lit some candles.
“Sit here, honey,” she said, patting the back of the chair. He did what she told him to do, then watched her pour champagne into the two flutes they had gotten at a flea market six months ago.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked.
“It’s a new tradition,” Cindy told him.
Now he smelled the aroma of herbs and spices coming from the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything in twelve hours.
“What are we calling this tradition?” he asked. “It’s the first-day-of-the-month dinner, Richie. And I propose that we do this every month, no matter what. No matter what case. No matter what deadline. We need to shut everything off for an hour and just be together.”
“Sure, Cindy. It’s a good idea. Why do you look so sad?”
“I have to apologize.”
“For?”
“I’ve been straying in my mind.”
“Some other guy?”
“No, not that.”
Cindy explained to him that she’d been in a panic about committing to marriage and motherhood, had worried about losing her place as a journalist, being marginalized as a part-time writer.
“I’ve been keeping part of myself out of our relationship.”
“Okay, stop beating yourself up now.”
He got up from his seat and hugged Cindy with his good arm. “I want you to be happy, Cindy. I know you’re ambitious and I love that about you. Plus, I’m a boring guy without you.”
“I was so scared when you got shot.”
“I know.”
“It got me focused on the right stuff.”
“Did you make beef stew?”
“For instance, that you’re just the best man in the world.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, Richie. I do.”
“Did you make your deadline today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Nope.”
“We won’t have babies until you say so. If you say so.”
“You still want to marry me?”
“Feed me our new traditional first-day-of-the-month dinner, Cindy. Please?”
“You betcha. I might have burned it though.”
“Kiss me.”
“Okay. Here. Here. And here.”
“After we eat, let’s go to bed.”
Chapter 117
Jacobi and I were having dinner at Aziza, a Moroccan restaurant; aromatic, homey, decorated in deep, earthy tones, and fragrant with all the spices of Arabia.
Jacobi’s color was good and he was wearing a blue sweater that made him look years younger than his age. Better than he’d looked in a long time.
“William Randall died without gaining consciousness,” Jacobi told me. “Good side of that is that he wasn’t convicted of anything. His widow will still get his pension.”
“You think Randall knew that Chaz Smith was a dirty cop?” Jacobi shrugged. “He could have known. It’s very possible. Ah. I got back the ballistics, Lindsay.”
“Are you going to tell me something bad, Jacobi? Because I just want to catch up and have dinner.”
“The shot to Randall’s kidney came from Brady’s gun.
That was the kill shot, and since Brady’s going to be on leave for a while, it won’t matter if he has to be without his gun and badge while we prove he fired on Randall in self-defense.”
“Don’t tell me I have to keep running the squad, Jacobi. I really don’t want to do it.”
“I’m going to be running the squad. Me.”
“Yeah?” I grinned. I liked what Jacobi was saying. A lot. “Until Brady returns and I can move back upstairs to my nice office with its beautiful view of Bryant Street.”
I slapped his hand above the plate of couscous, lifted my virgin mojito, and said, “Here’s to having you back in the corner office.”
Jacobi grinned and clinked his glass against mine, and then he laughed.
“I’m not going to let you cowboy around while I’m running the squad.”
“Oh, like you can change me. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“You’ve got a baby in the oven, Boxer — ”
“I think that’s ‘bun in the oven’ — ”
“And I’m part of your family. Don’t forget that I walked you down the aisle on the happiest day of your life.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
I hadn’t forgotten a minute of that day. Me on Jacobi’s arm. Walking on rose petals. Seeing my husband-to-be waiting for me in the gazebo overlooking the sea.
I put my hand on my tummy, stared off into space, then came back to the moment when I realized that Jacobi was staring at me.
“Is something wrong, Boxer?”
I touched his hand. “You were terrific that day. Standing up for me.”
“It was a great honor.”
His eyes showed me what I already knew. How much he cared. How close we had been and would always be.
“I’m going to get sloppy,” I said. “Brace yourself.”
“No, no, please don’t do that,” he joked.
I got up and went around the table and he stood up, and I hugged him really hard. I said into his ear, “I missed you, Warren. I’m so glad you’re coming back.”
Chapter 118
It was a pretty Sunday morning and I was at Mountain Lake Park, herding children.
Well, Martha was herding children and I was blowing the whistle and giving commands. Martha was a little older than the kids, who were about six or seven, three girls and a boy.
I held Martha by the scruff of her neck, said, “Get ’em,” let her go, and she loped over to the little squealers and ran circles around them. I said, “Come,” blew on the whistle — high-low-high — and Martha ran back to me, wagging her tail, happy lights sparkling in her eyes.
I asked her to cut between the little kids, separate the tallest little girl from the rest. The kids and their nannies laughed and more people gathered.
Other dogs saw that a good time was going on and wanted to get in on it. And so barking and yapping added volume and range to the giddiness.
