Dead by Wednesday. Beverly Long

liked seeing his coat next to hers.

      He picked up the wine and followed Liz into the family room. Like any good cop, he took in the details quickly. Fireplace was lit. Soft jazz played in the background. Catherine lay on her back, on the very nice rug that had been one of Liz’s contributions to the house. Both plump little legs were moving, as if she were pedaling an invisible bicycle. Sawyer was stretched out next to her.

      Carmen was sitting in the chair, leaning forward, looking at the baby. The light from the fireplace cast a soft glow around her. She wore a red sweater and black slacks. Her long dark hair flowed over her shoulders.

      She was beautiful.

      And when she turned, he saw that she wasn’t surprised to see him. Her face was composed, polite. And he should have felt much the same. After all, he’d known that she was going to be here. That was why he’d wheedled an invitation with some crazy excuse that he was interested in paint. Paint, for God’s sake. It was ridiculous.

      And it was pretty damn ridiculous, too, that just looking at Carmen made him feel short of breath and a little unsteady on his feet.

      “Hi,” she said.

      “Hi,” he managed.

      Sawyer sat up. “Cold beer in the fridge.”

      Robert nodded. “I’ll stick with this,” he said, holding up the wine. He looked at Carmen. “Can I get you a glass?”

      She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

      Liz reached for the wine. “I’ll get some for both of you. I need to check the pizza anyway. We put it in the oven to keep it hot.” She took a step. “Have a seat, Robert,” she said gently.

      He sat. And felt like an awkward sixteen-year-old at his first prom. His shirt felt too tight and his heart was racing in his chest.

      The only noise in the room was Catherine’s happy squeals. Carmen stared at the fire. He stared at the antique umbrella stand in the corner of the room.

      Sawyer looked from Carmen to him and back again. Finally, his friend sprang to his feet. He reached for Catherine and cupped her in the crook of his elbow. “Liz probably needs my help in the kitchen,” he said as he left the room.

      Now there was just silence.

      Sawyer had probably been gone for less than a minute when Carmen turned her head. “I don’t think Liz really needs his help.”

      He relaxed. “Maybe if we were having grits and chicken-fried steak.”

      “Ugh,” she said with a smile that made her even prettier. “I’d suddenly have to run an errand.”

      “I’d drive you,” he said. “Although to be fair, the man makes a great gumbo. He brought some into work one day, and it made me nostalgic for my last trip to the French Quarter.”

      “I think I’d love New Orleans,” she said. “Maybe someday.”

      The kitchen door swung open, and Liz emerged holding two wineglasses. “Follow me,” she said, leading them to the dining room. There was a huge pizza in the middle of the table with a big bowl of salad next to it. Sawyer was clipping Catherine’s high-chair tray on.

      They sat, and Catherine immediately started squealing and pounding her plump fists on the high-chair tray. Liz smiled apologetically. “Sorry. This is the kind of ambience we have now.”

      Robert dished out a slice of pizza and handed it to Carmen. “No problem. Table manners like her father.”

      They were done with their pizza and cutting into the cheesecake that Carmen had picked up at the bakery after work when Robert’s phone buzzed with an incoming text message. He glanced at it, shook his head and turned his phone upside down on the table. “Sorry about that,” he said.

      “Bad news?” Liz asked.

      “A reporter from the newspaper,” he explained. “She’s evidently not getting enough of a story from Blaze and Wasimole, so she tracked me down. I imagine she got the number from one of the people we talked to today. We generally leave a card in case they think of something that might be helpful.”

      “These killings are the only thing the local talk show hosts were discussing today,” Liz said. “It’s getting very scary.”

      It was horrible, thought Carmen. With Raoul being about the same age as the other victims, it made her sick to hear people talking about the stories. Her heart ached for the terrible loss that the families had suffered, for the pain the boys had endured. “I didn’t know if I should say anything to Raoul,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to scare him unnecessarily but I also didn’t want him to be naive.”

      “Where did you land on it?” Robert asked.

      “I left the newspaper on the table one morning, folded so that he could easily see the headline. He read the story and that gave me the opportunity I was waiting for. I tried to gently suggest that it was important to be careful, to always be watching.”

      “What did he say?” Liz asked.

      Carmen rolled her eyes. “He said, and I quote, ‘Sis. There are three million people in the city of Chicago. Eight million if you count the suburbs. I don’t think anybody is looking for me.’ I didn’t push it. I’m crazy enough about other things, like brushed teeth and pants that stay up around his waist.”

      “Raoul’s such a smart kid. You didn’t need to say anything else,” Liz said. “He gets it.”

      “Yeah, and we’re going to get this guy,” Sawyer said, his tone confident. “He’s going to make a mistake. In fact, he already has.”

      “What’s that?” Liz asked.

      “He mutilates and suffocates his victims. That’s been reported in the press. What hasn’t been reported is that the victims have all been found with red handkerchiefs in their mouths. We’ve been successful in keeping that out of the press. But that shows an arrogance on his part—that he’s so confident that he won’t be caught that he can afford to leave clues at the scene. Arrogance makes criminals sloppy.”

      “Can you trace the handkerchiefs?” Carmen asked.

      “We’ve tried. No luck so far,” Robert said. “They’re sold in a bunch of stores. But something will break, soon. It has to.” He leaned across the table and tickled Catherine’s belly. “Right, darling?”

      She giggled, breaking the tension at the table.

      Carmen felt more relaxed than she had in months. That wasn’t how she’d expected the evening to go. She’d gotten to Liz’s house and her friend had quickly pulled her aside. Sawyer just told me he invited Robert, too. Are you okay with that?

      Heck no, she wasn’t okay with that. She’d met Robert Hanson just weeks before Catherine was born, when Catherine’s mother was kidnapped by a gang leader who wanted to steal the baby. Robert had been a little brash, maybe even a little cocky, but he’d been helpful to both Liz and Sawyer.

      And she had tried to ignore that whenever he was close, it seemed a little harder to focus. She’d done pretty well with that until the wedding and then the dance.

      Robert Hanson knew how to hold a woman. For a big man, his touch had been light and his steps graceful.

      But she’d known that he was a man who knew what to do. And her skills were rusty. Real rusty. She was twenty-nine years old and hadn’t been on a date in thirteen years.

      No worries, she’d assured her friend. After all, they’d had one little dance. She remembered it but he’d probably forgotten it the next day. She told herself it was silly to think for even one minute that the evening would be the least bit awkward.

      But when the door opened and she heard his voice in the foyer, her senses had become more acute. She felt her skin get warm and knew it had nothing to do with Sawyer’s nice fireplace.

      And