Hostile Witness

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

Josie woke up at six with the sun in her eyes, the smell of Archer all around. It was in the sheets, on her body, in the scent of the dark coffee he preferred, the piquant smell of the chemicals he used in his darkroom. The sense of him was everywhere. In the way his clothes were hung precisely in the closet, and in the book of forensic techniques that lay open on the bedside. Once a cop, always a cop. On the bookshelf, a rosary hung over the neck of an empty bottle of tequila. It was a long story. Short version: Archer found religion one night while a buddy lost his. He said he kept the rosary to remind him to play savior only when it was a sure thing. Josie didn't believe him. He could never be so calculating. He had saved her, and she wasn't a sure thing. Josie threw an arm over her eyes for a second, and then rolled onto her side to touch the place where he had slept. The sheets were cold. He'd been gone for a while.

Josie got out of bed and searched for her clothes. She found her muscle shirt and panties but the sweats and sports bra were missing in action. She shimmied into what she had, glanced at the picture of Lexi, Archer's dead wife, and then went looking for the man they shared. She found him on the rooftop balcony, a perk of owning the building.

"Morning," Josie walked up behind him and wound her arms around his waist. He was a big man; made her feel downright dainty. She loved the smell of his shirt. Starched and pressed by the man who wore it.

"Don't move," he commanded.

Josie didn't but only because she didn't want to. She held her breath, loving the feel of him when he was excited by what he saw through his lens. His gut tightened beneath her hands. A solitary muscle rippled. Quick like a snake. A click. He sighed with satisfaction and stood up slowly, surveying the beach once more before turning around to kiss Josie. She kissed him back just long enough for them both to be happy. When she slipped out of his arms, he let her go. No nonsense. No jealousy. No neediness. Respect. Affection. Comfort. Chemistry. It was the kind of relationship people who could take care of themselves did well.

Archer and Josie did it extremely well.

They met a year ago. Archer snapped a picture of her at the pro-am volleyball tournament. She had her hand on her hip, baseball hat on backwards, sunglasses covering her eyes. When the picture was printed, Josie was pleased. She could see her six-pack abs, the ropes of muscles in her legs, and the fine definition of her biceps. Archer said that wasn't what he saw. He saw her glaring at him from behind those glasses, unhappy that she had lost a critical point, determined she wouldn't lose the next one. He knew they would be more than good friends. It took Josie a month longer to figure it out.

"You want more coffee?" Josie picked up the thermal pot to pour herself a cup. He shook his head. Josie and her coffee joined him by the balcony railing.

"I got the sun coming up. I picked up some woman skinny dipping around five." Archer lifted his chin to indicate the surf. Josie looked at him. He had a wonderful profile. He looked like an Irish boxer: strong jawed, short, straight nose, eyes that were dark and close together. Those eyes held a person tight in his line of sight. His was a man's face and a man's body. He didn't own a suit. He was as different from the men Josie used to date as Baxter & Associates was from the kind of law she used to practice. What had she seen in those men in designer suits? Josie leaned into him, playfully banging his shoulder with her own.

"You're going to get sued one of these days when somebody sees themselves on a postcard or in a magazine."

"I know a good lawyer. She wouldn't let me down." He pushed back. Not a hint of a smile. It wasn't his way. He smiled with his eyes, with his touch. Josie knew when Archer was happy. It was the same way he showed hurt and anger and compassion - with his eyes, with his touch.