Sacred Sins

patients at the scene.”
    Tess shook off his arm. “Yes, you're welcome, Detective. I'm glad I could help you get a coherent story out of your only witness.”
    “We'd have gotten it out of him.” Ben cupped his hands around a match and lit a fresh cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harris arrive on the scene.
    “You really hate it that I helped, don't you? Because I'm a psychiatrist, I wonder, or because I'm a woman?”
    “Don't psychoanalyze me,” he warned, tossed his cigarette into the street, and immediately wished it back.
    “I don't have to psychoanalyze to see resentment, prejudice, and anger.” She broke off, realizing how close she was to losing control in public and creating a scene. “Ben, I know you didn't want me to come, but I didn't get in the way.”
    “Get in the way?” He laughed and studied her face. “No, you're a real pro, lady.”

    “That's it, isn't it?” she murmured. She wanted to shout, to sit down, to just walk away. It took the rest of her control not to do any of those things. Whatever you begin, you finish. That, too, was part of her training. “I walked into that alley with you and stayed on the same level. I didn't fall apart, get sick, run away. I didn't get hysterical at the sight of a body, and that really bothers you.”
    “Doctors are objective, right?”
    “That's right,” she said calmly, though Anne Reasoner's face flashed into her mind. “But maybe it'll soothe your ego to know that it wasn't easy for me. I wanted to turn around and walk out of there.”
    Something inside him jerked, but he ignored it. “You held up pretty good.”
    “And that strips me of my femininity, maybe even my sexuality. You would have been happier if you'd had to carry me out of that alley. Never mind the interference or inconvenience. That would have been more comfortable for you.”
    “That's bullshit.” He pulled out another cigarette, cursing himself because he realized it was true. “I work with plenty of women cops.”
    “But you don't sleep with them, do you, Ben?” She said it quietly, knowing she'd hit a button.
    Eyes narrowed, he drew in smoke, long and deep. “Watch your step.”
    “Yes, that's just what I intend to do.” She pulled her gloves out of her pockets, realizing for the first time that her hands were freezing. The sun was up now, but the light was still murky. She didn't think she'd ever been so cold. “Tell your captain that he'll have an updated report by tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Fine. I'll get someone to drive you home.”
    “I want to walk.”
    “No.” He took her arm before she could turn away.
    “You've mentioned that I'm a civilian enough times to know you can't order me.”
    “Press charges of harassment if you want, but you're getting an escort home.”

    “It's two blocks,” she began, and his grip tightened.
    “That's right. Two blocks. Two blocks, and your name and picture have been in the paper.” With his free hand he gathered up her hair. It was nearly the same shade as Anne Reasoner's. They both knew it. “Use some of those brains you're so proud of, and think.”
    “I'm not going to let you frighten me.”
    “Fine, but you're getting an escort home.” He kept his hand on her arm as he walked her to a cruiser.

Chapter 8

    T HE FIVE DETECTIVES assigned to the Priest homicides logged better than two hundred sixty hours in legwork and paperwork in the week following Anne Reasoner's murder. One of them had a spouse who threatened divorce, another worked through a nasty bout of the flu, and another around a chronic case of insomnia.
    The fourth in the series of murders was the top story on both the six and eleven o'clock news, beating out such items as the President's return from West Germany. For the moment Washington was more interested in murder than politics. NBC planned a four-part special.
    Incredibly, manuscripts were being peddled to major publishers. More incredibly, offers were being made. Paramount was thinking miniseries. Anne Reasoner—in fact, none of the victims—had ever earned such attention alive.

    Anne had lived alone. She had been a CPA attached to one of the city's law firms. Her apartment had shown a taste for the avant garde, with neon, free-form enameled sculptures and DayGlo flamingos. Her wardrobe had reflected her employer, running to softly tailored suits and silk blouses. She'd been able to afford Saks. She'd owned two Jane Fonda workout tapes, an IBM personal computer, and a