“I told you about that.”

“No, you did not. You mentioned you were married to a cop who was a friend of Detective Priddy’s and you said Priddy was a creep. What you didn’t say was your ex-husband was exonerated. Interesting you elected to leave that part out.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“You don’t? Well, think about it. You were so sure you were right, you abandoned the guy when he needed you most.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it.

“It didn’t happen that way,” I said.

“You can quibble all you like, but I’m close enough, am I correct?”

“Marvin, you’re trying to draw a parallel between my relationship with my ex and my belief in Audrey’s guilt. You’re saying Mickey was eventually cleared and therefore she will be too. Is that it?”

“Right. And she’s dead, same as the guy you were married to.” He looked skyward and tapped his chin like a cartoon character. “Hmmm. Let’s see. What do these two stories have in common?”

I said, “Those two situations are so different I can’t even begin to set you straight.”

“Don’t be so defensive. I’m just telling you what I was told.”

“By Len Priddy.”

“I didn’t say it was him.”

“Of course it was.”

He shrugged. “You don’t like the guy, that doesn’t mean he’s trying to do you in,” he said. “At any rate, I apologize for being rude. I should have asked why you’re here. Let me guess. You used up the balance of the retainer and you’re hoping to hit me up for more.”

“That’s true, but the game has changed, hasn’t it?” I said mildly. I was keeping my voice low because my rage was rising to a white-hot peak and I didn’t dare give vent to it.

“Oh, geez. Now you’re pissed off. I hope you’re not telling me you quit,” he said facetiously.

“Quit? No, sweetheart. I’m in this for the long haul whether you pay me or not.”

He drew back. “You can’t do that. I won’t have you meddling in her affairs. Audrey’s past is none of your business.”

“Sorry to disagree, but this is my job and I’m on it. Too bad you didn’t fire me when you had the chance.”

22

DANTE

Dante counted laps as he swam, his mouth lifting to the left to take in a breath of air, turning into the water to release. There was little sound beyond the bubbles he breathed out. He was conscious of the strength of his arms as he moved through the water, hands slicing down, pulling through, propelling himself forward. He recited the numbers in his head with each stroke. Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen down the length of the pool. Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen on the return. It was easy to lose track of where he was and how far he’d come when the water was such a perfect temperature and there was nothing to interrupt the easy flow of energy. The noisy chatter in his head gave way to the simple repetition: arms, legs, inhale, exhale.

The day after his mother left, Pop had drained the pool at the house where they lived, leaving a great empty hole in the ground to remind them of the pleasures she’d taken with her. Rain and falling leaves had rotted together, filling the bottom with black sludge. Dante knew his father had done it out of spite, to deprive them of the solace she’d offered and the confidence she’d instilled. Whatever pain she’d inflicted on her husband, he’d doubled when he’d passed it on to his son. Dante hadn’t gone back into the water until he bought this house and had his own pool put in.

The last lap was the best. By then his body was relaxed and his mind was still. After the final few strokes, when he lifted himself out of the water and onto the concrete apron, his limbs felt rubbery and loose. He’d press a towel against his face, flush with the heat the exercise had generated. Where lifting weights pumped his muscles, the swimming stretched him out and kept him long and lean. He’d see Nora in the afternoon, if she decided to come.

By the time he reached the master suite, his body heat had dissipated and he needed a hot shower to offset the chill. Usually on Sunday mornings he didn’t shave, but he did so today. Because of Nora, of course. Since he’d first set eyes on her, everything was about Nora. He couldn’t identify the draw and he didn’t question it. It had never happened to him before and he had no explanation. What difference did it make why he was obsessed? In point of fact, he was.

He peered into the bedroom. Lola was still asleep, buried under the weight of the comforter. She had so little body fat she was cold all the time. During the night, if she snuggled up against him, her skin was as cold as Naugahyde. He eased the dressing room door shut and pulled on his clothes: light pants, a red silk shirt, loafers without socks.