sent this self-important little nudnik to meet me, talked about himself all the way from the airport to this hotel, whatever it is.â Marian could hear a rustling of papers, and Kelly read off the name of the hotel and a phone number. âI havenât seen Abby James and Ian Cavanaugh yet. The studio found a bungalow for me, but it wonât be ready for another two days. Exactly what is a bungalow anyway? A log cabin without plumbing and electricity? At least I wonât have to chop wood for the fireâitâs hot as blazes here. Call me when you get home, Toots.â
Holland came out of the shower as Marian was punching out the number of Kellyâs hotel. The voice on the other end of the phone said Ms Ingram had gone out; Marian left a message that sheâd call tomorrow.
âShouldnât she be prostrate from jet lag about now?â Holland asked, toweling his hair dry.
âI donât think anyone ever told Kelly about jet lag. She probably found herself a dancing partner.â
He grimaced. âThere is such a thing as too much energy.â
âNot for Kelly. When sheâs in in her eighties and on Medicare, sheâll still be dancing.â
Their food arrived. They took it out on the balcony; the lights in the park had come on, and they were high enough up that the sounds of traffic were muted. When theyâd finished eating, Holland moved his chair next to hers and sat with one hand resting lightly on her thigh. They were both silent.
The thought occurred to Marian that this was a time sheâd someday look back on as one perfect moment in her life, as she lazed there on the balcony of an expensive Central Park West apartment on a mild summer night. She was sated with food and drink and sex. She had good friends and good, meaningful work. Her health was good.
And Holland was with her. Everything was better when Holland was with her.
She was happy.
The next morning she opened âherâ closet and found only one outfit left. âYou know, I havenât been to my place in over a week,â she said to Holland. âIâm out of clothes.â
âWeâll do laundry tonight,â he replied. âA nice, âsharingâ kind of domestic chore. And such fun.â
âHmm. No, I need to go home.â
He placed one hand on his chest in a theatrical gesture. âYou wound me to the quick. I thought this was your home.â
âItâs my other home. But I havenât even checked my mail lately.â She looked at her one remaining outfit critically, a lightweight summer suit that came with a skirt instead of trousersâthe reason sheâd left it to last. Marian still thought of the suit as new; but in the sunlight it was obvious that the suitâs new days were long gone. The NYPD had a dress code for its detectives, a fact that had never been any particular problem before. But now that she was a lieutenant, she had to pay more attention to her clothing than she really cared to do. Marian hated shopping.
She dressed and started the coffee while Holland hacked a melon in two. His day didnât start as early as hers, but he never slept in when she was there. Theyâd almost finished eating when one of their pagers went off in the bedroom.
âYours,â said Holland.
âHow can you tell?â
âHigher pitch.â
Marian the Tone-Deaf sighed and went into the bedroom. She clicked off the pager and called in.
When she went back to the kitchen, Holland said, âThereâs been a break in a case and you have to go in right now.â
She laughed and said, âAgain, how can you tell?â
âYour walk. You have a Marian walk and a Lieutenant Larch walk. Youâre walking like a cop now.â
âGod, I hate being so transparent.â They exchanged no casual good-bye kiss; that would have been a little too domestic.
Time to shift gears back to the Galloways.
It wasnât a break in