Sacred Sins

“Pushing paper?”
    “I told you before, that's old news.”
    Her mind was too analytical to let it go at that. “But you have been shot, and probably shot at more than once.”
    “Sometimes you go into the field and people aren't too happy to see you.”
    “All in a day's work?”

    When he realized she wasn't going to let it drop, he set down his fork. “Tess, it isn't like the flicks.”
    “No, but it isn't like selling shoes either.”
    “Okay. I'm not saying you never run into a situation where things might get hot, but basically this kind of police work is on paper. Reports, interviews, head work. There are weeks, months, even years of incredible drudge work, even boredom as opposed to moments of actual physical jeopardy. A rookie in a uniform is likely to deal with more heat in a year than I am.”
    “I see. Then you aren't likely to encounter a situation, in the normal scheme of things, where you use your gun.”
    He didn't answer for a moment, not liking where the conversation was going. “What are you getting at?”
    “I'm trying to understand you. We've spent two nights together. I like to know who I'm sleeping with.”
    He'd been avoiding that. Sex was easier if it wore blinders. “Benjamin James Matthew Paris, thirty-five in August, single, six feet one-half inch, a hundred seventy-two pounds.”
    She rested her elbows on the table, setting her chin on her linked hands as she studied him. “You don't like to talk about your work.”
    “What's there to talk about? It's a job.”
    “No, not with you. A job is where you clock in every morning, Monday through Friday. You don't carry your gun like a briefcase.”
    “Most briefcases aren't loaded.”
    “You have had to use it.”
    Ben drained his coffee. His system was already primed. “I doubt many cops get around to collecting their pensions without drawing their weapons at least once.”
    “Yes, I understand that. On the other hand, as a doctor I'd deal more with the results afterward. The grief of the family, the shock and trauma of the victim.”

    “I've never shot a victim.”
    There was an edge to his voice that interested her. Perhaps he liked to pretend to her, even to himself, that the violent aspects of his job were occasional, an expected side effect. He'd consider anyone he shot in the line of duty, as he'd put it, the bad guy. And yet she was sure there was a part of him that thought of the human, the flesh and blood. That part of him would lose sleep over it.
    “When you shoot someone in self-defense,” she said slowly, “is it like in a war, where you see the enemy as a symbol more than a man?”
    “You don't think about it.”
    “I don't see how that's possible.”
    “Take my word for it.”
    “But when you're in a situation that calls for that kind of extreme defensive action, you aim to wound.”
    “No.” On the flat answer, he rose and picked up his plate. “Listen, you draw your weapon, you're not the Lone Ranger. There's no grazing your silver bullet over the bad guy's gun hand. Your life, your partner's life, some civilian's life is on the line. It's black and white.”
    He took the plates away. She didn't ask if he'd killed. He'd already told her.
    She glanced at the papers he'd been working on. Black and white. He wouldn't see the shades of gray she saw there. The man they sought was a killer. The state of his mind, his emotions, perhaps even his soul, didn't matter to Ben. Maybe they couldn't.
    “These papers,” she began when he came back. “Is there something I can help with?”
    “Just drudge work.”
    “I'm an expert drudge.”
    “Maybe. We can talk about it later. Right now I've got to get moving if I'm going to make nine o'clock Mass.”

    “Mass?”
    He grinned at her expression. “I haven't gone back to the fold. We think our man might show up at one of two churches this morning. We've been covering the masses at both of them since six-thirty. I got a break and drew the nine, ten, and eleven-thirty services.”
    “I'll go with you. No, don't,” she said even as he opened his mouth. “I really could help. I know the signs, the symptoms.”
    There was no point in telling her he'd wanted her to come. Let her think she'd talked him into it. “Don't blame me if your knees give out.”
    She touched a hand to his cheek, but didn't kiss him. “Give me ten minutes.”

    T HE church smelled of candle wax and perfume. The pews, worn smooth by the sliding and shifting of hundreds of