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Sam rubbed his eyes. He had gotten maybe two hours sleep. The page last night had been to the scene of another homicide, a teenage boy. That had quickly wrapped up with the arrest of the kid’s new girlfriend’s ex, who had taken it personally that the kid had told him to eat shit and die. The paperwork, however, was always a bitch.
Where was the report on the shoe tread they had found in Jaine’s house? Getting an answer usually didn’t take this long. He searched his desk, but no one had laid it there in his absence. Maybe it had gone to Bernsen, since they had cross-referenced each other on all the paperwork. Before Luna’s death, not everyone had been convinced the break-in at Jaine’s house had anything to do with Marci’s murder, but he and Bernsen had been. Now, of course, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind.
He called Roger. “Did the report on that shoe tread come to you?”
“Haven’t seen it. You mean you don’t have it yet?”
“Not yet. The lab must have lost it. I’ll shoot them another request.” Damn it, he thought as he hung up. The one thing they didn’t need was a delay. Maybe the shoe print wasn’t important, but maybe the shoe was a rare one, so unusual that someone at Hammerstead would say, “Oh, yeah, so-and-so has a pair. Paid a fortune for them.”
He went back to the files, frustrated almost to the point of breaking something. It was right here under his nose; he knew it. All he had to do was figure it out.
Galan left work early. Yesterday’s events had left him so shaken he couldn’t concentrate. All he wanted was to pick up T.J. at Jaine’s sister’s house and take her home where he could watch over her.
He didn’t know how they had lost touch with each other. No—he knew, all right. The innocent flirting at work with Xandrea Conaway had started to seem important, and maybe it had never been so innocent. When had he started comparing everything T.J., and everything she said and did, to Xandrea, who was always dressed up and never nagged?
Of course T.J. wasn’t dressed up at home, he realized. Neither was he. That was what homes were for, relaxing and being comfortable. So what if she complained when he didn’t take out the garbage? He complained if she left her makeup scattered all over the vanity. People who lived together inevitably got on each other’s nerves sometimes. That was part of being married.
He had loved T.J. since he was fourteen years old. How had he lost sight of that, and of what they had together? Why had it taken the terror of realizing a killer actually was stalking T.J. and her friends for him to realize it would kill him to lose her?
He didn’t know how he could make it up to her. He didn’t know if she would even let him. For the past week or so, since she had guessed he was infatuated with Xandrea, she had pulled away from him. Maybe she believed he’d actually been unfaithful to her, though he had never let the situation between him and Xandrea get so far out of hand. They had kissed, yes, but nothing more.
He tried to imagine how he would feel if another man kissed T.J., and felt sick to his stomach. Maybe kisses weren’t so forgivable.
He would crawl on his belly to her if she would smile at him again like he mattered to her.
Jaine’s sister lived in a big, two-story Colonial in St. C
lair Shores. The doors were down on the triple-bay garage, but Sam Donovan’s red muscle-truck was parked in the driveway. He parked beside it and went up the curving walk to the double front doors, where he rang the bell and waited.
Donovan answered the door. Galan noticed Sam was still wearing his pistol. If he had one, he thought, he would probably wear it too, legal or not.
“How are they?” he asked softly, stepping inside.
“Tired. Still in shock. Shelley said they slept off and on all day, so I guess they didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Galan shook his head. “They sat up talking most of the night. Funny; they didn’t talk much about the bastard who did this, or how close Jaine came the other night when he broke into her house. They just talked about Luna and Marci.”
“It’s like losing two family members so close together. It’ll take them a while to recover from this.” Sam dealt with grief on a regular basis; he knew Jaine would recover, because that kick-ass spirit of hers just wouldn’t stay down, but he also knew it could take weeks, maybe even months, before the shadow of pain left her eyes.
In part of the house, things were normal. Shelley’s husband, Al, watched television. Their teenage daughter, Stefanie, was upstairs on the phone, while eleven-year-old Nicholas played video games on the computer. The women had gathered in the kitchen—why was it always the kitchen?—to talk and drink diet sodas and eat whatever comfort food Shelley had on hand.
The ravages of grief had left both Jaine and T.J. pale, but they were dry-eyed. T.J. looked startled to see her husband.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound particularly glad to see him.
“I wanted to be with you,” he replied. “I know you’re tired, so I didn’t want you to have to wait until midnight to go home. Not to mention Shelley and her family probably go to bed a lot earlier than that.”
Shelley waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. We usually stay up late while the kids are out of school.”
“What about the reporters?” T.J. asked. “We won’t have any peace if they’re still swarming the place.”
“I doubt they would hang around forever,” Sam said. “They’d like an interview, yeah, but they can get statements from other people. More than likely, since you weren’t at home today, they’ll call instead of camping out in your yard.”
“Then I would like to go home,” T.J. said, standing. She hugged Shelley. “Thanks a million. You were a lifesaver today.”
Shelley returned the hug. “Any time. Come back tomorrow, if you don’t go to work. Whatever you do, don’t stay home alone!”
“Thanks. I may take you up on it, but… I think I’ll go to work tomorrow. Getting back into the routine will help take my mind off things.”
