She should just stay here and work through the dinner hour, but she did need a break and the thought of spending a little time with O’Keefe was oh so appealing. Maybe just what she needed.
She glanced at her computer screen again, at a still picture, a moment caught on the tape of him rolling the garbage can holding Brenda Sutherland. He’d looked up. Directly into the camera, his dark goggles nearly reflective. It was the cleanest shot they had of him, the one that had been given to the press and the public, but it could be any man in a ski mask, goggles and cap.
She was tired of staring at the image, of being taunted by the bastard.
Yeah, she needed a break. And she wanted to see O’Keefe. More than she admitted to herself. “So,” she said into the phone as she turned away from the computer monitor. “You’re sticking around for a while?” she asked.
“At least tonight.”
“And after that?”
“Depends on the storm.”
“Oh.” It was strange how disappointed she felt at the thought of his leaving.
“And it also depends upon a woman.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Really?”
“Yeah, you see, I like her. A lot; but I’m not sure where I stand with her.”
Alvarez felt the room shrink, and all at once she remembered how it felt to touch him and kiss him and wake up to him in the morning. How they laughed, how he’d come to her rescue when Junior Green wanted her dead, how he’d accepted what she’d told him about Emilio and Gavin ... how right it felt to be with him. Suddenly, her throat grew thick and she felt heat steal up the back of her neck. “Maybe you should just tell her how you feel,” she suggested.
“She might run the other way.”
“And she might not.” Dear God, she couldn’t believe they were having this conversation while she was still at the station, the door to her office open. “Maybe you should have a little faith. She might be a strong woman and it could be she feels the same way about you.”
“She’s run away before.”
“But she’s older now, right? More mature. Dealt with some of her demons?” Alvarez found herself smiling while blinking back tears. This was ridiculous ... She was overly tired, that was it. Right?
Or, was it possible to fall in love this fast?
Take it slow. There’s so much going on. You’re on the edge. Frazzled. Another serial killer’s on the loose and you just met your son that you gave up for adoption years ago. You’re fragile. Don’t rush this. Despite the voice of reason arguing in her head, she said into her phone, “I really think you should give her a chance, O’Keefe. She just might surprise you.”
“Okay, one more,” he said. “See you in forty-five.”
“You got it.”
She hung up and told herself everyone was right; she did need more of a life than working eighty hours a week. Yes, her pets had helped, but she was finally open to the thought of a family, and that, she knew, started with O’Keefe.
She spent the next half hour finishing a few loose ends, then actually spent a few minutes in the restroom, combing her hair and adding lip gloss. Her reflection appeared tired, worn out; no amount of makeup could hide the dark smudges under her eyes or mask the lines of strain at the edge of her mouth.
“Too bad,” she told herself, and wound her scarf tight around her neck before she told Pescoli—her non-partner on this case—that she’d be back in a couple of hours.
“You don’t have to work round the clock,” Pescoli said from her station, where a half-eaten tuna salad sandwich sat on a napkin and stunk up her work area.
“Neither do you, but you’re still here.”
“I just want to nail this sucker’s ass.”
“You and me both. I’ll see ya later.” She walked outside to a night that was brutally cold, then dashed to her Subaru, which ran despite a bullet hole or two.
Inside she switched on the engine, turned the heater on high and pulled out of the lot. God, it was cold. As the heater finally started blowing warm air, she drove to the road that wound down Boxer Bluff. Once she was down the hill and across the railroad tracks, she followed a slow-moving van to the road overlooking the river, only a few blocks from the courthouse and less than five from where Brenda Sutherland’s body had been found early this morning.
The roads were no longer blocked, but traffic was light, thankfully, since the storm was still blowing snow through the rustic streets of this, the old section of town.
She pulled into the hotel’s small parking lot and noted that several cars were buried in snow, nearly a foot covering their roofs and hoods. The space she chose had been shoveled and it was close to the front door. Erected at the turn of the last century, the clapboard building was four stories and built with a Western facade and wide, wraparound porch. Clear lights had been strung along the roofline and a huge Christmas tree guarded the front door. Through each window, chandeliers were giving off a warm, inviting light.