Dead Watch

Howard. Johnnie’s got a source who said that the FBI crime-scene investigators have found something weird with the body. There were some scratches on his wrists like he might have been handcuffed and they’ve gone to the three cops and collected their handcuffs.”
    “Jeez. How could they, he wasn’t . . .”
    “The thinking is, they cuffed him, he didn’t resist, then one of them hit him on the back of the head with something heavy, and they threw him out the window—but because he went out and landed on his back and head, there’s no evidence that he was slugged. That’s what the thinking is.”
    “The FBI’s thinking?”
    “No, no, that’s Johnnie, trying to figure out what could have happened. But he’s going to talk to a couple of his media pals, just pass the speculation around. It’ll be on the air tomorrow—keep Goodman shuckin’ and jivin’.”
    “All right. I doubt that’s what happened, though,” Jake said. “Too complicated—especially with witnesses right there in the office.”
    “Maybe . . . Listen, I really need you. I’m scared, I’m sad, I’m messed up by everything that’s happened.”
    “I need you too,” he said. “But if your place is bugged . . .”
    “If the place is bugged, if the bedroom is bugged, then they’ve heard it all before. I don’t care anymore, Jake. I’m going to send Johnnie home. But I need to spend some time with you. Right now.”
    “I’m on my way,” he said.

    He parked a block from her house, got his stick, tapped down the sidewalks, a glorious April evening, sunlight still warming the sky, but cool with a touch of humidity to soften the air. Another car was parked farther down the street, and when he turned in at Madison’s sidewalk, a woman jumped out of the car and called, “Sir, sir, could I speak to you a minute? Sir, I’m from the New York Times  . . .”
    Jake called back, “I’m sorry, I really can’t speak to you.” On the porch, he knocked, saw the woman was still coming along the sidewalk, a notebook in her hand, and she called again, “Sir, sir . . .”
    Madison opened the door. He said, quickly, “ New York Times coming up fast.” Madison looked behind him, grinned, said, “Come in, Mr. Smith. Good to see you again . . .”
    “It’s a sad day,” Jake said, as the door swung closed. When he heard the snick of the lock, he pushed her back and said, “Not so close to the glass . . .”
    Then her arms were around his neck and his hands were on her hips, and he steered her toward the stairs. At the bottom step she broke away long enough to whisper, “There would be a certain frisson to know that Arlo Goodman was listening, but I freshened up the guest room . . .”
    “Just hope the bed can take a beating,” Jake said.

    The first time they’d slept together had been one of the first time situations that combined curiosity with wariness and possibly courtesy, an effort both to discover and to leave a favorable impression. This time was a collision, with Jake pulling at her clothing, with Madison ripping at his shirt, falling together on the bed, no preliminaries, nothing but in , and consummation, Madison groaning with him, her short rider’s nails digging into his shoulder blades, as he forced himself into her and pressed her down.
    When they finished, she gasped, “God . . . bless me.”
    He was sweating, breathing hard, his heart thumping, and he wanted to do it again, right then, but was temporarily hors de combat. He rolled away, stood up, shook himself, crawled back to her, put his mouth next to her ear, and said, “No jokes about bugs.”
    She said, aloud, “I wonder if anyone has figured us out? The first time we met, Johnnie Black was there, he picked up a little electricity.”
    “Probably me,” Jake said. He was on his back now, his arm under her head. “I was asking a million questions and all I really wanted to do was jump you.”
    “That’s pretty romantic,” she said.
    “Hey. It’s the truth. The first reaction was sexual. Only later did I begin to appreciate your fine mind and deep understanding of Arab culture.”
    She sat up. “My ‘fine mind.’ More like my fine ass.”
    “You do have a terrific ass,” Jake said. “When Danzig sent me to see you, one of the things he mentioned in the briefing was your ass. I’ve noticed that a lot of serious women riders have great asses. Probably all the pounding. Anyway, I’m thinking of nominating you for