Disappointed, she sat down on the swivel chair behind his desk, opened his center drawer, and took out Valente’s file. She made a few appropriate notes in it, but when she finished and slid the file back into McCord’s desk, she felt curiously deflated.
Standing up, she looked around at his clean, neat office while she trailed her fingertips over the desk where he sat and wrote his copious notes. She’d joked about his compulsion for order in the beginning, but the truth was, she really liked his neat office and organized habits.
She’d grown up with six brothers, and until she was a teenager, she hadn’t been able to walk through the family room without being hit by a throw pillow—usually a barrage of throw pillows, coming at her from different directions.
Her brothers had contests to see which one of them could be the most disgusting. If Sam’s parents weren’t there, they had belching contests at dinner. And—oh, God—the farting contests!
They kicked off their raunchy sneakers in the utility room when they came home, and no gymnasium on earth could smell as bad as that room did. And their gym socks were not to be believed. When they sat around watching television in their stocking feet, the odor made Sam’s eyes sting and water. She complained about it only once, when she was eight years old. The next morning, when she woke up, her pillows were covered in smelly gym socks.
She learned early to pretend she didn’t notice things, because if the boys knew something grossed her out, they would find a way to torture her with it.
When she was little, they seemed to regard her as an animated, talking toy with multiple uses. If they played baseball in the vacant lot next door, they stood her in the outfield—holding her doll—and she was their designated “home run line.” During backyard football practice, Brian and Tom had her hold up her arms like a goalpost while they kicked field goals at her.
They would have killed anyone who tried to hurt her, but at the same time, they teased her constantly and played endless jokes on her that weren’t always funny.
Sam’s father thought boys who were jocks should be allowed to be incredibly sloppy and unruly, but then what else would you expect from a man whose children called him “Coach,” instead of “Dad”? The family housekeepers, of which there had been an army, never lasted more than a year.
Sam’s mother disagreed with her husband about many of the things the boys were allowed to do, but she was outnumbered, and besides—she doted on him and on all her children.
McCord’s
neatness suited Sam just fine, she realized, walking out of his office and then turning in the doorway for one last, unconsciously tender look around. The truth was, everything about Mitchell McCord suited her. Even his nickname had a pleasing ring to it.
By the time she reached her own desk, she realized she was hungry and restless, and she really needed to get away for a little while.
Regular working hours for detectives on the day tour were from eight A.M. to four P.M., but Shrader, Womack, and she had been working late nearly every night and coming in on the weekends. Sam already knew she’d be working late tonight again, since McCord wasn’t due back until five-thirty. She’d more than earned the right to take a few hours off now as “lost time.”
Picking up her purse, she pulled on her jacket, and decided to go to Bergdorf’s after-Christmas sale.
She checked her cell phone to be sure it was on and slipped it back in her shoulder bag. McCord was predictable and adhered to his schedule, so she didn’t have to worry about being back here until five-thirty.
AT THREE O’CLOCK, Sam was on her way into a dressing room to try on a fabulous little cranberry knit dress and jacket, when her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and was surprised to see Mack’s office phone number flashing on her caller identification screen. She was even more surprised by the terse, ominous sound of his voice. “Where the hell are you?”
“I decided to take a few hours of lost time. I’m in midtown—at Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue,” she said.
“You just went back on duty. Get over here.”