because of substandard medical care. That’s enough to give her a motive.”
“Bullshit,” Torres said. “I spent my
formative years
in the South Bronx. Five kids in my grade school died of asthma.
Asthma
, for God’s sake. How’s that for shoddy medical care? People who grow up in poverty steal steaks from the supermarket, TV sets, maybe—not medical equipment.”
I told them to hash it out on their own, reminded them how critical the case was to the mayor’s husband, and turned them loose.
“What are your plans for the night?” Kylie asked me as soon as Betancourt and Torres left.
“Cheryl and I are going out for Italian food,” I said. “How about you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go home, take a bubble bath, order up some dinner, open up a bottle of wine, and watch anything with Mark Wahlberg in it.”
“Sounds like a restful night,” I said.
“That’s my plan,” she said. “Rest up.”
She was lying through her teeth. I had no idea what her plan was, but I knew one thing for sure: a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and a Mark Wahlberg movie had nothing to do with it.
CHAPTER 15
I GOT HOME at 6:52, eight minutes under the deadline. Cheryl was in the kitchen, spreading a pungent buttery mix on both sides of a split loaf of ciabatta.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“I’m making garlic bread.”
“My keen detective instincts picked up on that,” I said. “But I thought we were going out to dinner.”
“Who said anything about going out? I asked you how you felt about Italian food. You said
‘Fantastico,’
so that’s what I’m making. There’s a lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready about seven thirty.”
“This is amazing,” I said.
“It’s not amazing,” she said. “It’s called dinner. Normal couples do it every night.”
I came around behind her, cupped her breasts in my hands, and let my lips and tongue nibble the back of her neck. “And what do normal couples do if they have thirty-five minutes to kill before their lasagna is ready?”
“Keep your pants on, Detective Horndog,” she said, wriggling away. “At least until after dinner. For now, why don’t you open a bottle of wine and turn on the TV? It doesn’t get any more normal than that.”
I put my badge, my gun, and my cell phone down on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, pulled a bottle of Gabbiano Chianti from the wine rack, and poured two glasses.
I found the TV remote, flipped on
Jeopardy!
, and sat down on the sofa. Five minutes later, Cheryl joined me, and the two of us spent the next half hour vying to see who was the fastest at coming up with the right answer. It was a lopsided contest. She trounced me.
It was pure, unadulterated domestic boredom, and I loved it.
“Loser does the dishes,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.
I turned off the TV and went to the bathroom to wash up. I was looking in the mirror when my eye caught the pink bathrobe hanging next to my white one on the back of the door. Cheryl was not the first woman I had lived with. But this was the first time in my life that I wasn’t having second thoughts.
By the time I got back, the overhead lights in the dining area were dimmed, two flickering candles lit the room, and dinner was on the table: a steaming pan of lasagna, a salad bowl filled with greens and cherry tomatoes, and a basket of garlic bread.
“Are you sure this is normal?” I said. “Because it looks pretty
fantastico
to me.”
Cheryl was standing next to the breakfast bar. “Don’t sit down,” she said. She had my cell phone in her hand. “It rang while you were in the bathroom.”
“Whoever it is, tell them I’m eating dinner. I’ll call back.”
“It’s your partner,” Cheryl said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She needs a cop.”
I took the phone. “Kylie, unless someone has a gun to your head, it’ll have to wait.”
“Zach, I’m at a
“Bullshit,” Torres said. “I spent my
formative years
in the South Bronx. Five kids in my grade school died of asthma.
Asthma
, for God’s sake. How’s that for shoddy medical care? People who grow up in poverty steal steaks from the supermarket, TV sets, maybe—not medical equipment.”
I told them to hash it out on their own, reminded them how critical the case was to the mayor’s husband, and turned them loose.
“What are your plans for the night?” Kylie asked me as soon as Betancourt and Torres left.
“Cheryl and I are going out for Italian food,” I said. “How about you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go home, take a bubble bath, order up some dinner, open up a bottle of wine, and watch anything with Mark Wahlberg in it.”
“Sounds like a restful night,” I said.
“That’s my plan,” she said. “Rest up.”
She was lying through her teeth. I had no idea what her plan was, but I knew one thing for sure: a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and a Mark Wahlberg movie had nothing to do with it.
CHAPTER 15
I GOT HOME at 6:52, eight minutes under the deadline. Cheryl was in the kitchen, spreading a pungent buttery mix on both sides of a split loaf of ciabatta.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“I’m making garlic bread.”
“My keen detective instincts picked up on that,” I said. “But I thought we were going out to dinner.”
“Who said anything about going out? I asked you how you felt about Italian food. You said
‘Fantastico,’
so that’s what I’m making. There’s a lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready about seven thirty.”
“This is amazing,” I said.
“It’s not amazing,” she said. “It’s called dinner. Normal couples do it every night.”
I came around behind her, cupped her breasts in my hands, and let my lips and tongue nibble the back of her neck. “And what do normal couples do if they have thirty-five minutes to kill before their lasagna is ready?”
“Keep your pants on, Detective Horndog,” she said, wriggling away. “At least until after dinner. For now, why don’t you open a bottle of wine and turn on the TV? It doesn’t get any more normal than that.”
I put my badge, my gun, and my cell phone down on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, pulled a bottle of Gabbiano Chianti from the wine rack, and poured two glasses.
I found the TV remote, flipped on
Jeopardy!
, and sat down on the sofa. Five minutes later, Cheryl joined me, and the two of us spent the next half hour vying to see who was the fastest at coming up with the right answer. It was a lopsided contest. She trounced me.
It was pure, unadulterated domestic boredom, and I loved it.
“Loser does the dishes,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.
I turned off the TV and went to the bathroom to wash up. I was looking in the mirror when my eye caught the pink bathrobe hanging next to my white one on the back of the door. Cheryl was not the first woman I had lived with. But this was the first time in my life that I wasn’t having second thoughts.
By the time I got back, the overhead lights in the dining area were dimmed, two flickering candles lit the room, and dinner was on the table: a steaming pan of lasagna, a salad bowl filled with greens and cherry tomatoes, and a basket of garlic bread.
“Are you sure this is normal?” I said. “Because it looks pretty
fantastico
to me.”
Cheryl was standing next to the breakfast bar. “Don’t sit down,” she said. She had my cell phone in her hand. “It rang while you were in the bathroom.”
“Whoever it is, tell them I’m eating dinner. I’ll call back.”
“It’s your partner,” Cheryl said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She needs a cop.”
I took the phone. “Kylie, unless someone has a gun to your head, it’ll have to wait.”
“Zach, I’m at a
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