I looked at him askance. "She called you?"

"Not that that's any excuse." He paused. "Things at home weren't the best for me. Maybe we were going through what every married couple goes through, but Tina and I were certainly having a rough time. We weren't talking as much. We were fighting more. And I was second-guessing the move here. I was pretty upset about it for a while."

"Why?" I asked, unable to resist the therapist's mantle, even in my rage.

"I loved Baltimore. That city was part of me. I came here because of what you and I had been through on the Lucas case and because I thought it would be better-safer, cleaner, prettier-for Tina and Kristie."

I wasn't about to let him off the hook. "So Julia called you. Then what?"

"After meeting a couple times for coffee, she told me how unhappy she was. And I started to talk a little bit about what was bothering me. We'd take walks, trade phone calls." He glanced down, let out a sigh. "I felt good. I really did. For the first time in a long time. She's amazing to look at, and that was certainly part of it. But it was more than that. Her voice, the way she looked at me, the way she listened… I thought I'd found someone who could help me change my life."

I didn't like hearing how close Anderson felt to Julia or how similar his emotional experience with her was to mine. "When did you first have sex with her?" I asked, trying to chase the misty look out of Anderson 's eyes. "And how has that affected the investigation?"

Anderson 's eyes thinned. His expression hardened. "Never did, on the first question. Never would, on the second."

"Sure, and give me a break, in that order," I said.

"I never had sex with her, Frank," Anderson bristled. "I'm not you."

I shook my head. "Take the girl and the case and-" I started to walk out.

"Wait a second, will you?" he said. "Look, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

I stopped, turned around.

"Okay," he said. "I'll tell you the whole story. About ten weeks into my… relationship with Julia, Tina told me she wanted a divorce. She didn't know about Julia, but she could see I was getting more and more distant. I didn't want to see the divorce happen, so I tried to stop things cold with Julia, but I found myself thinking about her all the time, wanting to talk with her, to hold her hand. So I kept meeting her." He rolled his eyes. "The most we ever did was kiss, Frank. It must sound childish, but that's all that happened. And you know the strangest part?"

"What?" I said flatly.

"Somehow, holding her and kissing her was enough. I didn't even care that we hadn't shacked up. I didn't want to risk what I thought we had." He fell silent.

I could hear the sadness in Anderson 's voice. "You're not over her," I said.

He looked straight into my eyes. "No," he said. "I don't expect I ever will be."

"So your warning to me to steer clear of her-that was… what?" I asked. "Jealousy?"

"Maybe, a little. Mostly, not." He leaned forward. "I meant what I said. I knew firsthand how my feeling close to her was making it hard to keep my vision clear on the case. I didn't want yours to get cloudy, too."

"Noble," I said.

He ignored the comment! "There's something else, too. And this may sound strange. But the way I felt… maybe, still feel about her, I'm not sure it's even normal. I mean, I was on the verge of leaving my wife a week after I sat alone with Julia for the first time. Take it for what it's worth: I was worried for you. That's why I came down on you so hard about your drinking."

Part of me wanted to tell Anderson he was full of crap, but another part of me resonated with what he had said. It was the same issue I had struggled with in my relationship with Julia: How had my feelings for her grown so strong, so fast? Why was I willing to go out on a limb for her when I wasn't certain who she was? Why had I crossed professional boundaries I would have counseled others to respect?

I looked at Anderson, trying to decide whether I could ever trust him again. All the questions that had visited me as I had walked down the hall were still in play. He could easily be carrying on a sexual relationship with Julia and secretly be furious at me for doing the same. The two of them could truly be using me to paint Darwin Bishop as the killer. "Was the letter Claire Buckley handed over to us meant for you?" I asked. "Are you the one Julia was going to send it to?"

"I don't think so," Anderson said.

"You don't think so," I said.

"I can't know for sure, but it's just not the tone we used with one another," he said. "It's much more flowery. It would have come out of left field, if you know what I'm saying. Not only that; we hadn't been in touch for weeks before Brooke's murder."

"So you think there's someone else in her life, besides you and me."

"I do," Anderson said. "I think that's why I went off a little on Claire back at the Bishop estate, leaning on her about her affair with Darwin." He shrugged. "I was pissed off about what I had just read. I killed the messenger."

I was split between feeling as if I were with a blood brother who had been through the same war as I or with an enemy caught red-handed sticking a knife in my back. Maybe, literally. "When you asked me to get involved with this case," I said, "did you do it because you wanted to help Julia, because you were in love with her?"

"She let me know she didn't believe Billy was guilty," he said. "My gut told me the same thing."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He hesitated, but only for an instant. "Yes," he said. "I called you because I wanted to help her."

"And…" I said, prompting him to answer the second part of my question.

"And because I thought I…" He stopped, corrected himself. "And because I loved her." He shrugged. "You wanted an answer. You got one. It sounds crazy, but I loved her."

I nodded. That honest response brought me a bit closer to feeling like Anderson was on the level. But it still left me with doubts. I focused intently on Anderson. "If I didn't think Darwin Bishop belonged at the top of the suspect list, would I still be on this case?"

"What are you asking me, Frank?" Anderson said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "You want to know whether I'd try to jail a man for the rest of his life in order to steal his woman?"

That was what I was asking, even though it sounded horrible when Anderson said it. I stayed silent.

"When I told you they'd have to bounce me off the case to get you off the case, I meant it," he said. "It may be hard to believe that now. But if you'd told me Billy had all the traits of a murderer, he'd be at the top of our list, not Darwin. I wouldn't railroad someone into a murder conviction. Not even for Julia Bishop."

16

Anderson flew to Nantucket. I took a cab from State Police headquarters to Mass General. While we needed space and time to make sense of how to go forward together, we both knew we had to keep moving. With all the complications in the Bishop case, one thing hadn't changed: Someone had tried to kill five-month-old Tess Bishop-and might well try again.

As the taxi sped down Storrow Drive, with the Charles River off to my left and the Boston skyline to my right, I began to wonder who had placed the photographic negative in the medicine bottle. The obvious candidate was Garret, given his penchant for island photography and the fact that he had turned the bottle over to Anderson and me. But it was also remotely possible that Darwin Bishop had put it there-storing away part of his motive for attempting to kill Tess right along with the means he had used to try to kill her. The answer was on its way; Leona would be dusting the negative for prints.

It was after 6:00 p.m. and getting dark when I walked through the hospital's main entrance. I had the fleeting impulse to stop in at the emergency room and grab a Percocet prescription from Colin Bain, to dull the pain from the injuries to my body and psyche-my savaged back, my hurt pride, my broken friendship. Any addictions counselor would forgive me the slip, given the circumstances. Luckily, I realized that staying sober might be one of the few things still within my control. No sense burying a knife in my own back when other people were doing such a good job of it.