Brazen Virtue

become hysterical, to make the accusations that had been simmering in her brain all day. Ed might have been kind and sympathetic, but he wouldn’t take anything she said in the heat of emotion seriously.
    And the truth was, she wanted to believe Jonathan had been responsible. That would be easy, that would be tangible. It was so much more difficult to hate a stranger.
    “Look, I know I’m not functioning at top level. And I know that I’m starting off biased against Jonathan.” She took a steadying breath. Her voice was calm and reasonable. She didn’t hear, as Ed did, the light trace of desperation around the edges. “But he’s hiding something. It’s not just instinct, Ed. You’re a trained observer, I’m an innate one. I was born cataloging people. I can’t help it.”
    “Whenever you’re too close to something, the vision blurs, Grace.”
    Her hackles rose, prompted by the strain of the last twenty-four hours. She felt her temper slip and barely managed to catch it. “All right. That’s why I’m asking you to talk to him. You’ll see for yourself. Then you can tell me.”
    Ed ate his salad slowly. The longer this went on, he thought, the harder it was going to be. “Grace, I can’t tell you about the investigation, not specifics, not any more than the department decides to release to the press.”
    “I’m not a goddamn reporter, I’m her sister. If Jonathan had anything to do with what happened to Kathleen, don’t I have a right to know?”

    “Maybe.” His eyes were on hers, very calm and suddenly distant. “But I don’t have the right to tell you anything until it’s official.”
    “I see.” Very slowly, and with a precision she possessed only when she deliberately controlled her temper, Grace tapped out her cigarette. “My sister was raped and murdered. I found her body. I’m the only one left to comfort my parents. But the cop says the investigation’s confidential.” She rose, knowing she was on the edge of another crying jag.
    “Grace—”
    “No, don’t give me any platitudes, I’ll hate you for it.” She willed herself to calm down again as she studied him. “You have a sister, Ed?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Think about it,” she said as she reached the back door. “And let me know how much departmental procedure would mean to you if you were putting her in the ground.”
    When the door shut, Ed pushed aside his plate, then picked up her beer. He finished it off in two long swallows.

Chapter 6
    J ERALD WASN’T SURE WHY he sent flowers to her funeral. In part it was because he felt it necessary to acknowledge the odd and unique role she’d played in his life. He thought too that if he acknowledged it, he would be able to close the chapter, stop dreaming about her.
    He was already searching for another, listening hour after hour for that one voice that could bring him the rush and thrill. He never doubted that he’d find it, that he would recognize it with one phrase, one word. The voice would bring him the woman, and the woman would bring him the glory.
    Patience was important, timing was vital, but he wasn’t sure how long he could wait. The experience had been so special, so unique. To experience it again would be, well, perhaps like dying.

    He was losing sleep. Even his mother had noticed it, and she rarely noticed anything between her committees and her cocktails. Of course she’d accepted his excuse about studying late and had tutted and patted his cheek and told him not to work so hard. She was such a fool. Still, he didn’t resent her. Her preoccupations had always provided him with the space he needed for his own diversions. In return, he’d given her the illusion of the ideal son. He didn’t play loud music or go to wild parties. Such things were childish anyway.
    He might have considered school a waste of time, but he maintained good, even excellent, grades. The simplest way to keep people from bothering you was to give them what they wanted. Or to make them think you were doing so.
    He was fastidious, even fussy, about his room and his personal hygiene. In that way it was accepted that the servants would stay out of his personal space. His mother considered it a mild, even endearing, eccentricity. And it insured that no one would find his cache of drugs.
    More important, no servant, no family, no friend ever touched his computer.
    He had a natural aptitude for machines. They were so much better, so much cleaner than people. He’d been fifteen when