Epilogue

HAVE YOU EVER WOKEN UP FROM A CRAZY dream believing that all the wild and scary things you dreamt about had actually taken place? Well, that’s what happened to me when I came to that night in the hospital. Except it happened in reverse. I woke up believing that all the wild and scary things that had actually taken place were nothing but a crazy dream.

It took a few minutes for my sense of reality to return-for me to realize that the bed I was lying in was not my own; that my body was all bandaged up for a reason. And when I turned my head to the side and saw Dan sitting in a chair right next to the bed, staring at me intently (and oh-so-seriously) with his searing black eyes, I had all the proof I needed that the ghastly scenes swirling around like smoke in my head had really occurred.

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or kick you,” Dan said, making his conflicting emotions conspicuously clear. “But since you look like a Martian with that silly thing on your head, I’ve got to kiss you. A girl in a space suit drives me crazy.” With that, he raised himself out of his chair, leaned over the bed railing, cupped my face in his big warm hands, and planted the world’s steamiest kiss on my startled but delighted mouth. (And I had thought black silk underwear would turn Dan on! Apparently hair dryer hoods and hospital gowns were more to his liking.)

As soon as he pried his luscious lips away and my heartbeat returned to normal, I sputtered, “Why did they leave me like this? They could have removed the cap and take the curlers out!”

“The docs and nurses had a few more important things to take care of,” Dan said. “In the Emergency Room, believe it or not, gunshot wounds take precedence over hairdos.”

I didn’t want to be reminded of the gun, or the shots, or the wounds. “What time is it?” I asked, quickly changing the uncomfortable topic.

He looked at his watch. “Four-thirty in the morning.”

“Oh, shoot!” (As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I wished I’d thought of a better-i.e., less ballistic-way to express my disappointment.)

“What’s the matter, babe?” Dan gave me one of his cocky, sexy, melt-your-bones-to-molasses smiles. “Past your bedtime?”

“No, it’s past Christmas!” I exclaimed. “And I never got to give you your present, or even wish you a happy holiday!”

Dan chuckled for a second, then turned serious. “Just knowing you’re alive makes all my days happy.”

Joy to the world! I sang to myself. A girl could get used to this. I should get almost killed more often.

But these jubilant feelings didn’t last long. Because before I knew it, Dan’s whole demeanor had changed. One minute he was lovey-dovey and all smiles, and the next he was busting a gasket, ranting and raving like Joe McCarthy himself, telling me off for risking my precious life just so I could play detective in yet another unsolved murder case.

Terry and Abby had told him the whole story, he said, and he didn’t care how many times Bob had saved Terry’s life in Korea, or how hard Terry had begged me to help him find his little sister’s killer, or how much I wanted to write a story about the murder, I should never, ever, ever have gotten involved the way I did. It was an outrageous, unheard-of, unconscionable thing for me to do, and I should have my head examined for even thinking that I could solve another homicide.

(At this particular point in time-while I was lying there immobile on my back and bandaged up like a mummy-I was inclined to agree with him. But I didn’t tell him that, of course.)

Dan was really, really angry that I hadn’t told him about the case and asked himto look into Judy’s murder. Why the hell did I keep it a secret from him? Did I actually believe that I was so much smarter than he was? Did I really think I could conduct a better murder investigation than the whole darn NYPD? And how dare I put myself in so goddamn much danger?! Did I ever stop to think how horrible it would be for him if I were killed and he had to head up a search for m y murderer?

I had to admit (to myself and to Dan) that that particular thought hadn’t once crossed my mind. And then I had to apologize-profusely-for my lack of consideration. And my lack of trust. And my reckless self-endangerment. And my “idiotically inflated head.” (Dan’s words, not mine.)

But nothing I said would soothe the savage beast-not even my emotional protestations about the laziness and inef fectualness of Detective Hugo Sweeny, or my sworn testimony that I thought he (Dan) would never interfere in another precinct’s homicide investigation.

He most certainly would have interfered, Dan claimed (more vociferously than I care to remember). Especially since he already knew what a shiftless sonofabitch Sweeny was, and how incompetent he’d been in the past, and how he’d begun closing cases prematurely because his retirement was coming up soon and he wanted to leave the job with a clean slate. And even if he didn’t know all that stuff about Sweeny, Dan insisted, he would have seen to it that the Catcher case was reopened. With so much glaring evidence in hand, that’s what any good cop would do.

Okay, okay! So I was a stupid fool. And everything Dan said to me in the hospital that night (I mean morning) was totally legitimate. I really should have told him about Judy’s murder. And about the diamonds. And I should have revealed everything at the very beginning-the same day Terry met me at the automat and asked me to help him find the creep who had killed his sister.

But you understand why I didn’t, don’t you? You know how overwhelmed I was by Terry’s pain and sorrow, and by his desperate plea for help, and by the fact that he had been so close to my late husband in his final days. And you also know how crazy Dan would have gone if I had even tried to discuss the details of the Judy Catcher murder case with him, right? No matter what Dan says, all hell would have broken loose! And he would have banished me from the investigation. He would have forced me to give up my search… and give up my story… and, well, give up my natural (though most would say unnatural) career goals.

So what was a girl supposed to do? Be true to her late husband… or to her new boyfriend… or to herself? Finding that question impossible to answer, I chose to dodge the truth altogether. I heaved a heavy sigh, closed my weary eyes, and fell into a sleep so deep it was deadly.

I WAS IN THE HOSPITAL FOR A WEEK, AND Dan came to visit every day. He was still mad at me, but he was also still pretty crazy about me (I could tell by the way his strong, craggy face turned all mushy when he thought I wasn’t looking). And, as much as he didn’t want to rehash-or give credence to-my involvement in the Judy Catcher case, he couldn’t curb his professional curiosity, or stop himself from picking up the investigation where I’d left off.

It wasn’t enough that he’d apprehended the murderer himself; that he’d been sharp and alert enough to chase Elsie down when he saw her burst out of my building and start running away like a thief; that he’d had the sense (and the instinct) to ignore all the rules and handcuff her right there and then, in the middle of Bleecker Street on Christmas Day, and march her-jawbone wagging like a broken gate-back up the stairs to my apartment. And it wasn’t enough that Elsie had, just a few days later, in light of all the irrefutable evidence against her, and in the presence of her lawyer and several prison officials, written up and signed a full confession (the prison docs had wired her busted jaw together, but she still couldn’t talk).

Nope! That wasn’t enough for our man Dan! There were still a few loose ends in the case, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d tied them all together. And I was the only one who could help him do that. (This fact tickled me pink, but seemed to give Dan a humongous headache.)