7th Heaven - James Patterson [79]
Pidge had nothing to do with these deaths. Any hope I had of tripping him up, finding a clue to his whereabouts, was dead — as dead as the man in the car.
“Alan Beam committed suicide,” I said.
Hanni nodded. “We’ll treat it as a homicide until we’re sure, but according to this neighbor, Beam had attempted suicide before. She said he was terminal. Lung cancer.”
“And so he chained himself to the steering wheel and set himself on fire?”
“I guess he wanted to make sure he didn’t change his mind this time. But whatever his reason,” said Hanni, “it looks to me now like his daughter tried to save him — but she never had a chance.
“The poisonous gas and the superheated air brought her down.”
Chapter 109
BY THE TIME I got home that evening, I had too much to tell Joe and hoped I could stay awake long enough to tell him. He was in the kitchen, wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, what he wore when he went for a run with Martha. He was holding a wineglass, and from the scrumptious smell of garlic and oregano, it seemed he’d cooked dinner, too.
But the look on Joe’s face stopped me before I could reach him.
“Joe, I was at the hospital all night —”
“Jacobi told me. If I hadn’t found wet footsteps on the bathmat this morning, I wouldn’t have even known you’d been home.”
“You were sleeping, Joe, and I only had a few minutes. And is this a house rule? That I have to check in?” I said.
“You call it checking in. I call it being thoughtful. Thinking of me and that I might worry about you.”
I hadn’t called him. Why hadn’t I called?
“I’m drinking merlot,” he said.
Joe and I rarely fought, and I got that sickening gut-feel that told me that I was in the wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re totally right, Joe. I should have let you know where I was.” I walked over to him, put my arms around his waist — but he pulled away from me.
“No flirting, Blondie. I’m steamed.”
He handed me a glass of wine and I took it, saying, “Joe, I said I’m sorry, and I am!”
“You know what?” he said. Martha whimpered and trotted out of the room. “I saw more of you when I lived in DC.”
“Joe, that’s not true.”
“So, I’m going to ask you flat out, Lindsay. One question. And I want the truth.”
I thought, No, please, please don’t ask me if I really want to marry you, please don’t. I’m not ready. I looked into the storm raging in Joe’s deep blue eyes.
“I want to know about you and Conklin. What’s going on?”
I was flabbergasted.
“You think I’m — Joe, you can’t think that!”
“Look. I spent an hour with the two of you. You’ve got a little something special going on between you, and please don’t tell me you’re partners.
“I worked with you once, Lindsay,” Joe went on. “We were partners. And now, here we are.”
I opened my mouth, closed it without speaking. I felt so guilty I couldn’t even act offended. Joe was right about everything. That Rich and I had a special feeling for each other, that I was neglecting Joe, that the time we spent together was more focused on each other when Joe lived a couple of time zones away than it was now.
Once Joe had made the commitment to move to San Francisco, he’d been mine, mine, totally mine. And I’d taken him for granted. I was wrong. And I had to admit it. But my throat was backed up with tears. This was the very thing that broke up cop marriages.
The Job. The obsession and commitment to the Job.
That’s what this was about — wasn’t it?
I felt sick with shame. I never wanted to make Joe feel bad, never wanted to hurt him at all. I set my glass down on the counter and took Joe’s glass out of his hand, put that glass down, too.
“There’s nothing going on, Joe. It’s just the Job.”
He looked into my eyes, and it was as though he was patting down my brain. He knew me that well.
“Give the sauce a stir in a couple of minutes, okay, Linds? I’m going to take a shower.”
I stood up on my toes and wrapped my arms around Joe’s neck, held on to the man I thought of as my future husband, pressed my cheek to his. I wanted him to hold me. And finally he did. He closed his arms around my waist and pulled