Loving Time by Leslie Glass Read Free Book Online Page B

looked like suicide to her. In the other room April could hear Mike calling for Crime Scene and an ambulance. Maybe he’d found something that made him suspect Cowles’s death wasn’t a suicide. That changed things.
    Lorna Cowles reached out, as if somehow to connect with the last bottle of wine her husband had drunk. “Poor Ray,” she murmured.
    “Don’t touch,” April said quickly. “Don’t touch anything else.”
    The woman’s hand jerked back. “Don’t touch,” Lorna Cowles told herself. “Don’t touch.”

nine
     
    T en minutes later Lorna Cowles was out in the hall of her estranged husband’s new apartment, weeping noisily. “Ray would never kill himself. He’d been
analyzed
. He was saving for his retirement.”
    April handed her a tissue.
    “We were so close, liked all the same things. Neither of us cooked. Restaurants were our thing. We went out a lot.… ”
    April waited for her to blow her nose.
    “I don’t understand. He said he needed to be alone for a while. That’s all I know. Maybe his psychiatrist knows.”
    April could hear Mike’s voice on the phone. Then everything was quiet. She knew Sergeant Joyce was on her way over.
    “He
couldn’t
have killed himself.” Lorna started again, shaking her head so hard, her fine pale hair flew back and forth.
    April let some silence build up for a few seconds. More silence. Finally she asked, “What makes you think so?”
    Lorna frowned. “He didn’t know how to make pleats.” She held her hands up and pleated the air with her fingers to show April what she meant. “The bag was pleated around his neck. Didn’t you see that? How could he have done that?”
    He probably did it before he put the bag over his head. Suicides often planned everything. April cleared her throat.
    “Ray wasn’t manually dexterous,” Lorna insisted. “He couldn’t cook, couldn’t hammer a nail. You see?”
    What April saw was a pale, slender woman who no longer appeared helpless and tragic. The tension and fear that had been engraved so deeply on Lorna’s face when they’d first met her was gone. Now she was angry, indignant. April wondered what kind of life insurance the deceased had. She fell silent, waiting for the widow to tell her more.
    Just then, down the hall, the elevator door slid open. Sergeant Margret Mary Joyce, her hair awry and her face set in a scowl, slouched out. As April’s favorite color was blue for the Department, Sergeant Joyce’s favorite color was green for her heritage. Today she wore a forest-green jacket over an un-matching green blouse and dark-brown trousers.
    On Sergeant Joyce’s bad days April thought she looked like a badly dressed fire hydrant with a badly dyed blond wig. On good days April acknowledged that her supervisor’s small Irish nose—which tilted up at the tip instead of becoming flat and spreading out as April’s did—was quite appealing. Her skin was nice and white, even in summer, because she never went outside except on a call. She was plump, but hardly fat. And her hair was not really
so terrible
in and of itself. It was just hacked off without a plan, dyed the wrong color, and not often enough. Sometimes the front of her hair stuck straight up, and April itched to do something about it.
    Sergeant Joyce’s eyes were dark blue, too close together, and she squinted when concentrating, which was most of the time. But she was very serious, wanted to prove to the world that women were just as good in law enforcement as men. Maybe better. She, too, was a comer. That’s why she was there, didn’t want anything in her squad to get by her, just in case the squeal turned out to be an important one.
    She walked past April without acknowledging her. “Are you Mrs. Cowles?” she asked with no attempt at sensitivity.
    As Lorna looked the newcomer over, her uncertainty returned. “Are you with the police?” she asked anxiously.
    “Yes, I’m Sergeant Joyce.” Commander of the Detective Squad, she didn’t