“Something to drink?” she asked. “Some coffee?” She turned back to the man leaning against the doorjamb, relaxed and watchful, hands still in his pockets.
“Water’s fine for me.” He nodded at the bottle in her hand.
Vicky found two glasses in the cupboard and filled them almost to the brim. She handed him one, then began gulping the water in the other glass, not stopping until it was empty. She refilled the glass, feeling calmer now, in control again.
“You seem pretty jumpy.” He was still watching her. “What’s going on?”
Vicky leaned back against the counter and locked eyes with the man. “You scared me, Steve. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be on my porch.”
“That’s it?”
Not all of it, she thought. It was the city, the jumble of noises and odors, the unnatural play of light and shadows around the buildings, and the odd feeling that some stranger, not herself, floated over the paved streets that glistened with wetness, past the houses and buildings that crowded the earth, while she—her own spirit—was on the reservation.
She nodded, ignoring the perplexity in his expression. She could never explain.
“How about we go get something to eat?” he said after a moment, the perplexity giving way to something that resembled hope.
It was the hunger bothering her, that was all. She agreed.
“I know just the place,” Steve said, relief in his tone, as if this were the easiest problem he’d faced all day. “Little restaurant couple blocks away.” He set his half-full glass on the counter. “You’d better follow me. I’m backup for another guy tonight.”
Vicky followed the white Ford through the streets of north Denver. Bungalows and Victorians slid by outside, light glowing in the windows. The remnants of the earlier rain still shone on the asphalt. She turned onto Thirty-second Avenue and parked behind the Ford in front of a row of little shops and restaurants. Cars lumbered past, tires thrumming into the background of city noise.
He took her arm and guided her inside, through a maze of tables with checkered cloths and candles blinking in the center. Only a few other diners were there.
“So you’re finally having dinner with me,” he said after they’d sat down.
“Just business, Steve.” She gave him a friendly smile and began studying the menu, a part of her wondering what it might have been like, how her life might have gone, had she ever felt something more than friendship for this man.
After the waitress had taken their orders, he said, “Tell me about your hunch, Vicky.”
It was a moment before she realized he was referring to the call she’d placed to him earlier. She sat back, folding and refolding the white cloth napkin in her lap, and explained that she’d gone to see Jana Lewis.
“Now, why would you do that?” He made no effort to conceal his irritation. “I told you I’d get back to you the minute we had anything on Vince Lewis’s death. Why can’t you trust me to do my job, Vicky?”
She waited until the waitress had delivered plates of chicken dumplings and poured two mugs of coffee. “Of course I trust you, Steve,” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
In his eyes, Vicky caught an image of the woman he was staring at: determined, stubborn. She was as transparent as the windowpane next to their table. “I have to know what Vince Lewis wanted to tell me,” she said.
He seemed to consider this, cutting into the chicken, taking a bite. Finally he said, “I want to get to the bottom of Lewis’s death as much as you do. I want to find the son of a bitch who was driving that car, and put him away for the rest of his miserable life. Problem is, you talking to Jana Lewis could jeopardize the investigation. Right now the grieving widow could be the number-one suspect.”
“I don’t think Jana Lewis had anything to do with her husband’s murder.”
Steve stabbed at another piece of chicken. “Mind telling me what brought you to this conclusion?”
“She had no idea her husband was murdered,” Vicky said. “She was convinced his death was an accident.”
The detective took another bite and began chewing slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. “You realize,” he said finally, “that you’ll have to testify about your conversation if we put Jana Lewis on trial for murder. Hiring somebody to kill her husband is the same as doing the deed herself.”
“There’s no motivation, Steve.” Vicky felt herself moving onto firmer ground. It was the feeling she had in the courtroom when she knew a case was won.
“Oh, no? Three million dollars isn’t enough motivation for you?”