partner.”
“A new partner?” she asked, giving him an up-and-down appraisal usually reserved for show cats. Apparently the conclusions she drew were good, because she took Michael’s hand and shook it.
Leo answered, “Relatively new. Ralph retired back in 2000, and these days he’s laid up with lung cancer. Mike’s been with me since last year—after Ralph’s replacement transferred out to Seattle. Anyway, Mike, this is Wanda Moretti. She’s an old friend.”
“Moretti…” he repeated. “I think I’ve heard the name.”
“I used to spend a lot of time around the precinct,” she said, leaving a thousand hints and implications to flutter in the wind. “But that was a long time ago.” Then she turned to Leo and said, “I definitely like the look of him!”
“Um, thank you,” Michael said, and dark skin or no, Leo watched him redden. Wanda’d always had that effect on people. Twenty years hadn’t taken the edge off it; the decades had given her time to fine-tune it.
“Are you a family man?” she asked, her eyes flitting across his desk and spying a framed photo there.
He tracked her gaze and said, “Yes! I mean, yes. This”—he retrieved the photo and handed it to her—“is my … ah … my girlfriend and daughter. She’s a dancer. My girlfriend, I mean. Not … um … not the baby. Obviously.”
“What a lovely family,” Wanda said approvingly. Then she teased in a half whisper, “And it’s just as well. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
Michael rallied through his rising blush and said, “I don’t believe that for a moment!” with just a touch more chivalrous enthusiasm than an unembarrassed man would’ve mustered.
“Trust me, Sunshine,” she said. “I’ve got shoes older than you. But it’s nice of you to say so. Leo? Are we ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His coat was halfway zipped. He zipped it the rest of the way and told Michael, “Be back in a couple of hours. Got my phone if anything exciting happens.”
His partner said, “All right. Have fun. And, I … um. Nice to meet you, Ms. Moretti.”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she told him, and falling into step beside Leo, the two of them left to flag down a cab.
Once Wanda was seated beside him and they were on their way, she said, “I do like him, you know. Your partner.”
“He’s an all right kid. Got too many brains for his own good, but I trust him. You wouldn’t know it at a glance, but he’s actually pretty tough for a goofy-looking nat. Tough and … young. Jesus. Was I ever that young?”
“Oh, yes. With a picture of your wife and kid on your desk and everything. I remember it well.” But this tiptoed too closely to uncomfortable territory, so she gracefully shifted gears. “Now this Michael—he’s another nat?”
“Yeah.”
They were both thinking about Ralph, so they discussed him for a while; and the trip to the High Hand was short enough that they didn’t need much else to talk about.
The restaurant itself was almost too high-end for lunch, but Leo wanted the hour to look good, and it did. The food was great, featuring a pair of aged steaks smothered in mushrooms and caramelized onions. The conversation was better. Photos came out of Wanda’s wallet and her three grandchildren were discussed, and real estate came up but only briefly. Leo told Wanda about some of the more peculiar cases he’d seen in the intervening years since last they’d spent any time together; he spilled about his daughter’s erratic love life and his own lack of grandkids. And when the check came Leo got it.
Down the street at the Cry offices, they were informed that Lucas Tate was in an unexpected meeting—but he’d left word at the front desk that Leo was welcome to make himself at home in the newspaper morgue and he’d be with him in an hour.
A rickety service elevator deposited Leo and Wanda in a subbasement lit with unsteady fluorescent lights covered with ill-fitting plastic shades. The
“A new partner?” she asked, giving him an up-and-down appraisal usually reserved for show cats. Apparently the conclusions she drew were good, because she took Michael’s hand and shook it.
Leo answered, “Relatively new. Ralph retired back in 2000, and these days he’s laid up with lung cancer. Mike’s been with me since last year—after Ralph’s replacement transferred out to Seattle. Anyway, Mike, this is Wanda Moretti. She’s an old friend.”
“Moretti…” he repeated. “I think I’ve heard the name.”
“I used to spend a lot of time around the precinct,” she said, leaving a thousand hints and implications to flutter in the wind. “But that was a long time ago.” Then she turned to Leo and said, “I definitely like the look of him!”
“Um, thank you,” Michael said, and dark skin or no, Leo watched him redden. Wanda’d always had that effect on people. Twenty years hadn’t taken the edge off it; the decades had given her time to fine-tune it.
“Are you a family man?” she asked, her eyes flitting across his desk and spying a framed photo there.
He tracked her gaze and said, “Yes! I mean, yes. This”—he retrieved the photo and handed it to her—“is my … ah … my girlfriend and daughter. She’s a dancer. My girlfriend, I mean. Not … um … not the baby. Obviously.”
“What a lovely family,” Wanda said approvingly. Then she teased in a half whisper, “And it’s just as well. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
Michael rallied through his rising blush and said, “I don’t believe that for a moment!” with just a touch more chivalrous enthusiasm than an unembarrassed man would’ve mustered.
“Trust me, Sunshine,” she said. “I’ve got shoes older than you. But it’s nice of you to say so. Leo? Are we ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His coat was halfway zipped. He zipped it the rest of the way and told Michael, “Be back in a couple of hours. Got my phone if anything exciting happens.”
His partner said, “All right. Have fun. And, I … um. Nice to meet you, Ms. Moretti.”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she told him, and falling into step beside Leo, the two of them left to flag down a cab.
Once Wanda was seated beside him and they were on their way, she said, “I do like him, you know. Your partner.”
“He’s an all right kid. Got too many brains for his own good, but I trust him. You wouldn’t know it at a glance, but he’s actually pretty tough for a goofy-looking nat. Tough and … young. Jesus. Was I ever that young?”
“Oh, yes. With a picture of your wife and kid on your desk and everything. I remember it well.” But this tiptoed too closely to uncomfortable territory, so she gracefully shifted gears. “Now this Michael—he’s another nat?”
“Yeah.”
They were both thinking about Ralph, so they discussed him for a while; and the trip to the High Hand was short enough that they didn’t need much else to talk about.
The restaurant itself was almost too high-end for lunch, but Leo wanted the hour to look good, and it did. The food was great, featuring a pair of aged steaks smothered in mushrooms and caramelized onions. The conversation was better. Photos came out of Wanda’s wallet and her three grandchildren were discussed, and real estate came up but only briefly. Leo told Wanda about some of the more peculiar cases he’d seen in the intervening years since last they’d spent any time together; he spilled about his daughter’s erratic love life and his own lack of grandkids. And when the check came Leo got it.
Down the street at the Cry offices, they were informed that Lucas Tate was in an unexpected meeting—but he’d left word at the front desk that Leo was welcome to make himself at home in the newspaper morgue and he’d be with him in an hour.
A rickety service elevator deposited Leo and Wanda in a subbasement lit with unsteady fluorescent lights covered with ill-fitting plastic shades. The
Similar Books
