Four Blind Mice

forties.
    “I know I look okay,” Billie said, and twirled around. “So do you. Now let’s hit the water before you chicken out on me.”
    “Chicken out? You know I’m a homicide detective?”
    “Uh-huh. Water’s sixty-seven today, tough guy.”
    “What? Is that cold?”
    “You’ll soon find out.”
    They walked to the top of the dune in front of the house. Then they broke into a full-out run. Sampson was laughing, mostly at himself, because he didn’t
do
this kind of thing.
    They high-stepped their way through the low surf like kids on vacation, ignoring that the water was in the sixties, cold as hell, absolutely freezing.
    “You
can
swim?” Billie asked as a huge swell moved toward them. She thought she saw him nod.
    “John?” she asked again.
    “I can swim. Can
you?
”
    Then they both dove under the wave as it crested high above their heads. A ways out past the first wave, they resurfaced. She started to stroke her way out to a point past the breakers. Sampson followed, and he was a good, strong swimmer. That delighted her for some reason.
    “Sometimes, kids from the cities,” she said as they bobbed heads together, “they don’t learn to swim.”
    “That’s true. I have this good friend. When we were growing up in D.C., his grandmother made sure we knew how. She used to take us to the city pool. She said, ‘You swim, or you drown.’”
    Then Sampson found himself taking Billie in his arms again. She used a forefinger to wipe beads of water off his face. Her touch was gentle. So were her eyes. Something was going on here, and whatever it was he didn’t know if he was ready for it.
    “What?” Billie asked.
    “I was just going to say,” he said, “that you’re surprising in a lot of ways.”
    She closed her eyes for a second, nodded. Then Billie opened her eyes again. “You’re still here. Good. I’m glad you came back. Even if you came to interrogate me.”
    “The reason I came was to see you. I told you.”
    “Whatever you say, John.”
    Nobody but Alex and Nana called him John.
    They swam back toward shore and played in the creamy surf for a while. Even though it was late afternoon they took a walk to the south, passing more large houses that were shut up tight for the coming winter. They fell into a nice rhythm along the way. They had to stop and kiss at each house.
    “You’re getting kind of corny,” Billie finally said. “It becomes you. You have a tender side, John Sampson.”
    “Yeah. Maybe I do.”
    They ate dinner on the front porch again. Sampson put on the radio. Afterward, they snuggled in the love seat, and he was struck again by how tiny she was. She fit against him, though.
    “One Night with You” came on the radio. Luther Vandross. Sampson asked her to dance. He couldn’t believe it —
I just asked Billie to dance on the porch.
    He tucked her in close. She fit nicely standing up too. They moved well together, totally in sync. He listened to her breathing and could feel her heartbeat as well.
    An old Marvin Gaye tune came on the radio, and they danced to that too. It all seemed dreamlike to him. Completely unexpected.
    Especially when they went upstairs together about ten-thirty. Neither of them said a word, but Billie took his hand and led him into the bedroom. A three-quarter moon was lighting the whitecaps. A sailboat lazily drifted by out beyond the line of surf.
    “You okay?” she whispered.
    “I am much more than okay. Are you, Billie?”
    “I
am
Billie. I think I wanted this to happen from the first time I saw you. You ever done this before?” she asked. There was that sly grin of hers again. She was playing with him, but he liked it.
    “First time. I’ve been saving myself for the right woman.”
    “Well, let’s see if I’m worth the wait.”
    Sometimes he could be in a hurry, and that would be okay, the way of the world in Washington, but not tonight. He wanted to explore Billie’s body, to get to know what pleased her. He touched Billie everywhere; kissed her everywhere. Everything about her seemed right to him.
What’s happening here? I came to ask this woman about some murders. Murders! Not lovemaking in shimmering moonlight.
    He could feel her small breasts rising and falling, rising and falling. He was on top of her, supporting his weight on his hands.
    “You won’t hurt me,” she whispered.
    “No, I won’t.”
    I won’t. I couldn’t hurt you. And I won’t let anybody hurt you.
    She smiled, rolled over, and then slid up