Murder at the Nightwood Bar by Katherine V. Forrest

Author:Katherine V. Forrest [Forrest, Katherine V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780930044923
Amazon: 0930044924
Publisher: Naiad Press
Published: 1987-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Twelve

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Kate left the station shortly after ten o’clock. As she threaded her way through the downtown freeway interchange and over quiet city streets to the Silverlake District, persistent waves of fatigue encroached on her anticipation of time alone with Andrea. The day had been long, beginning with the autopsy of Dory Quillin and ending with the paperwork she had had to complete at the station. But it was the confrontation in the parking lot of the Nightwood Bar, the full expenditure of adrenalin, which had so depleted her.

The house was a small white frame, its old-fashioned veranda dark and shadowy with the shapes of leafy plants. Kate frowned at the flimsy aluminum-frame door, the light, easily removable screens and windows. A two-year-old could break into this place. Disturbed, she rang the bell.

From the backyard a dog snarled, then barked. Kate was suddenly bathed in light which illuminated the forest of plants on the veranda. To her relief, the light also revealed a substantial inside door and a barred living room window. The house was not nearly as vulnerable as it appeared.

Andrea, in jeans and a large blue plaid shirt, stood framed in the inner doorway, her house warm brightness behind her; then she came out onto the veranda to unlock the door. The rich aroma of coffee reached Kate. She felt suddenly weak with the womanly presence of Andrea and the warmth of her house; she ached with tiredness and loneliness.

“You look exhausted,” Andrea said, taking her arm, leading her into the living room. “How about something stronger than coffee?”

“Coffee is fine.” Kate sank into a thickly cushioned sofa, and looked curiously around her. As if the veranda had overflowed into this room, plants occupied the floor and the slate hearth of a fireplace, as well as the surfaces of the glass-topped coffee table, two cherrywood occasional tables, several shelves of a tall bookcase. On the wall across from her hung a large print, geometric bands of color, costly-looking in its simplicity. The room had been put together with care, and Kate felt comfortable in it.

“Is it that you don’t drink at all?” Andrea inquired. “Surely you can’t still be on duty. Do they work police officers eighteen hours a day?”

“On a homicide investigation we don’t have set hours. We have to move fast, develop information fast. We go till we can’t go any longer. So I’m still on duty. Technically, I have no business being here unless I am on duty.”

“Okay, you’re on duty. Now what would you like to drink on duty? I have some excellent brandy, also scotch, vodka, wine—you look like a scotch drinker to me.”

Kate smiled. “You’re very observant. And kind. Right now some coffee with a little brandy sounds perfect.”

Andrea disappeared into the kitchen. Kate pulled an ottoman over from the end of the sofa, feeling at ease about doing so, and kicked off her shoes and put her feet up.

Andrea came back carrying two mugs of steaming coffee and placed them on the coffee table.

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