Got Your Number

be so disappointed in her. Nell. Her father. Capistrano. And wouldn't she then have to face the lie herself?
    "Maybe you're biased," she offered.
    He looked up again. "Because I'm attracted to you?"
    She squirmed and zipped her jacket higher on her neck. He laughed, a big booming noise that made her frown. "How can you even think of sex when my life is such a nightmare?"
    He shrugged. "You look sexy in my clothes. Besides, it might take your mind off things."
    She sputtered. "Someone who once played an important role in my life was just murdered. I am a suspect, and my cousin, who is also a suspect, is in the hospital. Then there's that little matter of being dogged by a maniac."
    "So you're saying you're not in the mood?"
    She gave him the finger.
    "Okay, okay," he said, seemingly unfazed, then looked back to his notes. "We'll have the medical examiner's report tomorrow. And they're checking for Cape's fingerprints at the scene of the crime."
    Roxann marveled at the man's ability to move from subject to subject seamlessly—as if neither one mattered more than the other. She inhaled deeply to calm her frustration. He'd love knowing he irritated her. "Can I have a restraining order issued on Cape?"
    "Sure. We'll do it first thing in the morning. Then at least we'll be able to hold him for something if he comes near you again. And maybe by then we'll be able to tie him to the murder."
    As much as she hoped that Frank Cape was guilty, the thought of him killing Carl to get back at her was nauseating. If the man was that crazy, then she was seriously glad she'd helped Melissa and her daughter get away from him. And even more disturbed that Nell would suggest that she appease the bully.
    In an attempt to look somewhere other than Capistrano's bare chest, she glanced at the sound-muted television, surprised when a picture of Carl appeared over the shoulder of the newscaster. She dove for the remote next to Capistrano's leg and turned up the volume.
    "—Seger was a theology professor at the University of Notre Dame, and a coach on the varsity soccer team. Fifty-two-year-old Seger was found dead in his home early this morning in a South Bend neighborhood, a few miles from campus. Police are releasing few details, but a source tells us that Seger, a bachelor and a deacon of the university church, was strangled by a woman's scarf. The mystery comes in the middle of the university's Homecoming activities, when the city's population increases by half. The police have questioned suspects, including some of Dr. Seger's former students, but an arrest has not yet been made. School officials will hold a memorial service for Dr. Seger next week."
    She lowered the volume. "It still doesn't seem real."
    "Much of life is like that," he said, then stretched tall in a yawn. "Do you want to hit the shower first, or should I?"
    "Um, go ahead. I need to make a few phone calls."
    He stood and gestured to his gun lying in a holster on the TV cabinet. "Do you know how to use old Pete here?"
    She nodded. "I've been to the firing range a few times."
    "The safety is on. Don't answer the door."
    "Duh."
    He moved his body like an animal, slow and measured, and sure of himself. Comfortable. Sexy. Male. The smooth skin of his wide back was broken by a four-inch-long scar, fully healed, but red and perhaps less than a year old. She was torn between asking its origin and not wanting him to know she noticed.
    "Steak knife," he said, standing with his back to her.
    "What?"
    He turned. "The scar. I was stabbed with a steak knife by a woman trying to keep me from arresting her boyfriend who had just broken her jaw." His smile was wry. "My partner told me that's what I got for turning my back on a woman."
    "Looks like it was a serious wound."
    "Serious enough. Made me start appreciating the things that are important."
    "Like?"
    "Like family and friends and pistachio ice cream."
    She relinquished a small smile. "You're lucky. Most people spend their entire lives trying to figure out what makes them happy." The voice of experience.
    "I'm no expert," he said, folding thick arms over his chest, "but it seems to me that people complicate their lives either by trying to be something they're not, or by trying to fix things they can't."
    I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
    Some things just can't be fixed, Roxann, no matter how much glue you put on 'em.
    She swallowed and gestured to the phone. "I really should make those calls."
    He leaned over to pull off his boots