Dead by Wednesday. Beverly Long

arms but he hadn’t been able to. What the hell did that mean?

      So, he’d made sure she got inside safely and he’d gone home. He’d gone to bed thinking about her, had dreamed about her, and when he’d gotten out of bed at the crack of dawn, he’d known that he was going to be waiting in that coffee shop.

      Good instincts. That’s what his boss had written on his last performance appraisal. Robert liked to think that he listened to his gut. And his gut had been telling him to be there.

      Those instincts had been front and center when he’d pushed for the invitation to have dinner tonight with Carmen and Raoul. And he’d been happy when she’d finally said yes, insisting that she would cook.

      But for some reason, he didn’t feel inclined to share that information with Sawyer. “What’s the plan today?” Robert asked.

      “More knocking on doors. Somebody saw something.”

      “Maybe not. The body was found early Wednesday morning. It was below zero on Tuesday night. There probably weren’t that many people out and about after midnight, not like they would have been on a summer evening.”

      “Well, we have to hope somebody was taking their dog out, or maybe they made an emergency run for cigarettes. We need a witness,” Sawyer said.

      They needed something. Right now, Robert would settle for some old-fashioned luck.

      * * *

      WHEN RAOUL UNLOCKED the apartment door, he could smell the sauce. Something else, too. Something chocolate.

      “Raoul,” his sister greeted him. She pinched his cheek as he walked past. “How was band practice?”

      “Okay,” Raoul said, leaning his trombone case up against the counter. “Some girl who plays the flute had a meltdown. We had to stay late to make up the time.”

      “No problem. I’m running behind, too.”

      “Something smells good,” he said. He started to reach for the brownie pan.

      She stuck out her wooden spoon and tapped his hand. “You have to wait. It’s for dessert.”

      “You never make dessert.”

      She shrugged. “We’re having company.”

      They never had company. Well, almost never. Sometimes Old Lady Curtiss from down the hall ate with them. She smelled like lilacs and cough medicine.

      “An acquaintance I met through work,” Carmen said.

      “Who?”

      She turned her back to him and stirred the sauce. “His name is Robert Hanson.”

      A man? The only man at OCM was Jamison, his sister’s boss. “What does he do there?”

      “He’s a police officer. A detective. You might remember him from Liz and Sawyer’s wedding. He was the best man.”

      “Oh, yeah. He gave a funny speech at the reception.”

      “Yes, that’s him.”

      “Why is a cop coming for dinner?” He walked around to the other side of the stove so that he could see her face.

      “Because I asked him to. He’s been helpful with a situation at work and I thought it would be nice if I fixed him dinner.” She looked at her watch, then at the clock on the wall. “Shoot. I’ve got to get dressed. He’ll be here any minute.” She thrust the spoon in his hand. “Keep stirring.”

      She left the room as Raoul dropped the spoon in the sauce and watched it sink to the bottom.

      * * *

      ROBERT JUGGLED WINE, bread and a bouquet of fresh flowers as he walked up the apartment stairs. He stood outside the door and tried to remember that he’d probably gone to dinner at some woman’s house at least a hundred times before.

      But Carmen wasn’t just some woman. She was Liz Montgomery’s best friend, for one thing. She was totally hot for another. And when she smiled, it seemed as if the world suddenly became a better place.

      Damn. He should take up writing greeting cards.

      He’d worried that he might be late. His mother had called just as he’d walked into the florist. He’d stepped outside the small shop and stood in the cold so that he could have some privacy. It had been a short conversation. She’d apologized for bothering him, he assured her it was no bother, and then she’d dropped what might have been a zinger if he hadn’t been waiting for the call for some time. Normie is leaving.

      He’d promised to stop over the following night. That had seemed to make her happy. It was a pattern of behavior they’d perfected over the years.

      He’d hung up, bought his flowers and here he was. He glanced at his watch. One minute early.

      He kicked the bottom of the door with the toe of his shoe, then stepped back so that he could be seen through the peephole. He smiled and held up the loot. The door opened. A young Hispanic boy, dark and fine-boned like his sister, stood there. He was holding a fat orange cat.

      “I’m Robert,” he said. “You must be Raoul.”

      The boy didn’t say yes or no. He simply stepped aside and motioned him in. “Carmen’s changing her clothes.”

      “No problem. Where should I put this?”

      Raoul pointed to the counter. The cat squirmed in his arms and he immediately bent down and placed her gently on the floor.

      Robert bent down to scratch her head but she skirted away. Okay. The cat and the kid had the same sort of attitude.

      Robert watched the boy walk over to the stove, immediately noting the limp, as though his right leg might be just a bit shorter than his left.

      “I hear you play the trombone.” Robert leaned against the counter.

      “That’s right,” Raoul said. The kid took tongs and dug a spoon out of the sauce.

      “Where do you go to school?”

      “Mahoney High.”

      “Really? That’s pretty far from here. How come you don’t go to a neighborhood school?”

      “Because I won’t let him.”

      Robert whirled around. Carmen stood in the doorway. She wore a white sweater and a black skirt. It wasn’t short, but tight enough to be very interesting. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in a haphazard sort of fashion.

      He was struck again by how small she was. She couldn’t have been more than five-three and a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. Not his type at all.

      Why was his heart pounding as if he was at the end of a 5K?

      “Mahoney High School,” she said, as she walked over to the stove and sniffed the sauce, “graduates more than eighty percent of the students who start there as freshman. That’s almost twice as good as some of the neighborhood schools.”

      “Did you go there?” Robert asked, handing her the wine.

      She shook her head. “No. I did the neighborhood thing.”

      “Looks like you turned out okay.”

      She shrugged. “Looks can be deceiving.”

      He started to make some quip about liking bad girls, but in deference to Raoul, he kept it to himself. “Should I slice the bread?” he asked.

      She nodded, handed him a knife and pointed toward a wooden cutting board on the counter. “The flowers are beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

      Her tone was almost wary, and he wondered if he’d gone too far. “It’s January,” he said. “We should grasp on to every sign of spring we can.”

      She smiled. “You’re right. At lunch