Sacred Sins

ashtray, and found the phone.
    “Yeah, Paris.” In the dark he ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away sleep. “Where?” Instantly awake, he switched on the lamp. The cat curled on Tess's stomach growled a complaint then leaped aside as she braced herself on her elbows. “Keep him there. I'm on my way.” Ben hung up the phone and stared at the light sheen of frost on the window.
    “He didn't wait, did he?”

    The light fell harshly over his face as he turned to look at her. She gave a quick, involuntary shudder. His eyes were hard—not weary, not regretful, but hard. “No, he didn't wait.”
    “Do they have him?”
    “No, but it looks like we've got a witness.” As he rolled out of bed he grabbed his jeans. “I don't know how long I'll be but you can wait here, get some more sleep. I'll fill you in when… What are you doing?”
    She stood on the opposite side of the bed, dragging on her sweater. “Going with you.”
    “Forget it.” His legs disappeared into the jeans, but he left the pants unsnapped as he pulled open a drawer for a sweater. “There's nothing you can do at a murder scene but get in the way.” In the mirror above his dresser he saw her head snap up. “It's still shy of five, for Christ's sake. Go back to bed.”
    “Ben, I'm involved in this case.”
    He turned. She wore only the sweater that skimmed her thighs. He remembered the material had been thick and soft when he'd drawn it off her. Her slacks were balled in her hands and her hair was rumpled from the pillow, but it was the psychiatrist facing him, not the woman. Something inside of him curdled. He yanked his own sweater on, then walked to the closet for his shoulder holster. “This is a homicide. It's not like going to look at somebody's who's been painted up nice to lie in a casket.”
    “I'm a doctor.”
    “I know what you are.” He checked his gun, then hitched the holster on.
    “Ben, it's possible I could see something, some detail that would give me a clue to his mind.”
    “Fuck his mind.”
    Saying nothing, she shook out her slacks, stepped into them, then fastened them in place. “I understand how you feel, and I'm sorry.”

    “Yeah?” He sat down to pull on his boots but continued to watch her. “You think you know how I feel? Well, let me tell you anyway. There's a dead woman a few miles from here. Somebody put a scarf around her neck and pulled until she couldn't breathe anymore. She'd have kicked and pulled at the scarf with her hands and tried to scream, but she wouldn't have been able to. So she's dead, but she's not a name on a list yet. She's still a person. For a little while longer she's still a person.”
    She would have reached out to him if she'd thought there was a chance he'd accept it. Instead she fastened her belt and kept her voice neutral. “Don't you think I understand that?”
    “I'm not sure you do.”
    They studied each other a moment longer, each dedicated, each frustrated, each coming from different backgrounds and beliefs. It was Tess who accepted it first. “I either go with you now or I call the mayor and end up five minutes behind you. Sooner or later you've got to start working with me.”
    He'd just spent the night with her. He'd poured himself into her three times during the night. He'd felt her body rock and buck and shudder. Now they were talking murder and politics. The femininity, the softness, even the shyness he'd taken to bed were still there, but beneath was a core of toughness, a self-possession he'd recognized from the first. Studying her, he saw she would go no matter what he said, what he did.
    “All right. You go with me and get an up-close look. Maybe after you see her, you'll stop letting your heart bleed for the man who did her.”

    She bent for her shoes. The bed was between them, but it was as if they'd never shared it. “I suppose it's no use reminding you I'm on your side.” He was reaching for his wallet and shield, and said nothing. Tess saw her earrings on his nightstand, a little thing of great intimacy. She scooped them up and dropped them in her pocket. “Where are we going?”
    “An alley near Twenty-third and M.”
    “Twenty-third and M? That's only a couple of blocks from my place.”
    He didn't bother to look at her. “I know.”

    T HE streets were deserted. The bars would have closed at one. Most private parties would have waned by three. Washington was a political town, and though its night spots ranged from the elite to the