Submission

I craned my neck to look at the chief of forensics, Steven Chan, then stood up. “Yeah.”

“You think we’re dealing with the same killer?” He put his box down in a corner where it was least likely there would be any trace evidence.

“That’s your job, not mine.”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that.”

He was right. Usually I would be telling him that it looked as though the wounds were different somehow. But I thought it was a good idea if I was a little more careful nowadays. I’d arrested the wrong man in the Laraway murder and didn’t want to be placed in that position again anytime soon. Especially considering that my career already hung by a very thin thread.

“Let me know what you come up with,” I said. “I’m going down to talk to the owner.”

MOLLY SAT AT A BACK table at Tujague’s and stared at her watch. It was a quarter after eleven and Detective Chevalier was late.

Either that or he’d never planned to come.

“Decide yet?” the young waiter asked.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said again.

He smiled at her in a way that said he knew she was waiting but he’d approached her to see if she’d given up and decided to eat anyway.

She pulled a menu in front of her.

A cordially shouted greeting drew her attention toward the door. She was mildly surprised to find Alan Chevalier stepping inside, his overcoat as wrinkled as it had been earlier, holding his hat as he shook hands with the portly man behind the bar—apparently the issuer of the hearty welcome.

Molly was both glad and nervous that he’d decided to come. The mix of reactions intrigued her. His being there meant he might include her in the investigation, or at the very least keep her informed on his progress.

Her gaze mingled with his across the already crowded dining room and she swallowed hard, aware now, as she had been earlier, of the strange chemistry that seemed to exist between them.

His being there also meant that he might feel the same pull.

It took him a few moments to make it to the table. She expected him to take off his overcoat—her own wool jacket was on the back of her chair—but he didn’t. He merely sat back in his chair, staring at her silently, his arm stretched out so that the hand that held his hat lay on the table between them.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said quietly.

He didn’t say anything, almost as if he was as surprised to be there as she was to see him there.

Finally he leaned forward and placed his hat on the empty chair to his right. “Yes, well, this happens to be one of my favorite places. I might have been planning on coming here anyway.”

Molly had given up all pretense of reading the menu and looked him over instead. She’d noticed this morning that he’d looked a little ragged around the edges. It had been at least a day since he’d shaved, and he was in need of a haircut. His clothes…well, it looked as if he might have slept in them, the wrinkles and creases speaking of a man who was either too busy to make or uninterested in making an effort with his appearance.

Strangely this lack of concern for the way he looked appealed to her on a level she hadn’t been aware of until now. She usually went for the well-groomed types. Career-driven, gym-obsessed overachievers in pressed suits who carried expensive briefcases and drove cars that cost more than some houses.

But Alan Chevalier…

She realized she was staring and dropped her gaze to the white tablecloth.

“Has anything—” she began, then stopped, realizing the futile nature of her question.

“Happened in your sister’s case since I saw you a couple of hours ago?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Hello, Detective Chevalier. The usual?” the young waiter asked the man across from her.

“Yes,” he said. “And bring the same for the lady.” He considered her. “Unless you’re a vegetarian?”

Molly said that whatever he’d ordered was fine.

The waiter disappeared, leaving them alone again.

Well, alone really wasn’t the applicable word. The small restaurant was packed with other diners, despite the early hour. But as far as Molly was concerned, they could have been alone in the popular eatery.

“So, Miss Laraway, what is it that you do for a living?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

His eyebrows rose.

“You seem surprised.”

“Your career doesn’t impact me one way or another, Miss Laraway.” He shrugged. “Which branch of law?”

“Right now I’m assigned to business law at the firm where I work.”

“But you hope to…”

“Eventually move on to criminal law.”

He nodded, as if expecting the answer. “A defense attorney.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

He looked over her suit as if trying to put the pieces of her together. “Getting off the same people I bust my ass trying to put behind bars?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”

Molly tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Anyway, my career isn’t the reason we’re here, is it?”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on top of the table. “Your sister.”

Had he forgotten?

She realized with some interest that it appeared he had. And that he didn’t seem concerned about the fact, either.

An unwelcome thrill raced through her bloodstream as her gaze took in his hands. Strong hands, clean, nails clipped and neat, dark hair peppering the backs of his thick, square fingers. They were capable hands, manly.

And she was paying them far too much attention.

Molly cleared her throat and took a notepad from her bag.

“Were you and your sister close, Miss Laraway?”