Laura Holt had worn her best suit, what Women's Dressed for Success suggested was a powerful yet non-threatening color and style, a subdued grey twill with a calming accent of feminine blue woven through the fabric. Beige silk blouse, and a maroon and navy silk tie worn as a soft bow instead of imitating a man's. Sensible neutral pumps with not too-high a heel. The hat, however, was not John T. Molloy but pure Laura Holt. She'd decided to wear the grey fedora at the last moment. She felt it made her look older and she was all too aware that her youthful appearance led most people to assume she was five years younger than she really was. Maybe in another decade or two that would be an asset, but right now it was definite detraction because no one took an eighteen-year-old girl seriously. And she was twenty-five, dammit. An adult, professional woman. She couldn't afford not being taken seriously. Too much was at stake.
She checked her appearance one last time in the Rabbit's rear view mirror, then took up her leather portfolio case and confidently stepped from the car. Walked with secure strides across the asphalt parking lot and around the bank building. She slowed her stride just long enough to give her image a last glance in its glass outer doors. She thought the suit looked well on her. The very model of the modern business professional. She gave her hat a last slight adjustment, tipping it slightly forward. Perfect.
She had carefully selected this bank as it had national standing and a friend had suggested its management was more likely to support a female prospect rather than immediately brushing her off. The interior décor was typical, hushed yet maintaining that contradictory blend of expensive yet approachable. The woman at the information desk wore an outfit that mirrored her own.
"Hello. I'm Laura Holt and I have an appointment with mortgage services at ten a.m." She was careful not to lift her voice at the end of her sentence. Statement, not question.
The woman consulted a print-out. "Yes, I have you here. I'll notify your account representative. If you would have a seat?" She gestured at the set of confident-yet-calming chairs in a separate seating area adjacent the lobby.
As Laura waited she carefully studied the bank's interior. The décor and arrangement spoke of quiet confidence in the firm's confidence in promoting wealth and security, while putting the customer at ease. You know, this would be the perfect design for a detective agency. It's just the message I'd want to send my clients.
She looked up as she heard her name spoken. Approaching her was a good-looking man who was maybe just a couple years older than she was. He extended his hand to shake hers.
"Wilson Jeffries. I'm sorry if I kept you waiting."
She smiled slightly. Not too much because she had already learned that men wouldn't take her seriously otherwise. "Not at all."
He led her into his small, glass-fronted office, closing the door for privacy. "Now, I understand you'd like to apply for a home mortgage? This is your first one?"
"Yes." She unzipped her portfolio and passed him a set of documents that were clipped together. "You'll find my completed application along with copies of my financial information."
One eyebrow rose as he scanned the sheets. Laura took the opportunity to scan Jeffries in turn. An exercise in detection, she told herself. Decent suit, not flashy. Standard color and tie. Doesn't like to make waves, at least at work. Keeps himself fit. Not married or prefers not to wear a ring. No pictures on desk, so maybe not married.
He looked up at her and she smoothed her expression to remain neutral. "Full ride at Stanford. And a mathematics degree. I'm impressed, Miss Holt."
She gave him a slight nod. "And you'll see I've done my homework on projected income and my business plan. Everything is documented."
He continued reading. Then both eyebrows went up. Ah. He got to that part. Wonder what he'll say? "You're a private investigator?"
"Yes. I was an intern at Havenhurst and was just promoted to the rank of full investigator. Three years is a record, or so I'm told. As you can see, I can afford the house payments at my current salary and your interest rate. I also saved my earnings from my current job as well as my two years as an actuary prior to joining Havenhurst, so I can meet the twenty-percent down payment."
"A woman detective," he said slowly, looking at her. Not looking me up and down, at my body, but at my face. And he didn't say 'lady detective.' And he suddenly grinned, surprising her. He had a nice smile. "I've never met a detective before. That's cool."
Now her cheeks warmed. "Really?" she said, delighted. "You think it's cool?"
"You bet! I've never met a detective before. It must be interesting work."
"It is. I've always loved ex—" Then she caught herself. Professional, Laura. Don't jinx it now. So she said what she had learned people expected to hear. "It's a great opportunity to help people. And the work has daily variety. You can see it pays well. And there's no shortage of clients, human nature being what it is."
"Wow," he said, repeating himself. Then he shook himself and laughed. "What you must think of me. Sorry for the case of hero-worship."
Laura smiled back. "Actually, I don't mind at all. Usually people disapprove."
"Not me!" he pronounced. Then he returned his attention to her paperwork, leafing through it. "I see you've got the home inspection results and the independent appraisal."
"Yes. Although I'm sure the bank will want its own appraisal."
"Yes. Of course. But really," and he gestured at the sheaf of pages, "you've done such a great job of documenting it all. Must be the detective in you, huh?"
"Well, it pays to have an attention to detail."
"It's great. I can't promise, of course, and we need to confirm this all independently. But if it's all correct, then I'm guessing we'll approve your application."
Stay professional, stay professional. But she couldn't stop her grin. "That would be wonderful. I've taken a shine to that little bungalow already."
A week later she arrived from work to her little apartment to find the answering machine blinking at her. She hit the 'play' button.
"Miss Holt? It's Wilson Jeffries. Um, here at the bank. I called to tell you that the bank's approved your loan. Please come by my office to sign the paperwork at your earliest convenience. Um, okay. Bye. Oh, and congratulations! You're now a hundred thousand dollars poorer."
Laura squealed and whirled about the tiny kitchen. Nero looked at her, puzzled, from his perch on the kitchen counter. She snatched him up and pressed his little black body against her chest as she whirled again.
"We got it, buddy! You and me! We have a real home!"
"It's perfect, Murphy!" she enthused as she and her partner sat in his car, which was parked in the mostly-empty parking lot behind a local appliance store. They were doing a night stake at the request of its owner, who suspected a theft problem from an employee, and they were watching for activity at the rear loading dock.
"I'll bet it is," he answered, matching her grin. "I've learned that Laura Holt never does anything by halves."
"It's just the right size. Two bedrooms, with one for a guest and I can also have a home office in it. With a computer and a printer. There's a cozy living room, and then a dining room that's the perfect size for my piano and I'll use it for that instead."
"I didn't know you had a piano."
She sighed. "It's been in storage. I had my mother ship it back from Connecticut and my apartment is too small. It's a baby grand."
"Wow!" He glanced at her. "I didn't know you could play."
"I love to play." She wiggled her fingers to demonstrate. "I've been itching to play. So frustrating!" Then she chuckled. "I never told you the story, did I, Murph?"
His smile matched hers. "What story?"
"About the piano. It was my first reward for solving a case."
"Some client!"
"My grandmother. I found her lost ring. When I was a kid. She sure knew how to capture my interests." She shifted on the car's vinyl seat, the fabric from her slacks squeaking softly against its surface. "It was her way to say I was loved. And that she took my interests seriously."
"She must've been a great lady, your grandmother."
She smiled, remembering. "She was." She impulsively touched his arm. "Hey! You'll have to help me celebrate when I move in! We'll have a party!"
"I already assumed you'd ask me to help move." He cocked an eyebrow in what was now a familiar gesture. "After all, real friends help you move both the furniture and the bodies."
"Oh! Could you?" she asked, pleading a little.
"The furniture? Or the bodies?"
"Are you kidding? Any detective worth her salt can hide her own bodies. The furniture, of course."
"Happy to do so. Just name the weekend."
"I'm signing the loan papers tomorrow. And I close at the end of next week."
"Sounds like a plan, partner. Then Sunday afternoon we can christen the sofa with the Ram's game and pizza."
She laughed happily. "I knew that's why you liked to work with me, Murph. I have a decent TV to watch the game on."
They fell silent for a few minutes as they continued to watch the store. Then as a station wagon drove past, Laura touched her partner's arm again. "Did you notice that car?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
"That's the third time it's been by in the last hour."
"It's dark. How can you remember?"
"He's moving a little slower than the rest of the traffic. And in my rear view it's the same taillight burned out."
"You think he's casing the property?"
"I know so. He's coming back again, this time with his lights off." She unfastened her seatbelt and picked up the camera that they would use to document the proceedings. "Okay, Murphy. It's showtime."
Laura arrived at the bank the following afternoon, exuberant and singing to herself. She'd been right about the vehicle last night and she and Murphy had called the police, who busted an ex-employee with a copied key to the premises and a stack of boxed stereos he was planning to move into his station wagon.
And now, here she was, about to become a responsible home owner and have a place all to herself. Livin' the dream, Laura!
She happily signed the paperwork and became a hundred thousand poorer. It was terrifying and exhilarating, all at once. And worth every penny. I won't get what I really want if I never take the risk.
As she folded the papers into her leather case, Mr. Jeffries called to her. "Miss Holt? Do you have a moment?"
"Of course. I've finished work for the day."
He grinned. "Hey, that's great! Because, um, I, um..."
Laura caught his meaning at once. I'm not a detective for nothing! "A drink? I'd love one," she said warmly. "And call me Laura." The way his face lit up revealed her deduction was the correct one.
They took separate cars and met at the Hilton several blocks up. "That way you don't think I'm trying to take advantage of you," Wilson had carefully explained. Laura found his gentlemanly caution endearing.
"I'm not worried," she had replied, teasing him. "We detectives are well-versed in both jujitsu and karate." He looked a little alarmed at that, which only endeared him further. By the time drinks were served – a Heineken for him and chardonnay for her – the formality of Miss Holt and Mr. Jeffries was fast melting away.
"I think it's so amazing that you're a detective, Laura. I could never be that daring."
She laughed. "It's not so very daring. Most of my work is downright dull. For example, I spent a chunk of last night sitting in a parked car and staking out an appliance store, waiting to see if someone was stealing from them. Pretty boring."
"And was he?"
"Was he what?"
"Stealing? Did you catch someone?"
Her smile blossomed and she had no idea of the effect it had upon Wilson. He found himself unexpectedly overwhelmed both by her smile and by his response to it. "I did! We spotted the guy – a former employee – entering illegally and trying to steal boxed stereos. We called the cops and busted him."
"That's great! But who's 'we'?"
"Oh! Murphy! My partner." Wilson's face fell. "Well, sometimes he's my partner. I work with several investigators at Havenhurst. I work on my own, too. But it's smart to have someone with you at night."
"You work at night?"
She shrugged. "Sure. Sometimes. It depends on the case. But you'd like Murph. He's easy-going." She was about to ask Wilson to join them for pizza and the game on Sunday, and then abruptly realized that was probably not the smartest idea. So she closed her mouth.
"Your work sounds way more exciting than mine, Laura," said Wilson, more than a little wistful. "My job's dead boring by comparison. Meet with people. Approve loans. It's only exciting if you like being responsible for large sums of money."
"And do you?" She sipped her wine.
"I do, actually. I'm pretty good at it, too. I guess we have that in common. We're both really good with numbers."
"Being good with numbers is useful for investigative work, too. Havenhurst has a whole division that specializes in financials. You need experts like that to track embezzlements, or dodgy investments."
"Are you telling me I should become a detective?" he said, smiling at her.
"You never know. They tried to stick me in that division, but I wasn't interested. They thought it would be better for a woman, more so with my math background. But I wanted the job where I get to interview people. Be the person who does the legwork. And gets the collar."
"Murder?"
She laughed, throwing her head back. Wilson decided she had a very nice laugh. "No murder. No mayhem, either. Occasionally a good chase, but I like to run."
Wilson pointedly looked at her legs. "In those shoes?"
"It just takes practice. Like being Ginger Rogers. Except I don't have to run backwards."
"What?"
"You know. The actress in all those black-and-white movie musicals. Someone once said about Ginger Rogers that everything she did was easy. All she had to do was copy Fred Astaire. Only she had do it backwards and wearing heels."
"Gosh. I never thought about that." He was struck with a thought. "Say! Do you like movies?"
"Movies? Yeah, I suppose so. Sure!"
"Would you consider coming to the movies with me tomorrow night? Maybe have a drink and a bite beforehand?"
She rapidly consulted her mental calendar. "If nothing comes up at Havenhurst. Otherwise my calendar's clear." Geez. Maybe some guys do find a female detective attractive?
She gave him her biggest smile yet. He was definitely attractive, what with his good-looks and gentlemanly behavior. He seemed genuinely kind. She found him a refreshing change from the boorish, sex-obsessed men who were most of her colleagues at Havenhurst. "Sure, Wilson. I'd love to see a movie with you."
Wilson moved in with her just a few months later. He had said it was too soon. Laura countered it was just right. Why wait? And, eight months later, things mostly seemed to have worked out between them. Apart from Thanksgiving, when she'd been called by Havenhurst to help with a stakeout and had to leave Wilson literally holding the bird and entertaining her mother, who had flown out from Connecticut for a visit but was mostly there to inspect Wilson and the house, in that order.
And apart from the sex, which she was still trying to loosen him up about. Wilson was awfully inhibited.
And apart from the time when he'd celebrated his big promotion at the bank and took her with him to the banker's conference in Acapulco.
She'd had several lousy weeks at Havenhurst before they left. Her male colleagues were still ragging on her just because she had two X-chromosomes. One of the guys had made her interview the hookers on a case, thinking to humiliate her but instead she found it interesting, and then he left provocative lingerie on her car seat, which equally embarrassed and infuriated her because at the time she'd just offered a ride to a different client. Another abandoned her at the office and left her to write up a case report while he disappeared for drinks with the boys. Then he'd rewritten her draft to take the credit for the collar. Weber had made yet another tiresome pass at her and she had rebuffed it yet again, and he spent the next week telling everyone she was a cold bitch. Except for when he told Murphy, who had socked him in the eye. As she drank her daiquiri at Pepe's, the anger and frustration came roaring back.
Men were all the same. They treat you like a secretary or call you a bitch. Or an ice queen. You're never a real woman in their eyes.
She polished off the drink and ordered another one.
It's always the same at Havenhurst. Except with Murphy. The woman's never allowed to be in control. It's always the men who call the shots. Slap the label on you.
A man's foot unexpectedly rubbed against her bare ankle. Surprised, she looked up at Wilson seated across the table from her. He smiled at her and a familiar warm glow started well below her waist.
Wilson loves me. He doesn't think I'm a bitch.
She gave him a long, seductive wink. He looked startled. Laura frowned and glanced beneath the table. It wasn't Wilson's foot. She looked back up and one of the other men at the table winked at her.
At least someone thinks I'm sexy!
She tossed back her Daiquiri. Moments later another one appeared before her. The banker, one of Wilson's colleagues, winked again.
Laura winked back. Wilson frowned more. In the background – okay, not really background because the place was so noisy – the band had started playing a rhythmic Latin tune.
So you don't think I'm sexy, uh? I'll show you!
She tossed down the next daiquiri. Stood up. Too quickly, because she wobbled a bit on her high heels. She pushed back her stool. Wilson looked alarmed.
"Laura? Don't you think you've had enough?"
She gave him her best sultry look. "I've hardly just begun."
There was a display of peacock feathers decorating the far wall. She swished across the room and removed them, then waltzed back, sashaying her hips and waving the fans about her waist. The bankers from her table began to whoop as they spotted what was about to happen.
She wore a short dress with just a little underneath, Acapulco being hot even in the air conditioned night clubs. She began to wave the fans about her. Forward. Backward. Swishing in time with the music and feeling the rhythm. Her actions caught the attention of a larger audience who joined the whoops. A few began to clap with the music. The band caught on and intensified their rhythmic beat.
She pushed her long hair up. Let it back down. Reached back again and unzipped the little dress. Swayed and shimmied as the back of the dress worked its way open and loosened about her shoulders. She shrugged out of it, still waving the fans and letting the dress drop to the floor. Kicked it up and toward her audience to show a length of bare leg mounted atop a high slender heel. She knew damn well that she had amazing legs.
She wore a bra and tap pants over her panties. The fans continued to swish and wave and her hips moved to and fro in the slow, sensual beat. The bankers were howling and pounding the tables. She felt a hundred percent woman. No ice bitch. No virgin queen. Wilson openly stared, eyes wide and his mouth in a perfect O. She came closer and flicked a feather along his shirt front. From his response she thought he'd orgasm right then and there.
She stepped back and teasingly played with the elastic waist on her silk tap pants. The shouts grew more encouraging and the band's drummer began a steady rhythm on his tom-tom. Slowly the gap between elastic and waist enlarged as her hand and fan moved back and forth. The fans danced forward and flashed back briefly to reveal the silken shorts on the floor. More hollers and shouts. She gave Wilson a seductive smile, then turned and presented them with her back, waving the fans to flash her hips between feathers.
Still with her back turned, she reached behind to unfasten the bra. She let it dangle, unhooked, and the shouts turned into howls. She glanced over her shoulder at her audience, then tossed her hair up and down in a series of waves that worked the bra loose. The straps fell down from her shoulders. She pulled it off and tossed it in Wilson's general direction, still with her back to them. Letting them enjoy her bare shoulders. All woman. No man can tell me I can't do it all.
Then she whirled to face them and the fans came forward. She gave them teasing glimpses of bare flesh. The band was right in tune with her. She hoped that Wilson would give them a good tip later. She shimmied across the floor, fans dancing forward and back, keeping hands off the product. She came up to Wilson, her eyes shining and eager for his response. But instead of desire, she read fear and revulsion. The fans paused as she was momentarily taken aback by his response. The shouts rose. "Go, Wilson!" Wolf whistles. "What a girl!"
Then, abruptly, it was over.
Wilson grabbed his jacket – only Wilson would wear a jacket to a hot Acapulco club! – and dropped it over her shoulders. "We're getting the hell outta here!" he spat out and literally dragged her out of the room. To the accompaniment of the drummer and the horns and a cacophony of cat calls and cheers.
In the dark hall outside the room, he thrust her against the wall. "Just what in the hell are you doing, Laura!"
The anger resurged. "Trying to get your attention! What the hell does it take to get it!" Then she shoved past him and stomped toward the exit. Too late, she realized that she was in no attire to step outside. With a squawk, she made a beeline for the ladies' room and dove for the protection of a stall.
Stupid, Laura. Stupid, stupidstupidstupid.
She leaned against the closed stall door and tried hard not to cry.
Eventually someone entered the room. She heard a strange woman ask, "Um, are you Laura?"
She nodded, then realized that the woman couldn't see her. "Yes?"
"Good. I was asked to give you these." The next moment her dress and lingerie were passed over the stall door.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." There was a pause. Then, "By the way, that was an amazing dance. That boyfriend of yours? He must be made of ice."
"I think you're right," Laura muttered to herself.
Wilson called it wrong and his banker colleagues hadn't held her behavior against Wilson. Far from it. They were openly admiring and more than a little envious. But Laura stuffed that person way and tried to be the woman that Wilson wanted her to be, for his sake. Banker-like. Professional. He remained distant for the rest of their trip. They slept in the same bed but he didn't touch her, and his withdrawal hurt even more than his initial, horrified response. She craved their intimacy and his remoteness cut open her heart. She loved him. He was her stability in a world where fathers left, mothers disapproved, and older sisters were competitive. He understood the abandonment, the repressive mother, the dutiful sister. He thought being a detective was cool. She thought he was the one.
She didn't realize how wrong she was.
Almost a week after Acapulco, she was running late from work, so she picked up Italian from their favorite deli along with a bottle of chianti as a peace offering. He was already in the living room, perched on the ottoman and watching the Lakers cream the Knicks at Madison Square Garden, so she set up TV trays and poured the wine and settled in beside him.
"You want to talk?" she ventured as the clock ran out on the Knicks.
He pushed his tray away. He hadn't touched his wine. "What's left to say, Laura?"
"I'm sorry," she said for the fourteenth time that week. Maybe fifteenth. "I had a rough week at work before we left. It got to me."
"I know. Those guys at work are Neanderthals. I don't know why you work with them."
"Because it's my job. I shouldn't let them get to me. I know that."
But his next words rocketed right past her apology. "I can't take it anymore, Laura," he had said. "I never know what you're going to do next."
She stared at him as the abyss opened beneath her. "What?"
"You're so…unpredictable."
"But, I thought you liked my spontaneity? You've said that more than once."
He looked away at the commercial now on the television screen, as if young people singing about Coca-Cola were suddenly more fascinating than the end of their life. "I know I said that. But not…not when it humiliates me. Laura!" The confession burst out of him, all the more shocking because Wilson never argued. Never lost control. It drove her crazy, she suddenly realized, his unwillingness to argue, and her own anger flared.
"I said I was sorry, Wilson! How many more times do you need me to grovel?"
But he was shaking his head and there was sadness in his soft brown eyes. "Do you know how mortified I was, watching you get drunk and do that…that… naked dance in front of my boss?"
"I wasn't naked! And, for your information, the only person in that room who didn't enjoy it was you."
"It was so…so…What is it with you? It's like you have this need…Some of what you do in bed makes me uncomfortable. And what you ask me to do in return!" He shuddered. Actually shuddered. "It isn't normal."
'Normal' isn't doing it every time in the Missionary position!" she shot back.
"I don't do missionary every time!" he protested.
"No! Just the once-a-week when you're actually interested in sex! I suppose the rest of the time rolling in your precious dollars gets you off!"
She managed to make him look a little shocked with that one. Good, she thought with satisfaction.
"What is it about you? This libido and a…a…craving for sensation."
"Of course it's about sensation! Lovemaking's about giving each other pleasure, Wilson! Listening and responding to what the other person wants!"
"But I don't want it the way you want it. Uninhibited and free-for-all. All the moaning and screaming. I'm a banker, for God's sake."
"And bankers do it with interest," she shot back, quoting the t-shirt she'd given him for Christmas. Thinking he'd find it a turn-on. Instead he'd flushed red and stuffed it back into its box. She had ignored the clue.
"I—I just don't think we're compatible, Laura. You're so impulsive. You have this crazy job that keeps you out at all hours—"
If anything he had said was an attempt to wound her deeply, this was it. "What's wrong with my job, Wilson?" Her voice was as hard as steel. A smarter man would have trembled and backed away. Quickly.
"It's – well, it's not really a proper job, is it? I never know when you'll be home. It's hard to entertain clients. I never know who's making dinner—"
"What? You can't cook?"
"No. And neither can you, really. I mean, there I was, trying to baste the Thanksgiving turkey with your mother watching. And you're off doing a stake-out with Mr. Michaels."
Okay, so that had been a really bad decision. Even with the bonus of having avoided Mother's judgmental visit. "You knew about my work when you moved in with me!"
"Yes. But I didn't really get it. I like having someone to talk to in the evening. I like having someone to cuddle in bed. To sit on the sofa and watch TV. I thought that person was you. But I think you prefer to spend your nights chasing crooks. Or cuddling with Mr. Michaels in a stake out."
She stared at him, astonished. "Me? With Murphy? Are you crazy!?"
"Laura—"
"Get this through your head, Wilson! There's nothing between me and Murphy! He's my partner. Welcome to the '80s where women have work colleagues."
"I know. And…maybe I'm not such an '80s guy after all." He sounded forlorn. Lost.
She took his hands in both of hers and it had the effect of forcing him to turn so he had to look at her. What Laura saw there, scared her. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time. Who was he seeing? She searched his face and she couldn't find that spark of interest that said she intrigued him. Her heart began to pound. This is how it begins… "Wilson. Listen to me. I don't care that way about Murphy. He's a good friend, but just a friend. I love you, Wilson Jeffries. You're the one I want to come home to. You're the one I want to share my life with."
His expression softened. "I know that, Laura. I do." He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. But lightly. And then pulled back.
She nodded toward the bedroom behind them. "You wanna make up some more?"
He hesitated, then rose. "Sure."
She made love with him the way he wanted it because she knew it would make him happy and she was suddenly terrified of losing him. The next morning he grabbed a slice of toast as he headed out the door. "I have a long meeting today. We're reviewing a proposed merger. I might not be home till really late."
She smiled. "That's okay. Don't worry about me."
"I won't. I don't worry about you, Laura. Not ever." He kissed her then, lingering a little, then headed out the door.
She had a hard day that ended with her literally chasing a shoplifter halfway up Rodeo Drive – in heels, of course, since she'd spent the week posing as a sales clerk at an exclusive boutique to catch a shop-lifting ring – and she came home to a dark house. "Wilson?" she called as she dropped her keys into the bowl by the front door and switched on the lights. His meeting was running even later than her day. Nero entwined himself around her ankles, and she scooped him up and carried him into the kitchen. "Poor baby," she cooed. "All abandoned by your mommy and daddy."
She headed to the kitchen, spooned his food into his dish, and watched with bemusement as the grateful little cat gobbled it down. "As if we starve and neglect you," she chided. She pulled a Weight Watcher's dinner from the freezer and popped it into the microwave, then headed to their bedroom. She kicked out of her shoes, pulled off her expensive jacket (the one nice perk of this current case!) and opened the closet door to hang up her investment.
And froze.
Her half of the closet contained her blouses and slacks and suits. The other half contained empty hangers hung with excruciating neatness along Wilson's half of the wooden rod. The shoe rack where his polished banker's shoes were normally lined up was also empty. Her mouth went suddenly dry as she stared in disbelief. A child's voice in her head howled Noooooooo…..
Adrenaline surged and she spun about to their dresser. The carved wood box that held his cufflinks and tie clips was missing from the dresser top. She yanked open drawers that a year ago she'd happily emptied for his socks and underwear. They were empty again. His fountain pen and watch were missing, too. The little things that said Wilson lives here. She turned toward their bed and discovered her photo still rested on his bedtable. The room swirled and shifted and she sat down hard on the bed. No…
Nausea rose up and she squeezed her eyes shut and her heart pounded and her throat burned. Nooooooo!
Her mother staring out the living room window through the sheer curtain that shielded her rigid, slim figure from the neighbor's prying eyes. The aching betrayal that he hadn't said good-bye to his binky. The echoing silence as the Holt women moved like ghosts through what had once surely been a happy home, secure and loving.
NO! He hasn't left he'll be back he just needed a break he got called away he doesn't mean it he loves me I know he really loves me it's just temporary he'll be back tomorrow with flowers…
In the silence of the empty house, she clearly heard the microwave ping and announce that dinner was ready. Announce how life was about to be from now onward.
Wilson wasn't back tomorrow. Or the next tomorrow or the next. She pretended he'd just done a sleepover with a friend. Was at an out-of-town conference. She checked his office – she was a detective, for god's sake! – and confirmed he was still working his normal schedule. She considered going round to see him but didn't want to make a scene at his workplace, because she knew he would hate it so. She did a quick surveillance in the white Rabbit and found he was staying with a colleague. A week later she didn't find his car there, so she ran a skip-trace and discovered he'd rented an apartment near Westwood. He was avoiding her but he wasn't trying to hide from her, either. Smart man. Knew he didn't stand a hope in hell of that.
In her grief, she doubled down at work. She put in a long shift and nailed a guy who was two-timing his wife with a girlfriend in Encinitas. She drove down to San Diego and located a department store employee who had robbed the till for months and then skipped town but not invisibly enough. She and Murph ran a sting and caught a pair of guys who was fencing stolen electronics from a home-theft ring. He'd given her more than one funny look and she knew he wanted to say something, but she wasn't going to give him the opening. There were wisecracks around the office about the Iron Woman and the Ice Bitch and she didn't give a damn. She loved Wilson but he thought she wasn't good enough for him, and even though she failed Wilson at least she could be good enough for her coworkers. Besides, she knew she was a good detective and she could focus on the job because it wouldn't betray her.
Wouldn't demand she be something she wasn't.
And definitely wouldn't abandon her.
She didn't want to be one of those stalker girlfriends, but she needed to talk with him, to try and understand and explain to him how much she loved him, and at last he finally agreed to meet her in a public place. Another hotel bar like the one where they'd first gotten to know each other, and the irony wasn't lost on her. He took off work early to meet her and there was no one there to overhear, and in the bar's late afternoon warmth she poured her heart out and explained how much he meant to her and how much they meant to each other. She thought if she was open and honest that he'd understand and love her again. She was a wizard at delivering convincing court testimony, but in the court of the heart her arguments were overruled by the judge and dismissed by the jury. She could read in his every gesture that he had stopped loving her and that it was her own damn fault and that if she'd only kept that spontaneous side locked away then they might still be together. But Wilson had shaken his head and there was grief in his eyes and he said, "It's no good, Laura. We're just too incompatible."
"But I love you! You love me!" The bartender stopped his polishing the bar from the far side of the room and looked up at them.
"I know. But it isn't enough, is it?"
She stared at him, her expression bleak and desperate and his words echoing in her memory. I love you…and it isn't enough.
He leaned forward then and pressed a kiss against her cheek. "Good-bye, Laura. You'll be fine. There's someone out there who will love you. He'll love your spontaneity and passion and maybe even that you're a detective. But that guy isn't me."
"No…" she whispered. But he was already moving away and threaded through the bar stools and tables and out of her life, leaving her empty and alone.
It was another week before the grief attenuated and was displaced with anger. Anger that drove her the following Saturday to toss her house like a professional thief and remove any and every item that was remotely linked with Wilson. How could I think he loved me! What the hell did I ever see in him! God I'm stupid! Falling for a guy who gets a bed notch for effing a female detective! On the coffee table stood a lovely cut glass vase that he'd given her for Valentine's Day and in an impulsive gesture she hurled it against the living room wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash that sent glittering shards flying everywhere and poor Nero racing for the linen closet and she immediately felt guilty over the damage and what the cut glass might have done to his paws. Impulsive. Spontaneous. Stupid.
In the bedroom, she found a few clothing items that he'd either overlooked or not wanted. The damn t-shirt. A cheesy white belt that he'd purchased and worn at Pepe's in Acapulco, trying and failing to pretend at her urging that he was John Travolta on the dance floor. She was stuffing that stupid belt into the trash bag when a thought arrested her motion. It's a symbol, isn't it? A reminder that you can't really get what you want. You can't pretend to be someone you're not. This is what happens when you give your heart away. Keep the belt, Holt. Look at it the next time some guy's interested in you. Remember how stupid you were about Wilson.She carefully coiled the belt and nestled the viper into the bottom of a dresser drawer that also held her scarves and ties.
Stick to business, Laura. Stick to what you're good at. You're a good detective. Forget the personal relationships. Get real. Men won't play second fiddle to your career. And they don't like independent women. Certainly not female detectives. Give it up. Fantasize all you like about the kind of guy who'd want someone like you. 'Cause it's just that. A fantasy. An invention.
That weekend, she swept and vacuumed and dusted Wilson out of her life and it was cathartic. There was no more laze-in-bed lovemaking on Saturday and Sunday mornings, so she began running again. She ruthlessly removed the dead vegetation and spent flower heads from her garden and swept the grass clippings from her sidewalk. She threw out all the food she'd bought because he liked it. She filled bag after bag of trash and on Sunday night hauled them to the curbside for the Monday morning pick-up. In the darkness, she paused to look at the waxing moon that peered through the tree leaves, and she found it oddly reassuring, perhaps because the moon would always be up there, always a constant. She glanced back at her tidy bungalow. Warm yellow light spilled from the curtain-framed windows and the white trellis by the front door glowed in the moonlight. It still looked like the place she dreamt of when she'd spotted it last year and applied for her mortgage. She smiled. You're still here, aren't you? You and Nero and my job. Wilson's parting words echoed in memory. Do you suppose he's right? Do you think there's someone out there for me? Someone to make this a home? A little black shadow materialized in one of the windows, its tail wrapped around its legs and looking out at…something beyond. She turned to see what had caught Nero's attention, but all she saw was the street and her neighborhood and the glow of Los Angeles beyond.
It's a big world out there, Holt. Statistically, Wilson's right. There's gotta be someone. Somewhere in those millions of people.
All I have to do is find him. After all, I'm a detective, right?
She smiled to herself and headed back into her home.
THE END