He chuckled. “Now, don’t look that way. You know you said just the right thing. You also know it takes me a while to absorb new ideas. That’s the way it is. That’s the way we are. Just give me a little while … to agree with you.”
They both laughed. She looked at her watch, “Just eleven o’clock.”
“Time to take Truffles out, eh?” It was a day-ending ritual. He always took the little dog out for the final opportunity to get comfortable for the night.
“Be careful now,” she warned. “There’s ice out there. Some of the walks haven’t been that well cleared. When you come in we’ll have some cocoa. And I’ll treat you to a back rub.”
“Well, now, you said the magic word. I was thinking of taking the beast out and never returning. But if you throw a back rub into the bargain, well, that certainly tips the scales.”
She smiled invitingly and affected a Southern accent. “Y’all hurry back … hear?”
He donned hat, coat, and scarf, attached the lead to Truffles’ collar, and went out. Heeding his wife’s advice, he negotiated the sidewalk with extra care.
She was right. As usual, she was right. But it would take a little time before he would be able to shake these guilt feelings. Similar scenarios had been played out in the past. It took him time to absorb her native wisdom. She was such ahelp in so many ways.
As he walked and the dog trotted, his thoughts turned to the priests who had attended this morning’s meeting. From all that was said-and shouted-they were every bit as much agitated as he, if not more. But they had no loving wives in whom to confide, get it off their chests. They had no Georgie who not only could listen with love but had the wisdom to suggest the appropriate solution.
In all probability, they might be doubting themselves as much ashe had second-guessed himself. What if no miracles were forthcoming? Would they accept the responsibility for wasting tons of precious resources over a dream? A dream that would never come true? They had no Georgie to tell them to cool it. Their job was to express their convictions on the matter-and they had.
In this, as in so many diocesan matters, the buck stopped at the Cardinal’s desk. And, come to think of it, he too had no mate in whom to confide. Of all who most could use the companionship and wisdom of a good and loving mate, the archbishop was, perhaps, most in need.
He smiled as he contemplated Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. The very name, Mrs. Mark Boyle, sounded alien, even incongruous.
While these thoughts engaged him, Truffles had done his duty. They turned and retraced their steps.
As he looked up the street toward his house, there seemed to be someone on the sidewalk. From a distance, the figure appeared to be standing just in front of his house.
That was strange. Was it someone waiting for him? Who? For what purpose?
It was always possible this could be a mugging. Suddenly, he wished the little dog were twenty times its size.
But it wasn’t quite right for a mugging. Whoever it was, judging from the silhouette, seemed to be wearing an overcoat and a hat. Muggers don’t get dressed up for an assault-at least no muggers he’d ever heard of.
If only the light were better. But the street lamp was situated several houses down from his and behind the man. What did they call that-backlighting? He approached cautiously, eyes straining to identify the figure.
Finally, when he was a step or two away, he could discern the man’s features. “Well,” Hoffer said, “I’ll be … what are you doing here?”
The man said nothing. In the shadows, Hoffer could not see his right hand slowly moving upward until suddenly the gun was pointed at the underside of Hoffer’s chin, only inches from his face.
There was an explosive sound as the gun was fired. Hoffer tumbled backward as if tugged by a chain. In seconds he was dead.
Truffles, frightened, began to yap. One quick blow with the gun’s stock knocked the dog unconscious.
The man pocketed the gun and disappeared into the darkness.
Georgie heard the report, of course, as did her neighbors. Her first tendency was to assume it might have been a car backfiring. But if one lives in the city long enough, that innocent supposition quickly gives way to the reality of ever-present guns. In the probability that it was indeed a gun, most Detroiters had learned to duck behind something-anything. Which is what Georgie’s neighbors did.
But Georgie knew Larry was out there. There was no hiding for her when her dear husband was out there unprotected.
She went to the front window, parted the curtain, and looked out, hoping not to see what she half expected to see.
Two bodies lay on the ground. She gasped, then screamed as she burst through the door, raced down the steps, and knelt to cradle the head of her dead husband.
Her neighbors heard her keening. One by one, two by two, they came to her.
The dog recovered. But he was of little use, an eyewitness who could tell the police nothing.
12
Eight o’clock in the morning. Not particularly early. But zoo Tully had awakened much earlier.
He had awakened at 5:30. He’d tried to get back to sleep. It didn’t work, and, as usual, the harder he tried the more sleep eluded him.
Shortly after 6:30 A.M. he gave up the struggle and slipped out of bed, careful not to waken Al. He managed not to rouse her through a shower, shave, and a hurried breakfast.
He was, of course, the first detective on his shift to arrive. There wasn’t much to do. Things would not slip into gear until about 9:00 when the others on this shift arrived. So he had an hour, an hour to figure out what was troubling him.
He checked the list he’d run by his consciousness earlier while lying in bed in the darkness.
His relationship with Al? No, that wasn’t it. In fact, seldom had they been happier together. Before Al, he’d been married to a very good woman. They’d had five kids. They would still be together if she hadn’t been jealous of his job.
He didn’t blame her. He recognized clearly that he was much more married to his job as a homicide cop than he ever could be to any woman. So his ex, now remarried and living in Chicago, was happier without him.
Oh, it was amicable. He visited his kids occasionally. His former wife had made it clear that he could visit them anytime he wanted without the restrictions the divorce judge placed on visitation rights. He smiled. She was clever: She knew he would be so occupied catching the bad guys that he would seldom get to Chicago even to visit his children.
That was what was so great about Al. No games. She knew what the ground rules were and she went along. She felt almost, but not quite, as dedicated to her job as a social worker. They got on well together, were deeply in love, knew where each other’s priorities lay, and-who knows? — might one day get married. No, the problem definitely was not Al.
The job: a multifaceted consideration. Over Christmas and since, there had been a veritable epidemic of flu- not “blue flu,” the police version of a wildcat strike, but genuine influenza. It had hit Tully’s squad particularly severely. The walking wounded had to shoulder the absentees’ work loads as well as their own. That was stressful. There were the usual threats of layoffs. The city always seemed to be on the verge of bankruptcy. Somehow the police and firefighters-the ones without whom no city can get along-were always the most vulnerable when economizing measures loomed. Besides, no matter what extraneous forces were at work, he loved his job. That was a given. But there was something … what?
As was his daily custom, Tully collected the reports that had been filed by other squads during the previous day and night. Not every homicide lieutenant bothered with this. But then, by no means was every squad leader as completely dedicated as Tully.
The only difference in this morning’s routine was that having come in so early, Tully was able to study the reports at greater leisure. Among the many reports-
