Free Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds by Nancy Martin Page B

Nora. Someone scary from Jersey."
    "I'm not dating anyone." I tried to be polite. "What about you, April Mae?"
    "Me?" She laughed and waved off the suggestion. "I'm an old married lady. Who can manage it all? I get the kids off to day care, go to my yoga class, take the Escalade for a tune-up, and run a charity meeting all before lunch. Time for love in the afternoon with a schedule like that? I don't think so. Besides, who wants to end up like that Laura Cooper?"
    "You mean dead?" Blane asked.
    "Not just dead," April Mae replied. "I mean dead."
    "Hold it," Blane snapped. "You think Yale killed her?"
    "Well, you said yourself . . ." April Mae allowed her voice to trail off suggestively.
    Blane shook her head disdainfully. "It was fun and games, that's all. He's not a psychopath, Ape, just a little twisted. In a good way, of course."
    "Hey, Nora, are you okay?"
    I said, "I'm sorry. I don't feel very well."
    "Shit, were you friends with Laura?"
    "Not really, no."
    "Oh, okay. Because I thought maybe you were upset for a minute. You knew she was sleeping with Yale Bailey, right?"
    "Well, I—"
    "That girl was busy," Blane declared. "I haven't seen her in months. I'd like to get a glimpse of her Palm Pilot, though. Working a job, all those Cooper family commitments, plus a guy like Yale three afternoons a week, if I know anything about him."
    I said, "Will you excuse me? I need some air."
    "Sure." Blane called after me, "Hey, get us a mention in Kitty's column, huh, Nora?"
    I fled outside in search of fresh air to clear my head, pushing through the front doors and staggering out onto the museum steps where Rocky did his victory dance. I didn't feel remotely victorious. The roses in Laura's bedroom, I thought. I'd assumed they'd come from her husband.
    My head cleared when I saw who was waiting for me outside.
    "Hey," said Detective Benjamin Bloom. "Are you all right?"
    "Detective Bloom." I stepped into the sunshine and breathed deeply.
    "What's wrong?"
    "I'm okay. Just light-headed for a second."
    He started to touch my arm, but thought better of it and shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his black trench coat instead. "Do you have a few minutes? Can we take a walk?"
    Reed wasn't due to return for an hour, so I agreed. I was glad to put some distance between myself and the Botox Babes. A brisk breeze snatched at our coats as we strolled down the museum's back steps towards the stretch of the river where the famous boat-houses stood. A pair of Rollerbladers flew past us, heading for Fairmount Park. A couple with a baby carriage sat on one of the benches, sharing a bagel and a coffee. A happy couple with no bruises, just a beautiful child.
    "Take it easy," Bloom said when my strides lengthened. "This isn't a race."
    "Sorry."
    "You really okay?"
    "Yes, fine. I suppose I can figure out why you're here." We slowed to a meander along the sidewalk. "How did you know where to find me?"
    "I phoned the newspaper."
    "You can call my home, you know."
    He hadn't changed since the investigation of Rory Pendergast's murder when I'd first met him in the line of duty. He had a young, elongated face and old, soulful eyes. With a lanky build and a dark shock of Leave it to Beaver hair that fell boyishly across his forehead, his Joe Friday seriousness seemed incongruous. It didn't help that he always wore very large white sneakers and acted like he had never learned how to talk to girls.
    Okay, maybe Michael Abruzzo was too much for me. Too big, too demanding, too overtly the sexual animal. Detective Ben Bloom seemed . . . manageable. I sometimes found myself wishing he would come throw pebbles at my bedroom window late at night.
    During the investigation of Rory Pendergast's murder, I'd learned that underneath his mild manners. Bloom was actually an ambitious cop who was willing to bend as many rules as necessary to get his career out of a sleepy suburban police department and into the excitement of a big-city homicide division.
    "Am I going to