restaurant down the street."
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, I did. I figure I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"For this afternoon. That stupid deal with the tampon. You
were just standing up for me, trying to be the good guy. I took it
the wrong way."
An awkward silence passed. They stood there, not sure of
what to say, two people who don't know each other well and
are trying to get past the rocky start of their relationship.
Then he smiled, and it transformed his usually sober face
into that of a much younger man. "I'm starved," he said. "Bring
that food in here."
With a laugh, she stepped into his house. It was her first
time here, and she paused to glance around, taking in all the
womanly touches. The chintz curtains, the floral watercolors on
the wall. It was not what she expected. Hell, it was more
feminine than her own apartment.
"Let's go into the kitchen," he said. "My papers are in there."
He led her through the living room, and she saw the spinet
piano.
"Wow. You play?" she asked.
"No, it's Mary's. I've got a tin ear."
It's Mary's. Present tense. It struck her then that the reason
this house seemed so feminine was that it was still present-
tense-Mary, a house waiting, unaltered, for its mistress to
come home. A photo of Moore's wife was displayed on the
piano, a sunburned woman with laughing eyes and hair in
windblown disarray. Mary, whose chintz curtains still hung in
the house she would never return to.
In the kitchen, Rizzoli set the bag of food on the table, next
to a stack of files. Moore shuffled through the folders and
found the one he was searching for.
"Elena Ortiz's E.R. report," he said, handing it to her.
"Cordell dug this up?"
He gave an ironic smile. "I seem to be surrounded by
women more competent than I am."
She opened the folder and saw a photocopy of a doctor's
chicken-scratch handwriting. "You got the translation on this
mess?"
"It's pretty much what I told you over the phone. Unreported
rape. No kit collected, no DNA. Even Elena's family didn't
know about it."
She closed the folder and set it down on his other papers.
"Jeez, Moore. This mess looks like my dining table. No place
left to eat."
"It's taken over your life, too, has it?" he said, clearing away
the files to make space for their dinner.
"What life? This case is all there is to mine. Sleep. Eat.
Work. And if I'm lucky, an hour at bedtime with my old pal
Dave Letterman."
"No boyfriends?"
"Boyfriends?" She snorted as she took out the food cartons
and laid napkins and chopsticks on the table. "Oh yeah. Like I
gotta beat 'em all off." Only after she said it did she realize
how self-pitying that sounded--not at all the way she meant it.
She was quick to add: "I'm not complaining. If I need to spend
the weekend working, I can do it without some guy whining
about it. I don't do well with whiners."
"Hardly surprising, since you're the opposite of a whiner. As
you made painfully clear to me today."
"Yeah, yeah. I thought I apologized for that."
He got two beers from the refrigerator, then sat down
across from her. She'd never seen him like this, with his
shirtsleeves rolled up and looking so relaxed. She liked him
this way. Not the forbidding Saint Thomas but a guy she could
shoot the breeze with, a guy who'd laugh with her. A guy who,
if he just bothered to turn on the charm, could knock a girl's
socks off.
"You know, you don't always have to be tougher than
everyone else," he said.
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because they don't think I am."
"Who doesn't?"
"Guys like Crowe. Lieutenant Marquette."
He shrugged. "There'll always be a few like that."
"How come I always end up working with them?" She
popped open her beer and took a swig. "That's why you're the
first one I told about the necklace. You won't hog the credit."
"It's a sad day when it gets down to who claims credit for
this or that."
She picked up her chopsticks and dug into the carton of
kung pao chicken. It was burn-your-mouth spicy, just the way
she
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, I did. I figure I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"For this afternoon. That stupid deal with the tampon. You
were just standing up for me, trying to be the good guy. I took it
the wrong way."
An awkward silence passed. They stood there, not sure of
what to say, two people who don't know each other well and
are trying to get past the rocky start of their relationship.
Then he smiled, and it transformed his usually sober face
into that of a much younger man. "I'm starved," he said. "Bring
that food in here."
With a laugh, she stepped into his house. It was her first
time here, and she paused to glance around, taking in all the
womanly touches. The chintz curtains, the floral watercolors on
the wall. It was not what she expected. Hell, it was more
feminine than her own apartment.
"Let's go into the kitchen," he said. "My papers are in there."
He led her through the living room, and she saw the spinet
piano.
"Wow. You play?" she asked.
"No, it's Mary's. I've got a tin ear."
It's Mary's. Present tense. It struck her then that the reason
this house seemed so feminine was that it was still present-
tense-Mary, a house waiting, unaltered, for its mistress to
come home. A photo of Moore's wife was displayed on the
piano, a sunburned woman with laughing eyes and hair in
windblown disarray. Mary, whose chintz curtains still hung in
the house she would never return to.
In the kitchen, Rizzoli set the bag of food on the table, next
to a stack of files. Moore shuffled through the folders and
found the one he was searching for.
"Elena Ortiz's E.R. report," he said, handing it to her.
"Cordell dug this up?"
He gave an ironic smile. "I seem to be surrounded by
women more competent than I am."
She opened the folder and saw a photocopy of a doctor's
chicken-scratch handwriting. "You got the translation on this
mess?"
"It's pretty much what I told you over the phone. Unreported
rape. No kit collected, no DNA. Even Elena's family didn't
know about it."
She closed the folder and set it down on his other papers.
"Jeez, Moore. This mess looks like my dining table. No place
left to eat."
"It's taken over your life, too, has it?" he said, clearing away
the files to make space for their dinner.
"What life? This case is all there is to mine. Sleep. Eat.
Work. And if I'm lucky, an hour at bedtime with my old pal
Dave Letterman."
"No boyfriends?"
"Boyfriends?" She snorted as she took out the food cartons
and laid napkins and chopsticks on the table. "Oh yeah. Like I
gotta beat 'em all off." Only after she said it did she realize
how self-pitying that sounded--not at all the way she meant it.
She was quick to add: "I'm not complaining. If I need to spend
the weekend working, I can do it without some guy whining
about it. I don't do well with whiners."
"Hardly surprising, since you're the opposite of a whiner. As
you made painfully clear to me today."
"Yeah, yeah. I thought I apologized for that."
He got two beers from the refrigerator, then sat down
across from her. She'd never seen him like this, with his
shirtsleeves rolled up and looking so relaxed. She liked him
this way. Not the forbidding Saint Thomas but a guy she could
shoot the breeze with, a guy who'd laugh with her. A guy who,
if he just bothered to turn on the charm, could knock a girl's
socks off.
"You know, you don't always have to be tougher than
everyone else," he said.
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because they don't think I am."
"Who doesn't?"
"Guys like Crowe. Lieutenant Marquette."
He shrugged. "There'll always be a few like that."
"How come I always end up working with them?" She
popped open her beer and took a swig. "That's why you're the
first one I told about the necklace. You won't hog the credit."
"It's a sad day when it gets down to who claims credit for
this or that."
She picked up her chopsticks and dug into the carton of
kung pao chicken. It was burn-your-mouth spicy, just the way
she
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