The Good Cop by Dorien Grey Page A

officer trapped in the burning squad car. I had a sneaking suspicion that the fact that not one of the reports mentioned the gay aspect of the story just might have been in response to a request from the department. I somehow found that fact more than a little disturbing.
    I also felt guilty about not going to the hospital to see Tom, or to make sure he got home okay if, as I suspected and hoped, they had released him. But I knew it would not be a good idea. I waited until about ten o’clock Sunday morning, then called his apartment. There was no answer, and I began to get worried.
    I’d just determined to take a walk over to his place and check when the phone rang.
    “Dick Hardesty,” I said, wondering as usual why I always insisted on using my last name when I answered the phone, even at home.
    “Dick, hi. It’s Tom.”
    Well of course it is, I thought, relieved to hear his voice.
    “Tom!” I was mildly surprised by the sound of relief in my own voice. “Where are you? How are you?”
    His voice sounded tired when he said: “I’m home, and I’m fine. Sore, but fine. I’ve been here about an hour, but I haven’t been answering the phone. Did you try to call?”
    “Yeah, I’ve been worried about you, and I wanted to apologize for bailing out on you last night. But when I realized you were probably going to live, I just felt that discretion was the better part of valor.”
    Tom managed a small laugh. “Probably just as well. I had department people all over me most of the night, wanting every detail of the shooting. Luckily they spent more time on the shooting itself than on what I was doing in a gay bar; I gather they’d talked to you at the scene from what one of the detectives said. But I suspect the gay issue will resurface soon. If I hadn’t been shot and effectively taken off the duty roster, I’d probably have been suspended as a matter of course while they investigated. There’ll be a hearing, of course, which is standard procedure when a police officer is involved in a fatal shooting.”
    He paused, then said “You want to come on over? We could talk easier in person, I think.”
    “Sure. Did you have breakfast? I could stop at the deli and get something.”
    “No, thanks. I had breakfast—at least that’s what they called it—at the hospital while I was waiting for them to release me.”
    Again I felt guilty for not having been there to bring him home, but forced myself to put it aside.
    “Okay. I’ll be right over.”
    When we hung up, I grabbed a quick piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, then put on my shoes and left for Tom’s. About halfway there, I remembered his gun case, which was still lying open on the floor of the passenger’s side of my car, and I returned to get it.
    *
    Tom opened the door looking pale and tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He was shirtless, and had a large bandage from the base of his neck to his left shoulder. His left arm was in a sling. We shook hands, then he closed the door and, seeing that I’d brought his gun case, he reached out with his free arm and gave me a sort of sideways hug, careful not to involve his left side. I returned the hug gingerly.
    He grinned as we released the hug. “I’m not made of glass, you know.”
    “I can see that,” I said, giving his bare torso an appreciative once-over.
    “Want some coffee?”
    I followed him toward the love seats, pausing to lay the gun case on the coffee table.
    “Sure, if you’ve got some made—or I could make some, if you’d like.”
    “Thanks, mom, but you don’t have to fuss over me. I managed to make a pot when I got home.”
    I aborted my rear-end’s descent onto the love seat and followed him into the kitchen.
    “Have you called Lisa?”
    Tom reached into one of the cabinets for a coffee mug. “Nah. They’ll be back tonight. No point in spoiling their day.”
    He poured my coffee, then refilled his own cup, which sat beside the coffee maker, and we went back to