Brazen Virtue

father’s son.
    Addiction came easily to Jerald, and murdering was just one more vice. But the next time, he’d get to know the woman a bit better. He wanted to feel that bond with her.
    Mr. Brenner lectured about Lady Macbeth’s madness. Jerald rubbed a hand over his chest and wondered how he’d bruised it.

Chapter 8
    G RACE HAD BEEN TO police stations before. She’d always found them fascinating. Small town, big city, north or south, they had a certain feel, a certain controlled chaos.
    This one was no different. The floor was a dull linoleum with more than a few ripples and bubbles. The walls were either beige or a white that had turned. Posters were tacked up here and there. Crime stoppers, with a number and a plug for good citizenship. Hot lines for drugs, suicide, wife and child abuse. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD? The venetian blinds needed dusting and there was an OUT OF ORDER sign on a candy machine.
    In the Homicide Division, plainclothes cops were huddled over phones or hunched over typewriters. Someone was burrowing into a dented refrigerator. She could smell coffee, and what she thought might have been tuna fish.
    “Can I help you?”

    When she jerked at the sound of the voice, she realized how close her nerves were to snapping. The cop was young, midtwenties, with dark hair and a dimple in the middle of his chin. Grace forced her fingers to relax on the clasp of her purse.
    “I need to see Detective Jackson.”
    “He’s not in.” It had taken him a minute to recognize her. He wasn’t much of a reader, but he’d seen her picture in the morning paper. “Miss McCabe?”
    “Yes?”
    “You can wait if you like, or I can check and see if the captain’s available.”
    Captain? She didn’t know the captain, or this young cop with the dimple in his chin. She wanted Ed. “I’d rather wait.”
    Since he was already balancing two soft drinks and a fat file, he nodded to a chair in the corner. Grace sat, closed her hands over her purse, and waited.
    She saw a woman walk in. Blond and beautifully dressed in a rose silk suit, she didn’t look like a person who had business with Homicide. A professional woman, or a politician’s young wife, Grace decided, although she hadn’t the energy to go further, as she usually did, and attach an imaginary history to the unknown face. She looked away again toward the hall.
    “Hey, Tess,” the young cop called from his desk. “It’s about time we got some class in here.”
    She smiled and walked over to stand beside him. “Ben’s not here?”
    “Out playing detective.”
    “I had an hour and thought he might be able to swing an early lunch.”
    “Will I do?”
    “Sorry. My husband’s a jealous cop who carries a gun. Just tell him I stopped by.”
    “You coming in on this? Going to give us a psychiatric on our killer?”

    She hesitated. It was something she’d considered, something she’d even mentioned casually to Ben. His grim negative and her own caseload had made it easy to back down. “I don’t think so. Tell Ben I’ll pick up some Chinese and be home by six. Six-thirty,” she amended.
    “Some guys get all the breaks.”
    “Tell him that, too.” She started out, then spotted Grace. Tess recognized her from book jackets and newspaper photos. She recognized, too, the look of strain and grief on her face. As a doctor she found it almost impossible to walk away. Crossing the room, she waited until Grace glanced up. “Miss McCabe?”
    Not a fan, Grace thought. Not here, not now. Tess saw the withdrawal and offered her hand.
    “I’m Tess. Tess Paris, Ben’s wife.”
    “Oh. Hello.”
    “Are you waiting for Ed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Looks like we’re both out of luck. Want some coffee?”
    Grace hesitated, started to refuse. Then a weeping woman was half carried into the room.
    “My son’s a good boy. He’s a good boy. He was just defending himself. You can’t keep him here.”
    Grace watched as the woman was helped into a chair while a female detective leaned over her and talked steadily. There was blood on both of them. “Yes,” Grace said quickly, then, “I’d like that.”
    Tess stood and walked quickly into the hall. She drew change out of her wallet and pushed it into a machine. “Cream?”
    “No, black.”
    “Good choice. The cream usually sprays all over the floor.” She passed the first cup to Grace. Putting herself in the position of a sounding board was part of her profession. It was also part of her personality. Tess