Brazen Virtue

name together with the face.

    “That’s right.” She glanced at the picture on the back cover. Her hair had been styled and crimped, and the photographer had used stark black and white to make her look mysterious. “You’ve got a good eye. I barely recognize myself from that picture.”
    Now that he was here, he hadn’t the least idea what to do with himself. This kind of thing always happened, he knew, whenever he acted on impulse. Especially with a woman. “I like your stuff. I guess I’ve read most of it.”
    “Only most of it?” Grace stuck the fork back in the spaghetti as she smiled at him. “Don’t you know that writers have huge and fragile egos? You’re supposed to say you’ve read every word I’ve ever written and adored them all.”
    He relaxed a little because her smile demanded he do so. “How about ‘you tell a hell of a story’?”
    “That’ll do.”
    “When I realized who you were, I guess I just wanted to come over and make sure I was right.”
    “Well, you win the prize. Come on in.”
    “Thanks.” He shifted the book to his other hand and felt like an idiot. “But I don’t want to bother you.”
    Grace gave him a long, solemn look. He was even more impressive up close than he’d been from the window. And his eyes were blue, a dark, interesting blue. “You mean you don’t want me to sign that?”
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “Come in then.” She took his arm and pulled him inside. “The coffee’s hot.”
    “I don’t drink it.”
    “Don’t drink coffee? How do you stay alive?” Then she smiled and gestured with her fork. “Come on back anyway, there’s probably something you can drink. So you like mysteries?”
    He liked the way she walked, slowly, carelessly, as though she could change her mind about direction at any moment. “I guess you could say mysteries are my life.”

    “Mine too.” In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator again. “No beer,” she murmured and decided to remedy that at the first opportunity. “No sodas, either. Christ, Kathy. There’s juice. It looks like orange.”
    “Fine.”
    “I’ve got some spaghetti here. Want to share?”
    “No, thanks. Is that your breakfast?”
    “Mmmm.” She poured his juice, gesturing casually to a chair as she went to the stove to pour her coffee. “Have you lived next door long?”
    He was tempted to mention nutrition but managed to control himself. “Just a couple of months.”
    “It must be great, fixing it up the way you want.” She took another bite of the pasta. “Is that what you are, a carpenter? You have the hands for it.”
    He found himself pleasantly relieved that she hadn’t asked him if he played ball. “No. I’m a cop.”
    “You’re kidding. Really?” She shoved her carton aside and leaned forward. It was her eyes that made her beautiful, he decided on the spot. They were so alive, so full of fascination. “I’m crazy about cops. Some of my best characters are cops, even the bad ones.”
    “I know.” He had to smile. “You’ve got a feel for police work. It shows in the way you plot a book. Everything works on logic and deduction.”
    “All my logic goes into writing.” She picked up her coffee, then remembered she’d forgotten the cream. Rather than get up, she drank it black. “What kind of cop are you—uniform, undercover?”
    “Homicide.”
    “Kismet.” She laughed and squeezed his hand. “I can’t believe it, I come to visit my sister and plop right down beside a homicide detective. Are you working on anything right now?”
    “Actually, we just wrapped something up yesterday.”

    A rough one, she decided. There’d been something about the way he’d said it, the faintest change of tone. Though her curiosity was piqued, it was controlled by compassion. “I’ve got a hell of a murder working right now. A series of murders, actually. I’ve got …” She trailed off. Ed saw her eyes darken. She sat back and propped her bare feet on an empty chair. “I can change the location,” she began slowly. “Set it right here in D.C. That’s better. It would work. What do you think?”
    “Well, I—”
    “Maybe I could come down to the station sometime. You could show me around.” Already taking her thought processes to the next stage, she thrust her hand into the pocket of her robe for a cigarette. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
    “I could probably work it out.”
    “Terrific. Look, have you got a wife or a lover or anything?”
    He stared