Mind Games (31 page)

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Hayman had said as he’d helped carry Grace’s bag into the room when she’d arrived, ‘but I’ve arranged to meet some people
at my sailing club for a drink.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’

‘You’re welcome to join us,’ he’d gone on, ‘but I figure after all the aggravation at Pelican Lodge you probably could use some time by yourself.’

He’d shown her around, told her to make the house her own, to take or use whatever she needed: the phone, the kitchen and the big old timber chest that put her in mind of the one in which
the old ladies had stashed their victims in
Arsenic and Old Lace
, but which in this case was Hayman’s drinks cabinet, handsomely stocked with choice malt whiskies.

‘If you’re up for it later,’ he told Grace before he left, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a window at Atlantic’s Edge at Cheeca Lodge.’

Grace had eaten there a couple of times over the years with Claudia and Daniel, and knew it to be perhaps the most elegant place in the Keys.

‘I hardly think that qualifies as a liberty,’ she said.

She made three calls on her cellular while Hayman was out. First, she called her sister to let her know where she was in case Claudia needed her for any reason. Second, she called her own home
phone to check her messages. Grace told herself she was checking in case one of her patients had had an emergency, but she knew damned well it was chiefly to find out if Sam had called again. He
hadn’t, which Grace also knew damned well was because he was trying to find out who’d raped two poor women in Miami Beach, but that knowledge didn’t prevent a brief, painful
flaring of the kind of disappointment that hadn’t troubled her for very many years.

The third call was made after she’d had a long and wonderful shower, brewed a pot of excellent coffee and was sitting on her little private porch drinking it and letting the early-evening
air, sweet and heavy with perfume and bird calls, wash over her. Her little mobile phone lay in her lap. Grace waited a few more minutes, then dialled Sam’s home number.

His machine picked up and his voice directed her to leave her name, number and any message. Grace had never been psyched out by answering machines, but that particular voice had been making love
to her less than forty-eight hours before, and she guessed that might have been why the sound of it threw her.

She put down the phone without saying a word.

‘Jesus, Lucca,’ she said out loud, ‘you really are regressing.’

The evening at Cheeca Lodge was more than pleasant: crab cakes and baby snapper as good as Grace had remembered in lovely surroundings, and intelligent conversation with an
attractive man. An elusive man, in some ways, she was beginning to realize. They’d reached an agreement, before sitting down at their table, not to talk about Cathy or the homicides –
unless, Hayman had added, unloading some more was going to help Grace relax more fully – so the conversation tonight was on an entirely different footing than in their previous encounters.
Maybe it was the fault of their profession; maybe Hayman, like Grace, was simply more accustomed to listening than speaking, but by the end of the meal she felt she barely knew more about the man
than she had at the outset. She knew just a little about his psychiatric philosophy and about his long-term writing plans, and she knew that he was happier living in the Keys than he had been
living any place before. But aside from the loosest of references to his years on the Gulf coast, Hayman had scarcely alluded to his past. Each time Grace had asked him a direct question, he had
answered it clearly and without prevarication, but also without the slightest elaboration; thus she knew, for example, that he’d never married, but not if he’d either ever come close or
had any desire to do so; she knew that he considered himself a contented man now because he felt in almost absolute control of his daily life, but she had no idea if, or why, he had felt
out
of control before.

Then again, Grace told herself, none of these things were remotely her business. She was neither Peter Hayman’s psychologist nor his lover, nor was she even, strictly speaking, his friend.
She was merely a colleague to whom he had been kind enough to extend an invitation that she had accepted. There was no reason for them to become close. And anyway, with every passing hour, Grace
was becoming increasingly aware that the only man she wanted to get closer to was Sam Becket. Too many times during dinner, her mind skipped back to Miami and to Sam. She wondered how he was making
out with his new investigation, wondered how much care he took of himself at work. Grace found that the very idea of Sam’s being in danger made her go cold. She had an urge, several times
between her snapper and coffee, to go outside and try calling him again. She wanted to know he was okay, she wanted him to know that even if she was away with Peter Hayman,
he
was the one
on her mind.

She wanted to hear his voice.

‘Who’s the lucky man?’

Hayman’s voice jarred Grace’s thoughts as they headed back to his house in a cab. They’d decided, before dinner, to enjoy a few glasses of wine without running the risks of
driving.

‘I’m sorry?’ She looked sideways at him. She could see, in the dim light of the taxi, that his brown eyes were amused.

‘Is it the policeman?’ he asked.

That startled her. ‘Which policeman?’ she asked defensively.

‘Detective Becket,’ Hayman said, still looking amused. ‘The man you keep mentioning.’

‘I do?’ Grace was still surprised. She had thought, as a matter of fact, that she had been particularly careful – especially because of the confidential nature of the
discussions she and Sam had shared regarding the Robbins-Flager-Dean homicides –
not
to talk too much about Sam.

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ Hayman said. ‘And I don’t think I’d be too far off the mark if I said I thought you’d been thinking about him a good deal of this
evening.’

Now Grace was embarrassed. ‘Peter, I’m sorry if it’s seemed that way. I can assure you I’ve had the loveliest time – if my mind’s been straying a little,
it’s probably just because I’m not as good as I ought to be at leaving work behind.’

‘Uh-uh.’ He raised his right index finger in mock admonishment. ‘No work talk – we agreed.’

‘Yes, we did. But I’m not the one who brought up the subject.’

‘But Samuel Becket doesn’t exactly qualify as work, surely?’ The brown eyes grew even merrier. ‘Come now, Grace, don’t be coy.’

That irritated her. ‘Peter, can we please change the subject?’

‘By all means.’ He looked straight ahead. ‘We’re almost home.’

She felt awkward from that moment on. Hayman paid the driver and they went inside, and though the subject of Sam Becket had been dropped and her host did not appear to have
been offended by her reluctance to discuss her private life, the easy mood of the evening, certainly from Grace’s point-of-view, had vanished.

‘How about a nightcap?’ Hayman asked.

She hesitated. ‘I think maybe I’ve had enough.’

‘I have a particularly fine cognac that I’ve been reluctant to open just for myself. If you had just a taste with me, you’d be doing me a favour.’

Grace didn’t want to be rude. ‘Just a very small one.’

They took their glasses outside on to the porch on the ocean side of the house and sat in the same comfortable rattan chairs in which they’d shared the stir-fry dinner Hayman had cooked
for Grace a few weeks back.

‘Cognac to your liking?’ he asked after a few minutes.

‘Mm. Very smooth.’

They were quiet again for a while.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Grace,’ he said.

It was out of nowhere, but she knew he was talking about Sam again.

‘You didn’t.’ She tried to sound sincere. ‘I’m sorry if I was brusque.’

‘You were entitled.’

She didn’t argue.

‘He’s a lucky man,’ Hayman said, softly.

Grace did her best to suppress a sigh. Clearly, he had no intention of dropping the subject.

‘I have to say,’ he went on, ‘that if I were in his shoes, I’d let you out of my sight as seldom as possible – and I’d certainly do anything I could to talk
you out of spending weekends with another man.’

Grace gritted her teeth. ‘I don’t think Sam Becket’s the jealous type,’ she said, as lightly as she could. ‘Especially when there’s nothing to be jealous
of.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Hayman said. ‘Every man’s the jealous type – if he cares enough and has enough pride.’

She wished, abruptly, that she had stayed home with Harry.

She asked him, a few minutes later, if he’d mind if she borrowed a book for the night, and he told her, easily and pleasantly, to help herself.

‘Anything you want from the shelves in my study.’ Hayman paused. ‘There’s some fiction near the window – and quite a few decent biographies if that’s your
poison.’

Grace took a glass of water from the kitchen first, then went in search of the study. She thought, when he’d shown her around on her arrival, it had been the room nearest to the staircase,
but the door, when she tried it, seemed to be locked.

‘Can I help?’

His voice, right behind her, startled Grace. She turned around. ‘I thought this was the study.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Hayman said. ‘Study’s next door along.’

She apologized, went on to the next room, took down a book without much ado, and came back out into the narrow corridor.

Hayman was still standing by the locked door.

He smiled at her. ‘Got what you need?’

Grace nodded and held up
Tom Sawyer.
‘I expect I’ll be asleep before I’ve reached page two.’ She passed Hayman on her way to the staircase.

‘Good night, Grace,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

‘Thank you, Peter.’ She started up. ‘See you in the morning.’

‘Looking forward to it,’ he said.

When she glanced down from the top of the staircase, he was still in the same place, looking up at her.

The South Beach rapist, self-confessed and, temporarily at least, glorying in his infamy, was now safely off the streets and in the system, where Martinez and Sam could only
hope and pray he would remain for as long as the law allowed. Not that that did much to help the women he’d attacked and violated.

It did mean, however, that Sam got to go home for what was left of the night. Not enough, by the time they’d gotten the paperwork squared away. It was half-past two when he got there. Much
too late to call a hardworking psychologist, who was more than likely in bed and fast asleep.

He checked his machine in case Grace had tried to reach him, knowing, of course, that there would have been no reason for her to do so, since he’d told her at lunchtime that he was going
to be tied up for the whole weekend.

The only message was from Judy, wanting to know when he was going to find time to come over and see his father. That was his mother’s new trick – she no longer had to demand that he
came to visit her; all she had to do was remind him – as if he was likely to forget – about what his dad had been through and how lucky they were to still have him.

Sam remembered telling Grace that he would try to get David over to the house of detention to visit with Cathy. He felt bad about not having gotten around to doing that yet. He didn’t like
the idea of letting Grace down in any way at all.

‘
Don’t worry about me
,’ she’d said when he’d told her he probably wouldn’t even find a spare second to make a phone call. Her voice had been so
filled with warmth that he’d had an urge to drop everything and get over to her place to see her again. He still felt that way now, though the fact was that if he were able to be with her
right this minute, he’d be too dog-tired to do anything more than go to sleep.

The thought of sleeping next to Grace Lucca was pretty damned wonderful.

The thought of waking up beside her, of course, was even better.

At two-thirty-three, Grace was still awake and reading
Tom Sawyer
in Hayman’s guest bedroom when she heard a step outside the door. Quickly, reflexively, she put
out her right hand, switched out the bedside lamp and lay down on her side.

She heard the door open, quietly, slowly, heard the tread on the carpet. She closed her eyes, forced herself to bring her breathing under control, wanting it to sound even and calm so that
Hayman would think she was sleeping.

What the hell was he
doing
, coming into her room in the middle of the goddamned night? Had he seen the light from under the door? Did he know she was shamming sleep?

It’s okay, Lucca
, Grace told herself behind closed eyelids,
if he does turn out to be a major creep, you’re a big girl, you know how to handle yourself

‘Grace?’

His voice was very low and close. He sounded unsure of whether she was asleep or not. He sounded, thank God, she thought, as if he didn’t mean to wake her if she really was out of it. She
considered stirring and answering him, then decided against. If he had a good reason for wanting her up at this time of night, he’d hardly be tiptoeing around the room like a goddamned
burglar.

She went on with the act.

‘Okay, Grace,’ he said, just as softly.

She felt the air fan a little close to her face as he moved again – it was desperately hard not to hold her breath, not to squeeze her eyelids more tightly shut or open them to see what he
was doing.

A floorboard creaked beneath the carpet. He was moving away, Grace thought, back towards the door, which meant he was probably somewhere behind her now, and no longer able to see her face. She
tried to remember the positioning of the two mirrors in the room – the one on the dressing table, the other a freestanding cheval glass – in case he could still see her reflection.

She heard the door close.

And waited. Was he gone, or was he still in the room with her?

Nothing.

She went on waiting.

Still nothing.