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Part Seven: Not Quite

July 6-7, 2006

Woody thrust the file at her. She read it hurriedly and then pushed her chair back. She grabbed a pen for the board and strode over to it. The day's earlier information had been erased and re-written so that anything they found out about earlier months could be added. Now she was poised to do just that.

Woody joined her. "Okay, name – Maddie Larkin."

Jordan scribbled it up and added that Maddie had been a brunette. "Natural or dyed?"

"Huh?"

"Her hair color – does the report indicate if it was natural or dyed?"

His eyes scanned the file. "Um – natural. And – oh, yeah – she was a model. She was represented by…." It took him a moment to find the name.

Her face fell as she wrote it up. "Not the same as any of the others. Damn."

"Photographers!"

Her eyes lit up as his did. "Of course!"

"I'll check them out tomorrow." He flipped through the report again. "Okay, what else?"

"Time of death versus when she was found," Jordan commanded.

He licked his lips as he read. "Okay, here. She was found about seven in the morning. She'd stayed up with her maid-of-honor until – um – about eleven. But the maid-of-honor left then and this girl lived alone so…." He continued reading. "Bug estimated she died between midnight and four a.m."

"I wonder if she had any neighbors that noticed anything," Jordan murmured, her mind racing through the possibilities.

"You can bet I'll be checking on that tomorrow, too." He grinned at her. "Jordan, this is great. This could really help."

"Yeah," she replied, still distracted. "It would probably help more if we understood the pattern."

Woody glanced over at the files on her desk and the floor. "I'm game if you are."

She swiped the back of one hand across her forehead. "Yeah. Sure." She swayed slightly.

"Hey, hey! Jordan!"

Her eyes were owlish. "What?"

"You okay?" Her mild nod didn't convince him. "When was the last time you ate?" This time she gazed at him blankly. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm fine," she told him. Her stomach betrayed her by growling.

"Yeah, of course, you are." Woody put the palm of his hand in the small of her back and gently guided her back to her desk. He pulled out his cell. "Pizza? Chinese? Sandwiches?"

"Huh?"

"Food, Jordan. Food. What do you want?"

Her back tingled from his touch. Her mind seemed to have careened right off the track. "You," she managed. His look was almost worth the flush creeping up her face. Almost. "Uh – You decide. Whatever."

Not daring to speak, he nodded.

"Uh – not Chinese."

He cocked his head, wondering. Did it still rankle her? His Sunday night late dinners with Devan. He decided not to test his luck. "Sure. Okay." Instead, as he gazed out the window behind her desk, he called a deli around the corner that would deliver.

When he hung up, Jordan apologized. "I was going to go home-"

"No, you weren't," he corrected, turning giving her a gentle smile. "You were going to get some of those stale cracker and fake-cheese things from the vending machine, a candy bar or two and keep at this."

She grinned. "Was it that obvious?"

"No. I just know – knew you."

Her cell phone rang. She turned away, glanced down at the number and let it go to voice mail.

"Not important?" His tone was so light and casual, but Jordan could hear every note of artificiality in it.

"It can wait." She rolled her shoulders. Woody grimaced at the sound of the popping. He moved softly, catlike, and laid his hands on either side of her neck. His fingers squeezed gently, kneading into her tense, knotted muscles. He moved his hands down gently, pressing against the larger muscles. She grunted softly as her body relaxed. Exhaustion, hunger and the easing of tension lulled her into the candle flame of a comfort long encased in ice, but not extinguished.

His hands roved up again. He wrapped one around her hair and lifted it over her right d. With his other hand, he massaged her neck gently and then moved both hands along toward her face. With gentle but insistent pressure, his fingertips worked at the hinge of her jaw. He felt the tiny muscles there relaxing. She murmured his name.

Woody took deep breaths, willing himself not to rush this along. In his mind, he knew this was the first step back to what-might-be, but his heart ached to leap in. What his body wanted was both simple and complex. He opened his mouth to utter the apology he'd long owed her, when his phone rang. Beneath his hands, she stiffened as she returned to the reality. He cursed silently and answered the phone. "Yeah, be right down." He flipped shut the phone. "That's the deli. I'll go get the food."

Jordan nodded at him, unable to speak, glad for the reprieve from her now roiling emotions – and hormones. Take it for what it is she kept telling herself. It's a case. Just a case. Nothing more. The now absent ache from her shoulders testified it wasn't just a case, as did the warmth that had spread from his touch into her entire body. The argument of two nights before, including her juvenile barb about Danny, replayed itself in her mind. Why couldn't she just let it all go? He had pushed her away, hard and with certainty. Then he'd expressed concern about her – not wanting her to work out in the weather when she was sick and those boys were trapped – and she'd shoved right back. If Woody thought she was going to let him treat her like some prize, something he could ignore when it suited and something he claimed when someone else expressed interest…well, he'd have to think again. Yet here she was – her body tingling at his nearness, her memory whispering of all the times they'd been there for each other, her heart hoping that some small spark remained. She put her head in her hands. The aroma of fresh coffee preceded Woody's return, giving Jordan just enough time to swipe at the tears in her eyes.

If Woody noticed her expression, he made no comment, for which she was grateful. Instead, they dove into the sandwiches, munching silently for a few minutes. Finally, Jordan took a breath. "That's good. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Couldn't have you fainting from hunger, could I?" He smiled. He took another bite of his sub and watched her as he chewed. After he swallowed, he spoke, as evenly as he could. "Who was the call from?"

She kept her eyes fixed on his. "Danny McCoy." She reached for her coffee and held the cup for a moment. "I was supposed to go to the Montecito this weekend." She took a sip.

Woody said nothing for a long moment. "You were supposed to go?"

"I am," she corrected. "I mean, I was… this case." She waved a hand over the unreviewed files.

He nodded. "The case. Right." He reached for a file. "How about I take January?"

The temperature dropped a few degrees. Jordan took another sip of coffee – the only still warm thing in the room. She muttered she'd look through February. Neither of them could meet the other's gaze.

They read in silence for nearly in hour. Occasionally, Jordan would tap her pen on the desk, until Woody glared at her and she stopped, only to start again. After about the fifth time, he leaned over her desk and took the pen away. She began to tap nails.

"Jordan," he growled.

"Sorry." She looked sheepish. However, before long, she was at it again.

"I really don't want to have to rip off your nails," Woody threatened.

She sat up. "No, you really don't." Her eyes moved rapidly, scanning the page in front of her.

He sat up straighter. "You have something?"

"February, I think."

"Hit me."

She leaned forward, the file open in front of her. "Arlene Rosen, married, mother of two, died in a hunting accident on – Valentine's Day."

"If you tell me Cupid shot her through the heart…."

Jordan shook her head. "I don't know about Cupid, but someone did."

"Hey, were any of the others married?"

"No. And Arlene wasn't a – oh, she was a model about ten years ago. She fits."

"Brunette?"

Jordan looked at the picture. "Dyed. And – that's interesting – the dye job was at least a couple of weeks old. She's got roots showing."

"So our killer wasn't so thorough about some things at first?"

She shrugged. "It would seem so. If that's the case, maybe he wasn't so thorough about other things either. We'll re-run whatever we can."

He shifted gears. "No suspects?"

"The husband," Jordan read. "He's a hunter, a bow hunter, but his alibi was solid."

"Where was she killed?"

"Her back yard. It backed up onto woodlands. She was apparently out cleaning up after the dog." Jordan shook her head. "There were two other suspects – a couple of teens out shooting in that area. They weren't supposed to be there, but a neighbor saw the car, got the plate. They both swore they didn't shoot toward the houses and there was no forensics to disprove it."

"The case is still open?"

She checked. "Yeah. It's Seely's. You know," she tapped her fingernails against the desk again. "If those two are telling the truth, they might have seen or heard something."

Woody agreed, adding getting Seely to interview them to his list of things to do. He watched as Jordan rubbed her temples. "We can leave this, Jo."

She looked up at him. "No, this guy didn't start in April – or March – or February." She tapped the dwindling stack of January cases. "He started in January. It's in here. And maybe we can figure out the pattern."

He set his jaw. "I know it is, but – this is a lot. You've gotten me a lot, Jordan. We'll find the January case. It's no use getting so tired you can't find it."

"It's just one more-"

"Jordan, come on. You've gone above and beyond… like you always do."

She considered him for a moment, finally sighing deeply and agreeing. "But I want to put the February information on the board."

Woody sat on the edge of her desk and watched as she added what they learned. "So, here we go – Miss February."

"Mrs. February," she amended.

"Right. Our only married one."

Jordan wrote rapidly, starring the differences, highlighting certain facts in different colors. At last, she was satisfied with the new material. She turned back. Woody was still sitting on the edge of her desk. She reached around him to put the pen back. "That's it," she said, starting to step back.

His hand closed over her wrist. "Not quite, Jo," he told her, his voice low and gruff as he tugged her into his arms.

END Part Seven