Sacred Sins

determined to match her. “We have a press conference at eight tomorrow in the mayor's office.”
    “I was notified.”
    “You're to keep your comments general, stay as far away from the specifics of the case as possible. The press knows about the murder weapon, but we've managed to keep the notes and the contents of them from leaking.”
    “I'm not a fool, Ben. I can handle an interview.”
    “I'm sure you can. This one happens to be on departmental business, not personal glory.”

    Her mouth opened, but all that came out was a hiss of breath. She knew it was both undignified and useless to lose her temper. She knew that such a ridiculous and bitter statement deserved no answer. She knew that he, standing there in judgment, deserved nothing but the coolest, most controlled dismissal.
    “You bigoted, small-brained, insensitive ass.” Her phone rang again, but they both ignored it. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and tossing out your little gems of idiocy?”
    He glanced around for an ashtray and settled on a small hand-painted dish. There was a vase of fresh, autumnal mums beside it. “Which gem was that?”
    She stood straight as a soldier, while he stood at ease and flicked ashes into the dish. “Let's just get something straight. I didn't leak this business to the press.”
    “Nobody said you did.”
    “Didn't they?” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of the skirt she'd worked in for fourteen hours. Her back hurt, her stomach was empty, and she wanted what she struggled so hard to give her patients—peace of mind. “Well, I interpret this little scene differently. As a matter of fact, I was promised my name would never be linked with this investigation.”
    “Got a problem letting people know you're cooperating with the police?”
    “Oh, you're clever, aren't you?”
    “As hell,” he returned, fascinated by the complete annihilation of her control. She paced as she spoke, and her eyes had deepened to purple. Temper in her was rigid, and icy, unlike the venom-spitting, plate-throwing sort he was more accustomed to. It was all the more interesting.
    “Either way I go, you've got an answer. Did it ever occur to you, Detective, that I might not care to have my patients, my colleagues, my friends question me about this case? Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want to take the case in the first place?”
    “Then why did you? The pay's lousy.”

    “Because I was persuaded to believe I could help. If I didn't still think so, I'd tell you to take your case and choke on it. Do you think I want to waste my time arguing with some narrow-minded, self-appointed judge about the morality of my profession? I have enough problems in my life without you adding to them.”
    “Problems, Doc?” He took a slow sweep of the room, the flowers, the crystal, the soft pastels. “Things look pretty tidy around here to me.”
    “You don't know anything about me, my life, or my work.” She walked over to her desk, leaning her palms on it, but still didn't regain control. “Do you see these files, these papers, these tapes? There's a fourteen-year-old boy's life there. A boy who's already an alcoholic, a boy who needs someone who can open him up enough to see his own worth, his own place.” She whirled back again, eyes dark and impassioned. “You know what it is to try to save a life, don't you, Detective? You know how it hurts, how it frightens? Maybe I don't use a gun, but that's just what I'm trying to do. I've spent ten years of my life trying to learn how. Maybe, with enough time, enough skill, enough luck, I'll be able to help him. Damn.” She stopped, realizing how far she'd allowed herself to be pushed by a few words. “I don't have to justify anything to you.”
    “No, you don't.” As he spoke, he crushed out his cigarette in the little china dish. “I'm sorry. I was out of line.”
    Her breath came out with two hitches as she struggled to bring herself back. “What is it about what I do that makes you so bitter?”
    He wasn't ready to tell her, to bring that old, fleshed-over scar out in the open for inspection and analysis. Instead he pressed his fingers to his own tired eyes. “It's not you. It's the whole business. Makes me feel like I'm walking a very thin wire over a very long drop.”

    “I guess I can accept that.” Though it wasn't the whole answer, or the one she'd wanted. “It's hard to stay objective right now.”
    “Let's take a step back for a minute. I