with the rest of the eclectic residential neighborhood a couple of miles inland from the beach, the Poston house resembled none of its neighbors. Gabe had to drive around the block, looking for a parking space.
A few media vans still lurked here on California Street, but their occupants appeared to be packing up. Gabe had designated an information specialist from his department to deal with reporters. She was to act cooperative while saying as little as possible about the Poston case.
He had meant to arrive earlier, but time had gotten away from him after Thomas Poston’s funeral. There were several administrative matters he’d had to take care of that day, and the memorial service had messed up his schedule.
More importantly, he’d delved further into the investigation of Poston’s murder. Even though the detective in charge was the best, Gabe wasn’t happy about the progress so far.
Especially not when it might relate to the undercover matter that brought him here in the first place.
And so, he’d decided to insinuate himself right, smack into the middle of this one. In fact, he was going to work on it here and now. Tonight. Assuming he found a parking space.
Not that he was about to try to twist Tommy Poston’s arm. Poor little tiger. He was the closest thing to an eyewitness they had. Gabe didn’t completely subscribe to the theory popular around the N.B.P.D. that, if he had witnessed the killing, Tommy would have been dead right alongside his daddy. Maybe it was so. Maybe it wasn’t. In any event, Gabe wouldn’t risk the boy’s life on it. He’d warn Holly Poston not to let Tommy out of her sight unless he was with someone completely trustworthy.
He finally found a parking spot and pulled in. Deciding to leave his holster and 9mm Smith & Wesson in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and swapped them for a smaller pistol. Carrying a weapon was standard procedure, no matter which police force he’d worked on. Here, because of his undercover investigation, it was imperative. He stuffed the pistol in his pants pocket and put his suit jacket back on, his cell phone in an inside pocket.
His thoughts still swirled as he walked the two blocks along the dimly lighted residential streets to the Postons’ house.
Gabe suspected Tommy had seen something, even if it wasn’t the actual murder. That could be why the kid wasn’t talking.
Poor Tommy obviously missed his daddy already. He’d latched onto Gabe in the garden as if he were starved for a man’s attention, hanging onto his hand, listening to everything he said, pointing out all the flowers and butterflies and birds.
He hadn’t spoken at all. That was another thing Gabe needed to talk to Holly about. He’d learned, from the perfunctory report filed by Al Sharp after visiting the boy, that this silence was probably a result of the trauma of losing his father. It wasn’t normal for Tommy Poston. But was Tommy talking to his mother? If so, maybe Gabe could coax him, over time, to describe what he’d seen. Or maybe he’d already told Holly.
Now, Gabe heard the hubbub of voices as he strode up the short, yucca-lined walkway to the Postons’ front door. It might not be too late after all. He’d assumed that neighbors and friends would continue to rally around widow and son after the funeral service, bringing food and whatever cheer they could. He just figured most would be gone long before now.
Maybe that had, in fact, factored into his non-decision to come late. If there were too many people around, he wouldn’t be able to speak much with Holly about Tommy.
Gabe also wanted to know what he and his officers could do to help her, to make sure her chores got done, repairs made, expenses met—everything her fallen husband had done. Except the most important things, of course—companionship, love, sex…
He scoffed at himself even as he rang the bell. Sure, Holly was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, despite the sorrow that shadowed her face. But to think of sex right now in relation to this poor lady—this lovely, provocative, sensuous lady—who’d just lost the man most important in her life… “Pervert,” he whispered aloud to himself.
“Excuse me?” The front door had opened. Holly stood there looking at him. She had changed clothes and now wore brown slacks and a short-sleeved yellow sweater that hugged her slender curves.
He felt his face redden. “Er—Mrs. Poston. Holly. I hope it isn’t too late, but I’ve come to pay my respects.”
There was a wry look of amusement on her face. Damn! She must have heard what he’d said. He only prayed she hadn’t figured out why. “No, it’s not too late. I’ve still got a lot of visitors. Come in.” She stood back to let him walk inside.
Very carefully, he skirted past her. He didn’t want to brush her accidentally. He didn’t want to touch her at all. She might get the wrong idea. He might get the wrong idea.
Of all the women in the world, this one was the farthest off-limits to him, assuming he even wanted a woman. Which he didn’t.
Holly Poston was a new widow. And on top of that, she was the widow of a cop.
Even if she were ready to entertain the idea of a man’s company again so soon, which was highly unlikely, that man wouldn’t be Gabe. He’d been a rebound lover once. That was one time too many.
He stopped inside the door. The entryway to the two-story home was compact, and it was filled with people. Most women had purses slung over their shoulders.
“You’re just in time to say good-night, Chief,” said Al Sharp. “We were just leaving.”
Good. With this crowd gone, just maybe Gabe would be able to get Holly Poston to himself. For conversation. Only for conversation.
“I SHOULD STAY the night,” Edie Bryerly insisted. She was at the rear of the group of cops and others filing out from Holly’s entryway. “Don’t you want some company?”
“No, but thanks for asking. I need to be alone.” Holly was exhausted. She doubted she’d sleep, but she was ready to curl up with a cup of herbal tea in front of an old movie on television and just rest.
She’d done that many nights when Thomas had come home late. She was used to it.
“Okay, then. You call me if there’s anything you need.” Edie’s eyes, surrounded by a wide swath of liner and mascara, regarded her sympathetically.
“I will. Thanks.”
Holly wondered how Edie could look so stunningly alert and pixielike this late at night, after working her butt off. She had bustled everywhere, helping Holly keep coffee brewing and guests’ plates full of the casseroles and desserts people had brought to the get-together at the Poston home that had begun a couple of hours after the memorial.
“We’ll get together soon, okay?” Edie persisted. “Tomorrow if you’d like. After work.”
“We’ll see,” Holly said. “In any event, I’ll be in touch.”
Edie stooped to press their cheeks together, and then she followed the horde outside.
Even though it was a summer evening, this residential area was only two miles from the Pacific Ocean, and the air was cool. Holly shut the door behind the group as soon as she was able.
Was she alone at last? She had put an exhausted Tommy to bed hours ago. Maybe it was finally her turn to relax.
But as she approached the door to her living room, she heard low voices. As she entered, she saw Sheldon engaged in a conversation with Gabe McLaren. They stood in the corner near the front picture window, with its draperies drawn tightly shut for privacy. Their heads were together, and they each held a glass—Sheldon’s in the hand of the arm that wasn’t in a sling. Both were still dressed in the suits they had worn to Thomas’s memorial service. They were so engrossed in what they were saying that neither looked up as she approached.
“Can I get you anything else to eat or drink, gentlemen?” Holly asked brightly. Playing perfect hostess at this hour might give them the hint that they were about