“That’s the one. See if you can get a read on what went wrong with their planned date.”
“You got it. But hey, if you’re on a case in Wisconsin, the super huge one that we’re not mentioning, how come you’re so interested in Brine? Shouldn’t that belong to someone else?”
“Multitasking,” I said. “Talk to you soon.”
With my list of to-dos checked off, I looked at the clock and was surprised to find that I was supposed to meet Russo in half an hour. I tidied up, added a bit of mascara and fluffed my hair, and opted to forego the lip gloss for the evening. That whole crossing lines business weighed heavily on my mind.
I grabbed a small purse and shoved my phone and credit cards inside, along with my room key. My gun was at my hip. This definitely wasn’t a date. As my mother had pointed out, weapons were not a conducive accessory to a romantic evening.
Picking up the letters from Wilkes, I debated tossing them in my bag as well. I’d considered bringing them to the chief from the moment they’d arrived in my mailbox, but I’d opted not to. Wilkes had been arrested, safely stashed in a cell behind metal bars that couldn’t be broken or bent. He had no chance of parole.
I’d thought he had no chance of escape.
Even more importantly, perhaps, was the fact that the letters had felt intensely personal. They alternated between Wilkes’s extreme hate for me, and a fascination that felt almost loving in nature. I’d already had enough of my personal life exposed on the case, and I hadn’t wanted to draw more attention to myself.
The chief, Jimmy, and my family had already worried about my mental health after Wilkes’s trial, and telling them about his continued correspondence felt borderline selfish. Why should they worry about Wilkes when they couldn’t do anything about it? I already worried enough to make up for everyone else.
I stashed the letters deep in my purse and slung it over my shoulder. Maybe I’d show Russo. Maybe not. I’d make the decision in the heat of the moment.
I met Russo in the lobby of the hotel. He looked sharp in jeans and a quarter-zip, blue cashmere sweater that appeared soft enough to use as a blanket. His hair was damp and pushed upward messily, as if he’d run his fingers through it after a shower. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he leaned against the wall, one leg kicked up behind him, waiting for my arrival.
When he saw me, his face melted into a smile. “Hey, you.”
“Russo.” I nodded, twitched my purse higher. “Where do you want to eat?”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I made us reservations. The best place here fills up quick.”
“In the middle of Wisconsin?” I raised my eyebrows. “You’re joking.”
He winked, flipped his keys in a circle over his fingers. “You don’t mind going out, do you? I need to clear my head.”
“Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”
“You always have a choice, detective,” Russo said. “But if you trust me, you’ll come along without complaining. You have to admit, I have excellent taste.”
“In what?”
He grinned again. “We’ll start with food and work our way up from there.”
It was easy to slip into the familiar conversational banter with Russo. We made small talk on the way to the restaurant, neither of us addressing the weeks of silence that had passed after our last case together.
He’d called twice. I’d answered once, but I’d been on a case. The second time he’d called, I’d listened to the message and promptly forgotten about it. By the time I’d remembered some five days later, it had seemed too late to call him back out of the blue.
We pulled up in front of a darkened building with a single neon sign announcing the restaurant as a steakhouse.
“Come to the Midwest, you need to get a steak,” he said. “It’s a rule.”
I didn’t argue. My stomach grumbled as I thought back to the sandwich I’d slammed into the trashcan earlier that evening. I’d be needing a big steak to keep my mind off the way Russo’s arms filled out his soft-looking sweater, or the way his tiny dimples appeared when he smiled.
The restaurant looked older than most homes in the area. It was well-kept in a way that maintained the original flavor of the era in which it’d been built. Lots of deep reds and mahoganies made for a rich ambiance, combined with a dim glow from an array of crystal chandeliers.
“I’ll take...” I scanned the menu, then pointed to the biggest, most expensive steak. I glanced up at Russo to see if he blanched at my choice.
“It’s the least the FBI can do for its esteemed consultant,” he said with a mock bow of his head. He glanced up at the waiter. “I’ll take the same. We’ll share a bottle of the cab. We’ll take sides of mac and cheese, potatoes with mushrooms, and an appetizer of fried calamari—extra sauce.”
“Well,” I said, folding up the menu and handing it back to the waiter. “Looks like I won’t have to eat for a year after this.”
“There’s this place in DC, if you’re ever in the area, I’d love to—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” I blurted. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
Russo unfolded the napkin over his lap. “It’s fine. You were a long shot in the first place.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, you know exactly what I mean. We never got along, Kate. You hated my guts from the second you laid eyes on me.”
“Hate is a very strong word.”
“Let me try and remember your exact first words about me.”
“Please don’t,” I mumbled.
“Something about a colossal pain in the ass?” Russo shrugged. “And that was quite polite, I’m guessing, compared to what actually crossed your mind.”
“It wasn’t personal. I was just upset about the case.”
“You get very emotionally invested in your work.” Russo’s eyes landed knowingly on mine. “I am well aware. I admire it.”
I shifted, uncomfortable under his piercing stare. “I meant it about the phone call. I listened to your message on the way to a crime scene. Then I got there, and the case took up my time for the next few days. By the time I wrapped paperwork on it and pulled my head out of the sand, it was a week later, and...”
“You felt awkward?” Russo shrugged. “I would’ve understood. I never expected you to call me back the second you got off the clock. I work long hours too. I get this job; I really do. I know it’s hard to find someone who understands—I haven’t found anyone either.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Once. Briefly.”
“I’m sorry it, uh, ended.”
“It was a long time ago. We were both young,” Russo said. “She wanted kids right away, and I wanted to wait. She left me for someone older. And more importantly, in the banking industry.”
I winced. “Jeez.”
“We weren’t meant to be together. College sweethearts.” Russo gave a quick shrug. “Neither of us anticipated the road our lives would take. And I underestimated how much of my life would be given to the job.”