Take Me Tonight by Roxanne St. Claire Page A

they did the investigation, because there was a big snowstorm and I couldn’t get into Boston for a while. By the time I got home, they were finished and the medical examiner confirmed that it was suicide. Someone from the Boston PD did talk to me briefly, but by then they had closed the investigation.”
    “Did the note look legitimate?”
    “It was Keisha’s handwriting, if that’s what you mean. It was very short. She’d written it on a green index card that had sticky on the back, like a Post-it note.”
    “What did it say?”
    She released a slow sigh. “ ‘Sometimes I think I’ll never be good enough.’ ”
    He leaned the chair back, locking his arms behind his neck. “That’s it?”
    She nodded, her brows drawn. “In all the years I knew her, since our freshman year in college, I never heard a syllable of self-doubt come from that woman’s mouth. She believed she rocked the world.”
    “She didn’t leave a message to her parents or family or friends? No apology to people she loved? No rationalization?” He slammed down on the front two legs of the chair. “That’s not a suicide note.”
    “It was hers. At least it’s what she decided to write before she swallowed enough ephedra to kill herself.”
    Or someone made her. “What was listed as her cause of death?”
    “Suffocation.”
    “A side effect of the drug,” he said.
    A hard rap came on the front door.
    “That’s the police,” Sage said, pushing away from the table. “Maybe they’ll tell us there’s been a rash of break-ins along the flats of Beacon Hill and they caught the guy.”
    “Don’t count on it,” he murmured.
    “Believe me, I’m not.”
    Detective Steven Cervaris had obviously done quite a few B and Es in Beacon Hill, Back Bay, and South End. He was patient, seasoned, and bored. While Johnny stayed in the kitchen, Sage showed the officer the front door, which had no sign of forced entry, described the missing computer, explained that many valuable items had been left behind, then dropped the bomb.
    “The burglar left a calling card in one of the bedrooms,” she said.
    Bushy eyebrows rose; startling blue eyes blinked with interest. “What’s that?”
    She indicated for him to follow her, explaining that her roommate, a dancer for the Blizzard, had died a month earlier.
    “Oh, yeah, I read about that,” he said, his New England accent drawing out his vowels. “Didn’t realize this was the building.”
    Sage opened the door, steeling herself to see it again. “This burglar certainly did.”
    He studied the handiwork, leaning closer to examine the rip in the poster, carefully dabbing the tiniest edge of the W in Whores with the tip of his finger.
    “The computer that was stolen was in here.” Sage indicated the Queen Anne desk. “But nothing else was touched. And she had plenty of good jewelry and expensive clothes.”
    Detective Cervaris scanned the room slowly. “When did she die, again?”
    “About a month ago. March fourth.”
    “Who handled the investigation?”
    “I talked to an Officer McGraw when I finally got into town. He said it was a standard suicide investigation.”
    “Where were you when it happened?”
    “On business in Texas.”
    He nodded. “I’ll get the file.”
    “Detective,” she said, sensing a too-quick dismissal. “My roommate had absolutely no reason to commit suicide. She was very happy and stable and successful.”
    “Happy, stable, successful people are sometimes not really so happy or stable.”
    “I realize that, but I think that this”—she indicated the wall—“could be proof that it was murder.”
    He shot one of those thick brows north. “I wouldn’t call it a signed confession.”
    “No, but it shows that maybe someone had an ax to grind.”
    “That doesn’t mean whoever broke in here today is a murderer,” he said. “Could just mean that your apartment was burgled by someone who isn’t a Blizzard fan.”
    “That’s a little more radical than ‘Boo