Death Dance by Linda Fairstein Page A

what are you going home to, Coop? Grind your teeth over
the Saturday
Times
crossword puzzle and sink into
a steaming-hot bath to avoid your empty bed? Anything new in your life?"
    "Ouch! You're beginning to sound like my mother. I think you
and Mercer are going to be stuck with me for a while."
    "How much longer you gonna do this?" he said, steering me
across to the west side of the avenue, dodging couples arm in arm on
their way home from local eateries and bars. "Running around to crime
scenes, getting mouthed off at by scumbags, giving up your nights and
weekends—"
    "Like you do."
    "Shit. I get paid for overtime."
    "You know anybody who has a better job than I do? Every day I
wake up and want to go to work. I like how my gut feels, I like knowing
we make things a little bit easier for people who don't expect the
system to get it right."
    "But you've got to vent somewhere, other than to Mercer and
me."
    Mike had come to depend on Valerie's love and support after
years of trusting no one outside the job. She had fought to get him to
open up to her, and now he was struggling to regain the tight grip he'd
always held on his emotions.
    "That's why my friendships have been so important to me. You
know that."
    "I'm talking about something else, Coop. Not pals, not
girl-friends, not drinking buddies. Don't you ever worry it's all gonna
pass you by because you're in over your head with this blood-and-guts
stuff? You've taken yourself out of circulation."
    More than a decade ago, before I started the work that had so
absorbed my interest, the man I had been hours away from marrying had
been killed in a car accident. I had experienced a loss as great as
Mike's and could give him no assurances that a love as important as
this last one—like my love for Adam—would ever
sustain him again.
    "Don't be ridiculous. I thought the reason I had no takers was
because you've been spreading the word about me for so long."
    "Nobody listens to me," Mike said, veering away from me as our
elbows inadvertently rubbed together, looping his thumb over the top of
his belt. "You're your own worst enemy. You might as well be wearing a
sign that warns guys to keep their distance."
    There was no moving Mike from his morose mood. "What are you
doing next weekend?" I asked. I took a few steps ahead of him and
walked backward, forcing him to look me in the eye.
    "I'm catching."
    "You could switch with someone, couldn't you?" I was trying to
get him to lighten up, but when he ignored me and kept walking, I
planted both hands on his chest to stop him.
    "I think I've used up all my favors lately, don't you?" Mike
brushed me aside and pretended to laugh.
    "I'm supposed to fly up to the Vineyard after work on Friday.
Open the house for the spring. Jim's away," I said, referring to the
fiance of my friend Joan Stafford, "so Joan will probably come with me.
Sit me in front of the fireplace and both of you can pile in on me with
pointers about turning around my love life."
    We had reached my building's driveway, which cut through
between two streets. Opposite the entrance was a pocket park for the
residents, planted with daffodils and crocuses, the quarter moon
reflecting in the shallow flagstone pool surrounded by granite benches.
    The doorman held the door open for me. I gave it another try.
"Want to come up for a while?" I cocked my head and smiled at Mike, who
was staring down at the pavement—oblivious to the moonlight
and flowers—but he wouldn't even meet me halfway.
    Mike shook his head and told me he'd call me after the
Galinova autopsy. I walked to the elevator and pressed the button. As I
waited for it, I looked out the lobby windows and saw Mike leaning back
on one of the benches, staring at the heavens as though the brilliant
constellations weren't obscured by the bright city lights. I wasn't
used to being pushed so far away by him and wondered whether someone
else was helping him deal with his grief.
    I didn't have the strength for the