Sacred Sins

anything, he'd been at peace. It was peace he sought, and peace, in his twisted way, he sought to give.
    “White for purity,” she murmured after she'd looked at the amices. A symbol perhaps, she mused. But for whom? She turned away from the notes. More than the murder weapons, they chilled her. “It appears he's a man with a mission.”

    Ben remembered the sick frustration he'd felt after each murder, but his voice was cool and flat. “You sound sure of yourself, Doctor.”
    “Do I?” Turning back, she gave him a brief survey, mulled things over, then went on impulse. “What time are you off duty, Detective?”
    He tilted his head, not quite certain of his moves. “Ten minutes ago.”
    “Good.” She pulled on her coat. “You can buy me a drink and tell me why you dislike my profession, or just me personally. I give you my word, no tabletop analysis.”
    Something about her challenged him. The cool, elegant looks, the strong, sophisticated voice. Maybe it was the big, soft eyes. He'd think about it later. “No fee?”
    She laughed and stuck her hat in her pocket. “We might have hit the root of the problem.”
    “I need my coat.” As they walked back to the squad room, each of them wondered why they were about to spend part of their evening with someone who so obviously disapproved of who and what they were. But then each of them was determined to come out on top before the evening was over. Ben grabbed his coat and scrawled something in a ledger.
    “Charlie, tell Ed I'm engaged in further consultation with Dr. Court.”
    “You file that requisition?”
    Ben shifted Tess almost like a shield and headed for the door. “File?”
    “Damn it, Ben—”
    “Tomorrow, in triplicate.” He had himself and Tess out of earshot and nearly to the outer door.
    “Don't care much for paperwork?” she said.
    He pushed the door open and saw the rain had turned to a damp drizzle. “It's not the most rewarding part of the job.”
    “What is?”

    He gave her an enigmatic look as he steered her toward his car. “Catching bad guys.”
    Oddly enough, she believed him.
    Ten minutes later they walked into a dimly lit bar where the music came from a jukebox and the drinks weren't watered. It wasn't one of Washington's most distinguished night spots, nor one of its seamiest. It seemed to Tess a place where the regulars knew each other by name and newcomers were accepted gradually.
    Ben sent the bartender a careless wave, exchanged a muffled word with one of the cocktail waitresses, and found a table in the back. Here the music was muted and the lights even dimmer. The table rocked a bit on one shortened leg.
    The minute he sat down, he relaxed. This was his turf, and he knew his moves. “What'll you have?” He waited for her to ask for some pretty white wine with a French name.
    “Scotch, straight up.”
    “Stolichnaya,” he told the waitress as he continued to watch Tess. “Rocks.” He waited until the silence stretched out, ten seconds, then twenty. An interesting silence, he thought, full of questions and veiled animosity. Maybe he'd throw her a curve. “You have incredible eyes.”
    She smiled, and leaned back comfortably. “I would have thought you'd come up with something more original.”
    “Ed liked your legs.”
    “I'm surprised he could see them from his height. He's not like you,” she observed. “I imagine you make an impressive team. Leaving that aside, Detective Paris, I'm interested in why you distrust my profession.”
    “Why?”

    When her drink was served, she sipped it slowly. It warmed in places the coffee hadn't touched. “Curiosity. It comes with the territory. After all, we're both in the business of looking for answers, solving puzzles.”
    “You see our jobs as similar?” The thought made him grin. “Cops and shrinks.”
    “Perhaps I find your job as unpleasant as you find mine,” she said mildly. “But they're both necessary as long as people don't behave in what society terms normal patterns.”
    “I don't like terms.” He tipped back his drink. “I don't have much confidence in someone who sits behind a desk probing people's brains, then putting their personalities into slots.”
    “Well.” She sipped her drink again and heard the music turn to something dreamy by Lionel Richie. “That's how you term psychiatrists?”
    “Yeah.”
    She nodded. “I suppose you have to tolerate a great deal of bigotry in your profession as well.”
    Something dangerous flashed in