that.”
She stared at him, not quite believing what she knew she had heard. “Are you hitting on me?”
“I’m just being honest.” He caught her hand. “Putting myself out there. For you.”
She made a sound of disgust. Apparently, they had very different definitions of honest. Her definition didn’t include tricks or infidelity.
She jerked her hand away. “This is sexual harassment, Lieutenant. I don’t think you want to go there.”
“Whatever happened to us?” he asked, leaning toward her, forcing her backward. “We were good together, weren’t we?”
She realized then just how inebriated he was. Too inebriated to listen to reason. “You were married. You still are.”
“But it was good, wasn’t it?”
“Back off, Brian. You’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk.” His voice took on a whiny tone. “Come on, it could be good again.”
“There you are, M.C.,” Lance Castrogiovanni said, coming up behind Brian. “Sorry I’m late.”
She gratefully grabbed the out. “My date,” she said, ducking past the startled lieutenant. “Brian, you know Lance. Excuse us.”
The comedian put his arm around her and steered her out of the hallway. She leaned toward him. “Thanks, that was getting uncomfortable.”
“Thought you looked like you could use saving.” He pointed toward a table in the corner. “For a moment, I thought he was going to pulverize me.”
“Brian’s big but harmless.”
“Didn’t look so harmless to me.” They reached the table. He held out a chair and she sat. “Aren’t you two colleagues?”
“We are. He’s also a superior officer-and a mistake from my days as a rookie.”
“Ouch.”
“No joke. Of course, he wasn’t a lieutenant back then. But I wasn’t a detective, either.”
“Young people make mistakes. I made my share, that’s for sure.”
She held her glass up. “To mistakes and lucky breaks.”
“Lucky breaks?” he asked.
“That you were here. Because of my past relationship with Brian and his position on the force, I have to be very careful.”
“So kneeing him in the balls would have been a bad thing?”
She laughed. “A very bad thing, yes.”
He leaned toward her, expression amused. “You really weren’t that lucky, Detective Riggio.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “Typically, when I’m not working, I avoid these places like the plague. Too much smoke and desperation.”
“Which would make me unusually lucky to find you here.”
“Except…I was here looking for you.”
“Funny.”
He met her gaze, his serious now. “That’s not part of my act. It’s true. In fact, this is my third time in. If you were a no-show tonight, I was moving on to plan B.”
“Which was?”
“Call you at work. I wasn’t thrilled by plan B.”
“You have something to hide, Lance Castrogiovanni? A skeleton or two in your closet?”
“Don’t we all?” He laughed. “Actually, as long as it’s confession time, cops give me the willies. Except for you, of course.”
“I’m honored, I guess.”
“I know an open-all-night diner that serves the best homemade cream pies in the world.”
“That is so not Italian,” she teased.
“Exactly.” He held out a hand. “My treat.”
“In that case, you’ve got a deal.”
They agreed to each take their own car. The diner, appropriately named the Main Street Diner, was located at the corner of North Main and Auburn Streets, an area that had fallen on lean times.
As they entered the brightly lit establishment, the woman behind the counter-middle-aged with a net over her gray bob-greeted Lance by name. When she did, a man peered out from the kitchen.
“Lance, buddy, where’ve you been?”
“Working. A good thing, by the way. Keeps me in pie.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“A friend. Mary Catherine Riggio, Bob Meuller. His wife Betty. Mary Catherine’s a cop, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” he said.
Betty snorted. “More like, always crusty. That’s why I keep him in back.”
Just then a group of rowdy young people stumbled into the restaurant. M.C. could tell they were all about three sheets to the wind-except for the designated driver, who looked irritated. She kept jiggling her car keys and rolling her eyes.
Lance waited until the kids had picked a table, then chose the one farthest from them.
“You must live near here,” M.C. said.
“I do. Just up the block. Eat here at least once a day. Sometimes more.”
“Those the owners?”
“Yup. Couldn’t find reliable night help, so they pull the shift themselves. Nice people. Down to earth.”
“They seem that way.”
He handed her a menu. “Everything’s good, by the way.”
“I don’t even have to look. If I don’t try this famous cream pie, I’ll be thinking about it for the next month. Which one do you suggest?”
He couldn’t recommend only one, he said, so he ordered one of each: coconut, chocolate, strawberry and lemon, along with two cups of coffee. When Betty brought them out, M.C. made a sound of surprise: they were huge, at least six inches high.
“You looked hungry,” he said.
They spent the next couple of minutes passing the slices. Lance gave her the first taste of each. The rowdy teens, obviously influenced by their cream pie extravaganza, ordered four slices of pie as well.
“Okay, I’ve got to admit, this is the best pie I’ve ever had.”
“Favorite?”
“Coconut. Followed closely by chocolate.”
He smiled. “Me, too. But followed by lemon.”
She took another bite of the coconut, then set aside her fork, vowing to breathe a while before taking another bite.
“How’s work?” she asked.
“It’s a joke.”
“Professional humor?”
“I can’t help myself.” He took another forkful of the dessert. “It’s good. I’ve been busy. How about you?”
“It’s murder.”
She said it deadpan, and he hooted. “Professional humor?”
“Absolutely.”
“What’s it like being a cop?”
“What’s it like being a comic?”
He didn’t seem to mind her turning the question back to him. “Rewarding, painful, exhilarating, frustrating. When the audience is with you, it’s the highest high ever. When they’re not, nothing is more horrible. And it’s everything in between, including trying to earn enough money to keep on doing it-and eating.”
“Why do you? Keep doing it?”
