Chapter 2

“If it makes you feel any better, after Monday you’re not going to have any spare time to devote to old cases for a while.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“I can’t tell you anything else right now. You’ll have to wait until our Monday afternoon meeting.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said with visible reluctance as she got up to leave my office.

That little exchange was probably the high point of my day, and I was ready for home, hearth, and some TLC as I got into my department-issued car, but even that didn’t come about quite as I had hoped. The minute I opened the backdoor of our house, I was greeted by Thor, our resident Irish Setter, himself in need of TLC as he rolled over on his back and demanded a belly rub.

I finally made it to the master bedroom, where I stripped and headed for the shower. Stepping under the hot spray, I closed my eyes and allowed the water to wash away the tension. I must have zoned out for a minute, because I was jolted to a state of alertness by a pair of very friendly arms encircling me from behind.

“Finally,” I said.

“Finally?” Mike, my partner, said.

“Babe, I came home in dire need of TLC—I hope you’re going to deliver.”

“You bet.”

He delivered—in spades—first in the shower, and again in the bedroom. When we were both finally sated, it was too late to go to the wine shop in Five Points and join our impromptu tasting group, so we opted to stay home and order a pizza. We settled down on the enclosed porch of our house to enjoy our pizza and a bottle of Shiraz, and between us, we managed to demolish the bottle of wine and most of a large pizza. Thor, of course, got his share of crusts and bits and pieces.

As I finished my last slice, I said, “I wonder how long we’ll be able to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“Eating pizza and other fattening foods. We’re not getting any younger.”

“Babe, as long as we keep up our exercise schedule, I don’t think we’re in any danger of getting fat.”

“Maybe, but I read somewhere that after you pass thirty, your body doesn’t process food as efficiently as it used to.”

“Only if you’re a couch potato. Besides, all you have to do is look at our vitals.”

“Our vitals?”

“We’re still holding our own at one ninety, an appropriate weight for guys who are a couple of inches over six feet tall, and we still wear the same size clothes we’ve worn for years. How many guys our age do we know that can honestly say that? For that matter, how many guys our height, weight, and age still have thirty-four-inch waists?”

“Okay, I give up. We can still eat the occasional pizza without guilt.”

“Damn straight.”

The next morning we went, as usual, to the Y on Riverside Avenue. As soon as we were dressed in running shorts and shoes, we headed out to perform a local ritual known as “running the bridges.” This involved running across the St. Johns River via the Acosta Bridge, a high-rise span whose approaches were separated from the YMCA complex by a couple of office buildings. On the other side of the river, we followed a side street to the Main Street Bridge, which was an elevator bridge, and ran across it to the north bank of the river. Then we turned around and retraced our steps. It was a good workout, especially on the somewhat steep up-ramp to the Acosta Bridge on the return journey.

Back in the locker-room, we removed our sweat-soaked shorts and retrieved Speedos from our bags. Wearing the Speedos, we took a brief shower before swimming a few laps in the pool to cool down, and from the pool, we went to the steam room for a bit. After yet another shower, we returned into the locker-room, ready to get dressed.

Before we could dress, Mike led me to the room adjacent to the main locker-room that held a row of vanities and mirrors, complete with hair dryers and other accessories. He pulled his towel from around his waist, hung it on a hook, and stepped onto the scales.

Looking at the huge circular display, he said, “It says here that I can afford to have a high-calorie breakfast.”

He stepped off the scales and I took his place. “So can I,” I said, reading the display.

“Admit it, babe, that pizza last night didn’t do any damage.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not going to throw caution to the winds.”

We returned to our lockers, retrieved our clothes, and got dressed. Ten minutes later, we were waiting for a table at the Derby House restaurant in Five Points. Situated on a triangular-shaped lot where two of the five streets that gave Five Points its name met, the building had housed a restaurant for decades. In recent years, as the neighborhoods of Riverside and Avondale became heavily gay, the Derby House had become a sort of gay hangout, especially on the weekends.