The Body Farm by Patricia Cornwell
“I’d like to have seen him buying Cuban cigars in that fancy tobacco shop in Richmond.”
“That’s not where they sell the illegal stuff, the Cuban stuff, and by the way, how stupid is that? Treating Cuban cigars like they’re marijuana in this country,” she says. “Someone in the fancy tobacco shop had a lead for him. Then the leads went on and on right down to that gun-and-pawn shop in Hollywood. You know Marino. He’s something.”
“Whatever,” Benton says, and he isn’t particularly interested in the minutiae. She feels what he is interested in and isn’t sure what she wants to do about it.
“Give Marino the credit, not me. That’s all I’m saying. He’s been through it. A little credit would be a good thing for him right now. I’m hungry. What did you cook for me?”
“I’ve got a grill. I like grilling in the snow on the patio out by the hot tub.”
“You and the hot tub. In the cold in the dark with nothing on but a gun.”
“I know. I still never use that damn hot tub.” He stops at his front door and unlocks it.
They stomp snow off their feet, and there isn’t much snow to knock loose because the walk is shoveled, but out of habit and maybe a little self-consciousness they stomp their feet before going inside. Benton shuts the door and holds her close to him and they kiss deeply and she doesn’t taste salt anymore, just feels his warm, strong tongue and his smooth-shaven face.
“You’re letting your hair grow,” she says into his mouth, and she runs her fingers through his hair.
“Been busy. Too busy to get it cut,” he replies, and his hands are on her, all over her, and her hands are on him, but their coats are in the way.
“Busy shacking up with another woman,” she says, helping him off with his coat as he helps her off with her coat, kissing, touching. “I heard.”
“You did?”
“I did. Don’t cut your hair.”
She leans against the front door and cold air seeping in around the door frame doesn’t bother her. She hardly notices it, and she holds him by the arms and looks at him, at his mussed-up silver hair and what is in his eyes. He touches her face as he looks at her, and what she sees in his eyes gets deeper and brighter at the same time, and for an instant she can’t tell if he’s happy or sad.
“Come in,” he says with that look in his eyes, and he takes her hand and moves her away from the door and suddenly it is warmer. “I’ll get you something to drink. Or to eat. You must be hungry and tired.”
“I’m not that tired,” she says.
Patricia Cornwell, The Body Farm