The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [89]
“She doesn’t need a cop,” Markus said. “She needs someone who understands her work. Who understands her.”
The winch in Roelke’s chest cranked again. “And that would be you?”
“I lived with her for over five years. We were good together.” Alpine Boy’s accented voice dropped even lower, as if he was confiding a deep secret. “And we’re going to be good together again.”
They already stood only inches apart, but Roelke took one step forward, deliberately crowding the other man’s space. “I could break you in two,” Roelke said softly. “Right here, right now.”
The smug self-assurance drained from Meili’s face. Roelke knew a stab of fierce satisfaction.
Then Meili smiled. Actually smiled, the bastard. “Thank you, officer. You just proved my point.”
“Hey, guys.” Dellyn appeared and made a point of elbowing her way in between them. “What’s going on?”
Blood started pounding audibly in Roelke’s brain.
“The policeman and I were just having a friendly conversation,” Meili told Dellyn.
The pounding in Roelke’s head grew louder. He nodded at Dellyn. Then he left. Outside he slid into the squad car and slammed the door. He grabbed his clipboard, so it would look to any passer-by that he was busy with something. But he couldn’t write. Couldn’t think.
Jesus Christ. While on duty, while wearing his uniform, while carrying his service weapon, he had threatened Markus Meili with physical harm.
Roelke went back to the station and told dispatch he wasn’t well enough to finish his shift. Then he got in his truck and drove to Libby’s house.
She opened the door to his knock, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Hey! What are you doing here?” She stepped backward so he could come inside.
“Are the kids asleep?”
“Justin is. Dierdre had a bad dream. I was reading her a story.”
“Can I do that?”
Libby crossed her arms and considered him. Finally she cocked her head toward the little girl’s bedroom.
The room was small, painted pink, furnished with lots of ruffles and lace. Dierdre was propped up on an extra pillow, wearing a plastic tiara studded with glittering rhinestones.
“Hey, Princess,” Roelke said. He eased down on the edge of her bed, and kissed her forehead. She smelled sweet, as if fresh from a bubble bath. It made him want to cry. “Can I finish reading your story?”
“You can read it,” Dierdre said, with an air of royal dispensation.
Roelke picked up the book Libby had left open on the pink sheet. Winnie the Pooh. He began to read. Dierdre’s eyes drifted closed, and her breathing settled into the gentle rhythm of sleep, but he didn’t stop.
Finally Libby stepped into the doorway. “She’s asleep, you know.”
“Yeah.” Roelke closed the book reluctantly.
“Come on.” Libby led him to the kitchen. She opened a Lienie for herself. Then she put a shot glass on the table and, to his astonishment, filled it with whiskey.
“You want me to drink?” he asked dumbly.
“You look like you need it. And you can walk home from here.” She sat down catty-corner from him.
Roelke hesitated, not from self-control, but because the shot glass reminded him of Simon Sabatola. Well, the hell with that. He picked up the shot and knocked it back.
“OK.” Libby gave him a level gaze. “What’s going on? Did they give the job to Skeet?”
“No!” Roelke scrubbed his face with his hands. “This isn’t about the job.” Although it was, because everything was all tangled together.
“Then what?”
“I’ve been thinking about genetics.”
Libby blinked, and sat back in her chair. “OK, that was unexpected.”
“I have a temper.”
“Well, yeah.” Libby spread her hands. “And this got you upset because … ?”
“Because of Patrick!”
“Oh. Oh, hell.” Libby chewed her lip. “Whiskey was a mistake. A big one. Sorry.”
“No, it’s not the booze.” At least not today. Roelke rested his elbows on the table, and his head in his hands. “Do you remember Patrick’s temper? He was just like my dad that way. Something would set Patrick off, and boy, he could snap just like that.” Or throw a punch.