Love Can Be Murder

with murder."
    "Funny how a person adapts," she said wryly. "Don't worry about me. I figure as long as the real killer thinks the heat is off, he might make a mistake."
    "He?"
    "It could be Frank Cape, although I can't be sure. He followed me to South Bend."
    "Oh, my God. So that's why Nell left a message asking questions about the Cape case. She's afraid for you."
    She smiled. "Yes, but I just spoke with her, so don't worry about calling her back. Besides, the murder could also be a random crime, or any number of things. Obviously, I'm going to need a few days off." Then she puffed out her cheeks in an exhale. "Actually, Tom, I'm giving my notice."
    "What? Why?"
    "Well, it might be tricky trying to facilitate from the state pen."
    "Don't even joke about that."
    "Seriously, Tom, I've run my course. This thing with Cape makes me see that."
    "All right, you know this is a freewill organization, both the people we help, and the ones doing the helping. But if you ever want to come back, just call."
    "I will. Thanks, Tom. Listen, I ran into Elise James on campus—have you heard from her?"
    "No, and I've left several messages on her cell phone. I have a check for her for a couple of hundred dollars, and I don't know where to send it."
    "She said she was going to call you, but to be honest, she was pretty messed up."
    "Understood. Thanks for letting me know."
    She pushed down the antenna and returned the phone to her purse, suddenly remembering a curious detail about Elise—the woman had such large hands. Large and strong enough for strangling? She pursed her mouth, wondering if Capistrano had given the woman's name to his counterparts in town as he'd promised. Of course, since he was diddling one of their prime suspects, they might find his leads questionable at best. Every time she thought about her stupid, stupid lapse in judgment, she wanted to swallow something jagged.
    Oh, well, enough about her sorry sex life—she needed to get to the hotel and retrieve her clothes. She'd book a room under another name, then maybe throw on a wig and start doing some poking around on her own.
    She rounded the corner of the house to retrieve Goldie, then stopped. The van's tires had been slashed. Not just by some prankster kid looking for a place to stick his new Case pocketknife—the rubber had literally been shredded by a sharp instrument, and by someone with considerable strength. Or anger. The violated feeling that coursed through her reminded her of when her apartment had been rifled.
    I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
    Frank Cape? She reached into her purse and put her finger on the trigger of her pepper-spray can, for comfort rather than purpose. Judging from the lack of footprints in the grass, he was probably long gone. Then she froze as heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
    "There you are."
    She wheeled and aimed the spray at Frank Cape's face, and instead hit Joe Capistrano square in the chest. The effects were instantaneous—he yowled and spun like a helicopter crashing. Roxann dropped the can and ran for the water hose, which she turned on him full force. He tore off the long-sleeved T-shirt and stood in the water stream, running his hands over the red areas of his torso again and again. All of that hair was good for something after all. Otherwise, he'd be nursing third-degree burns.
    He didn't talk, and since she wasn't exactly looking forward to the conversation, she concentrated on the task at hand, which was holding the hose and trying not to laugh.
    After a fifteen-minute shower, he yanked the hose away from her. "That's enough," he barked, then turned off the spigot and wound up the hose, muttering under his breath. His jeans were soaked and plastered to his legs—they had to weigh a ton.
    Roxann pressed her finger to her mouth. "I'm sorry."
    "Dammit, you should be. I feel like I've been barbecued."
    "I thought you were Cape."
    "Didn't anyone tell you to make damn sure where you're aiming that stuff before you hit the trigger?"
    "Didn't anyone tell you not to sneak up on people?"
    "I wasn't sneaking."
    "You were sneaking."
    "I wasn't sneaking."
    "Oh, yes, you were sneaking."
    He lifted both hands and slung off the water. "Forget it." Then he saw the van tires. "Cape?"
    "I assume so."
    He walked over and examined a slashed tire. "The poor thing might have committed suicide."
    "Funny. How did you know I was here?"
    "I called and you'd already left the courthouse, so I took a chance." He quirked an eyebrow. "You