Chapter 6 - I'm Just Wilde About Harry

Several days had passed before Danny called Diane with an update from the precinct. Three of the possible suspects in Don's shooting had been cleared and Fancy was still working with Marten's on checking out the alibis of the other two. They were having a hell of a time keeping the whole thing out of the press.

Prosecutor Munroe was heavily entrenched in another case already in trial. He was keeping very busy and remained unreachable. Baldwin and Medavoy were taking turns with IAB agents at quietly watching his office and residence.

Diane wished she could be there too. Instead, she found herself with very little to do. Being quite unfamiliar with leisure time, she fought the urge to justify her stay with Mrs. Denby. Spending so much time talking with her was giving Diane wonderful insights into the Denby family, but the case was weighing heavily on her mind.

She wondered how Jill would feel about being a widow now, herself. *Did she even know what had happened to Don. Would she care?*

Napping was impossible. Diane had one of those metabolisms that kept her moving and doing, almost forgetting to eat at times. Besides, Miguel had taken a keen interest in her and was hopping from furniture to furniture, following her around like a dedicated watchdog. How did Harry ever get to sleep with the incessant commenting from this old parrot, anyway?

Harry. She actually began to miss him when he was gone for more than a few hours.

Away from work and from the oppressive mess involving the Kirkendall case, Diane saw Harry in a whole new light. She had taken note of his strange eccentricities before, but now she was beginning to see the man behind the mystery and often felt dizzy with fascination. Harry could make her head spin with his complicated soliloquies and shifts in mood.

They had spent the last two evenings walking in the woods behind the house, talking about everything from religion to their marriages. He admitted that he was fighting the shakes and needed to keep moving. The night air seemed to help, but he obviously wasn't feeling well.

Stopping now and then he would stand behind her, letting her lean back into his embrace and she could feel the timbre of his voice resounding in his chest. As she became accustomed to his dramatic musings, his words began to sound like poetry to her; difficult and deep. His voice, like his eyes, could be utterly hypnotic.

Then, just as she felt as if she could get a grasp on the flow of thought, he would turn her around and derail her with a lingering look that burned with intensity. His brow was knit in concentration but he was unable to give voice to his thoughts. The point of the conversation would dissolve into oblivion as he kissed her, long and hard. Then he would shudder a bit, place her at arm's length, and continue taking her in with his eyes for several minutes before resuming their walk.