a hotel. The expense is no problem,” she said.
Mitch smiled. “I’d feel better knowing you were in a safe place. The Captain said I should make sure you were okay until we catch the shooter.”
She still looked doubtful.
“Come on, it’s a nice apartment. Cozy. How ’bout it?”
“All right, thank you. That would be fine,” she murmured. “Does this mean you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with James’s death?”
“It means that after I complete the report and hand it over, I’m off the case. Detective Taylor, that young sergeant you met earlier, will be in charge. Right now, I’m just trying to get you settled.”
She got up and adjusted the strap of her expensive leather handbag over her shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you, Detective Winton.”
“Don’t mention it,” he answered with a fatalistic shrug. “And you might as well call me Mitch if we’re going to be neighbors.”
“Neighbors?” she repeated with a look of concern.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. He opened the door for her, and they walked side by side through the parking area to his old brown Bronco.
The rigid set of her shoulders slackened, and she sighed with relief when she saw they were not returning to the unmarked car he’d used to bring her there. He opened the front passenger door and she got in. Thought she was home free, he guessed, and wished to God it were true.
No, he was not behaving professionally by wishing that, but figured he had better be fully aware of it so that he could act accordingly. He was attracted to her, felt protective toward her and, consequently, had the overwhelming urge to prove her innocence. His objectivity, if he’d ever had any with regard to her, was completely shot to hell.
Traffic was almost nonexistent in the wee hours. Mitch automatically kept a check on their surroundings and the rearview mirror. The habit was so ingrained it was annoying sometimes. Most of the time he did it without even thinking.
“Nashville looks like a nice city judging by the little I’ve seen of it,” she said softly. “I’ve never been here before.”
Mitch glanced over, taking in her profile. She was wearing a small, sad smile, probably thinking about her husband and what he’d told her about the town. She needed distracting. “You stated your occupation is graphic designer. What exactly do you do design?”
“Web pages for businesses,” she answered. “I’ve always been fascinated with computers.”
“Sounds like a perfect job for you, then,” he said, wishing he knew more about computers so he could discuss them intelligently. “I know how to log on at work and access the info I need, that’s about it. You know, I actually had you pegged as a model?”
“I used to be, but I outgrew it.” From her curt answer, Mitch concluded she definitely didn’t want to elaborate.
“Thanks for trying to take my mind off…things,” she said. “You’re very kind for a stranger.”
“‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,’” he quoted. “Blanche DuBois, Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, with a surprised little laugh. “She was such a wimp!”
“I didn’t mean to imply that about you. What you said just reminded me of the phrase. You like old movies?”
“Sometimes. Books are better.”
“I guess,” he said, bringing that particular conversation to a dead end. He rarely had time to read, other than for additional training or information. He liked to, but if he couldn’t sit down with a book and finish it in one sitting, he didn’t pick one up.
“So,” he said, broaching another subject as he turned onto the loop and snaked his way around the city, “I guess New Yorkers keep to a much faster pace than we do down here.”
“Evidently,” she said dryly without elaborating.
Mitch smiled. “Never rush when we can take our time. Never run unless somebody’s chasing us.”
He heard a short laugh of surprise, then a soft little “Sorry. I did sound condescending, didn’t I?”
“No problem. Being underestimated works mostly to our advantage. Mine, anyway.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” she said, but without any asperity.
Mitch hadn’t meant it as a warning. Or had he? Was he subconsciously trying to prepare her for the fact that he wouldn’t cut her any slack if she was lying about killing Andrews? This second-guessing himself was driving him nuts.
“Will you be all right?” he asked, shoving his self-analysis to the back burner. “Financially, I mean. What about your work?”
“I can function just as well from here, assuming I can have my laptop back.”
“Back? Where is it?”
“It’s at James’s apartment. So is my suitcase,” she said.
Mitch bumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I should have thought about that. We can go for your things first.”
He moved into the lane to take the next exit, intending to reverse their direction. “They’re probably finished checking them out.”
“Wait!” she said, reaching out, almost touching his arm. Then she drew back. “Could…could we not go back there just now?”
He understood. “Sure. I’ll call and have one of the guys bring them to you or I’ll go pick them up.”
“Thank you.”
The ensuing silence extended and became uncomfortable. He was usually a pretty good conversationalist, but for the life of him, Mitch couldn’t think of anything else to talk about that didn’t involve discussing some aspect of the murder. He had nothing at all in common with a woman like Robin Andrews.
Instinctively he knew she was going to hate the apartment. He could imagine her world, envision her living in monochromatic, uncluttered splendor in some New York high-rise. Where he was going to put her, she’d think she had landed on another planet, or at least in a former century. But it was the best he could do for her under the circumstances. She would just have to get used to it.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, figuring he couldn’t go wrong applying the lowest common denominator. Everybody needed food.
She considered for a minute. “I could probably eat, yes. Fruit or something light.”
“How do you feel about waffles?”
“Ambivalent,” she said, sounding resigned.
Mitch sighed. Damned if he was going shopping all over town for yogurt, fresh fruit or whatever this time of night. She could eat what he ate or go hungry.
“Waffles
