day or two. I'll meet up with the two of you as soon as I can get out here tomorrow." He stopped, looked right at me, and sighed. "I think this is going to be it. The case where I find out that I'm too old for this kind of work."
I stood in Sy's gym, talking to Lynne from his wall phone. All the not-fun stuff I'd been bugging myself about since the afternoon now seemed stupid. Engaged-guy nerves, a last-ditch defense of bachelorhood. Because, objectively, Lynne was so terrific.
One of the things that had always knocked me out about her was that she acted as though I had a normal, not-terribly-exciting job. I could be a manager of an Aamco transmission franchise. She deliberately did not focus on what I actually did. I understood why; homicide is the ultimate breakdown of law and order, and Lynne's whole life, as a teacher and as a person, was dedicated to being constructive. She was there to give someone a chance, not take it away. Murder wasn't exciting. It was sinful, and it was also outrageously unfair. In the deepest sense, killing wasn't nice.
Another thing: despite her career and her really astonishing competence, she was enough of a traditional female not to want to hear the details of a fatal beating, or how the scalp is peeled back from the skull during an autopsy. So she concentrated not on the subject of my work—the dead and how they got that way—but on the living.
So we were not chitchatting about the murder, other than the briefest summary of what had happened and where I was. Instead, we were talking people. We'd done thirty seconds on how Carbone managed to be an intrusive pain in the butt and a terrific guy at the same time, a minute and a half on why I couldn't stand Robby, and now we were on to my brother.
"Did you say anything like: 'Gee, Easton, I'm sorry about Mr. Spencer. I know how much you liked him and how important he was in your life'?"
"Don't bust my chops, Lynne."
Except for the floor, the entire gym was mirrored. I was the only thing in the room that didn't gleam. Besides a stationary bike, a treadmill and one of those stair-climbing things—all with glowing red or green digital displays—there was a bunch of Nautilus equipment. I stood up straighter; either Sy had a lot of vanity to work out in front of all those mirrors, or he needed tremendous incentive.
"Steve," she said patiently, "did you say anything at all to comfort your brother?"
"Yeah. I said I was sorry."
"That's all?"
Just when I thought I looked okay in one mirror, I'd see my reflection in another. I pulled my shoulders back. I knew I didn't have a gut, but in the ceiling mirror I seemed to, so I sucked it in. "Don't get on me about Easton now. I just called to say good night and I love you."
"Well, good night and I love you too. It's just that I know how much you want a decent relationship with him. Wouldn't this be the perfect time to reach out?"
I told her I guessed it was, and then we did the good night and I love you business again because I'd been on with her for almost five minutes and wanted to get back.
After we hung up, I lay down on the gray-carpeted floor and closed my eyes for about ten seconds, probably my total rest for the next forty-eight hours. I know it was sentimental—and probably inaccurate—to say Lynne had saved me, but I really felt she had. Sure, I'd been staying sober with AA. And since getting back into Homicide I was working better than I ever had before.
But by the time I met her, I was feeling scared. I was standing all alone, no crutches. No booze. No drugs at all. Two months after I got out of South Oaks, I got the flu. I sweated out a hundred-and-four-degree fever rather than risk becoming a Tylenol junkie. Hardly any women either: I had lost almost all desire. In the old days, almost anything that produced estrogen could get me going if I was in the mood to get going, but most of the time now I couldn't seem to find anybody who made me want to unbuckle my belt. And yeah,
I stood in Sy's gym, talking to Lynne from his wall phone. All the not-fun stuff I'd been bugging myself about since the afternoon now seemed stupid. Engaged-guy nerves, a last-ditch defense of bachelorhood. Because, objectively, Lynne was so terrific.
One of the things that had always knocked me out about her was that she acted as though I had a normal, not-terribly-exciting job. I could be a manager of an Aamco transmission franchise. She deliberately did not focus on what I actually did. I understood why; homicide is the ultimate breakdown of law and order, and Lynne's whole life, as a teacher and as a person, was dedicated to being constructive. She was there to give someone a chance, not take it away. Murder wasn't exciting. It was sinful, and it was also outrageously unfair. In the deepest sense, killing wasn't nice.
Another thing: despite her career and her really astonishing competence, she was enough of a traditional female not to want to hear the details of a fatal beating, or how the scalp is peeled back from the skull during an autopsy. So she concentrated not on the subject of my work—the dead and how they got that way—but on the living.
So we were not chitchatting about the murder, other than the briefest summary of what had happened and where I was. Instead, we were talking people. We'd done thirty seconds on how Carbone managed to be an intrusive pain in the butt and a terrific guy at the same time, a minute and a half on why I couldn't stand Robby, and now we were on to my brother.
"Did you say anything like: 'Gee, Easton, I'm sorry about Mr. Spencer. I know how much you liked him and how important he was in your life'?"
"Don't bust my chops, Lynne."
Except for the floor, the entire gym was mirrored. I was the only thing in the room that didn't gleam. Besides a stationary bike, a treadmill and one of those stair-climbing things—all with glowing red or green digital displays—there was a bunch of Nautilus equipment. I stood up straighter; either Sy had a lot of vanity to work out in front of all those mirrors, or he needed tremendous incentive.
"Steve," she said patiently, "did you say anything at all to comfort your brother?"
"Yeah. I said I was sorry."
"That's all?"
Just when I thought I looked okay in one mirror, I'd see my reflection in another. I pulled my shoulders back. I knew I didn't have a gut, but in the ceiling mirror I seemed to, so I sucked it in. "Don't get on me about Easton now. I just called to say good night and I love you."
"Well, good night and I love you too. It's just that I know how much you want a decent relationship with him. Wouldn't this be the perfect time to reach out?"
I told her I guessed it was, and then we did the good night and I love you business again because I'd been on with her for almost five minutes and wanted to get back.
After we hung up, I lay down on the gray-carpeted floor and closed my eyes for about ten seconds, probably my total rest for the next forty-eight hours. I know it was sentimental—and probably inaccurate—to say Lynne had saved me, but I really felt she had. Sure, I'd been staying sober with AA. And since getting back into Homicide I was working better than I ever had before.
But by the time I met her, I was feeling scared. I was standing all alone, no crutches. No booze. No drugs at all. Two months after I got out of South Oaks, I got the flu. I sweated out a hundred-and-four-degree fever rather than risk becoming a Tylenol junkie. Hardly any women either: I had lost almost all desire. In the old days, almost anything that produced estrogen could get me going if I was in the mood to get going, but most of the time now I couldn't seem to find anybody who made me want to unbuckle my belt. And yeah,
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