Love Can Be Murder

mother was so wrapped up in her new boyfriend that she didn't have time for you. After she died, well...what was the point?"
    She blinked back tears and smiled into the phone, "Dad, when I get back, can we talk?"
    "Sure. For as long as you want."
    "Roxann?" bellowed Capistrano.
    "I'll call you soon," she promised, then hung up and stalked to the closed door. "How dare you yell for me when I was on the phone! That was my father."
    "Your father liked me." His voice was muffled, but amused.
    "That was before he knew you were taking a shower within earshot of the phone I'm using."
    The doorknob moved and she whirled, turning her back just as the door opened. Steam rolled out around her, but she stared stubbornly at the opposite wall.
    "Soap?" he asked. "It's in my toiletry bag. You can get it, or I can."
    "I'll get it," she snapped, then stalked over to his bag.
    "Side pocket, green bar."
    "I see it." A big block that smelled like pine needles. She backed up to the door, holding the soap behind her. "Here."
    "Thanks," he said, then took the soap and closed the door.
    She sighed and wiped her wet hand on her—no, his —sweatpants, feeling like an idiot. She had no business being attracted to Capistrano, not when so many other things demanded her concentration.
    She called Nell's sister next, just to make sure she'd arrived safely. Nell was resting, her sister assured her. As was Chester, the one cat that Nell insisted on taking with her. At least she was safe, and there was one less person to worry about.
    Roxann spotted Capistrano's file and shot a glance toward the bathroom. His electric razor was buzzing, so she had time for a peek. His handwriting was large, but neat—not surprising. Behind the first page was the police report of Carl's murder. Abbreviated and barely readable. Oct 18, 5:05 a.m. Wht Male found on floor of home libr, apparnt vic of strnglat. Wearing shrt, pants, one shoe. Grn woman's scrf arnd neck. Signs of rigor.
    She swallowed hard and thumbed through the file, coming across a manila envelope marked "crime scene photos." Her heart raced, but she felt compelled to slide her finger under the flap. At least a dozen black-and-white photos slipped out into her hand. The first was a wide-angle shot of the library and Carl's body lying on the floor near an ottoman, his limbs sprawled, his head at an odd angle, looking away from the camera. She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth. He looked like a mannequin, a prop in a weekend murder-mystery game.
    Another photo was taken standing over his body, this one clearly showing the scarf wrapped around his neck. Her scarf. Roxann gulped air.
    Close-ups of different parts of his body and clothing—his hands, his feet, his shirt, his house shoes—one on, one off.
    And then his face. Unrecognizable as the handsome, confident man she had known. He was cartoonish and swollen, his cheeks and forehead puffy. His head was turned to the left, his eyes slightly open. Just enough that if she looked hard enough, she could imagine their bright blue color. The photos slid from her fingers and bounced on the carpet. She choked on a sob.
    "Hey, hey," Capistrano chided, his arms going around her from behind. "You shouldn't be looking at those."
    She turned into his chest and nodded, inhaling a clean, evergreen scent. His skin was damp, and he wore only the pajama pants. She felt petite against his frame and safe in his arms. God, was it good to feel safe. Everything female in her reared its head, and her arms went around his neck. His kiss took ownership of her fear and anxiety, offering comfort and refuge in return. When she moaned into his mouth, he pulled her up and against him, deepening the kiss. But he let her take the lead, let her decide when and if the kiss would go from comforting to carnal. A few skipped heartbeats later, she lifted her leg and hooked it around the back of his knee—an unmistakable signal, she figured.
    His hands moved down over her back and inside the baggy sweatpants to mold her into him. When he encountered the thong underwear, a groan of pure male appreciation moved through his body, and she laughed. He grinned and lifted her off the floor to set her on the edge of the bed. The outline of his arousal against the thin fabric of his pajamas sent moisture to her thighs.
    He knelt before her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, with more intensity and a probing tongue that hinted of other intimacies. Her neck loosened and her bones