Miami, It's Murder by Edna Buchanan Page A

old Dan.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Been waiting long?”
    â€œGot here a little early,” he said. “Got me a head start.” He raised his glass and I shook my head and clucked in mock disapproval.
    He was eager to chat, full of animated small talk about the department, about old cases. Nothing, I noted, about his new life in retirement. We talked about Eldridge and other stories that had been in the news, and we ordered.
    I opted for the seafood salad, Dan ordered the prime rib, rare, with French fried onion rings.
    â€œAre you crazy?” I whispered as the waitress left. “You sure that’s what you want?” He looked sheepish, called the waitress back—and stubbornly ordered another Johnnie Walker Black. He watched slyly to see my reaction.
    â€œOkay, okay.” I pouted. “I won’t say a word, but I thought you were listening to your doctor, who definitely wouldn’t approve—”
    â€œI thought you weren’t gonna say a word.”
    I gave up and unwrapped my silverware.
    â€œBritt, it’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Don’t worry about me. I handled DOAs every day in homicide. I saw enough to know exactly what’s going on inside me.” He jerked a thumb toward his left chest. “Bad habits aren’t gonna shorten my life now.”
    I smiled into his eyes, wondering how it feels to know you have more yesterdays than tomorrows. It must be terrible, I thought. Get hit by a bus or caught in a crossfire between strangers and there is little time to consider your fate. Knowing you will soon die is something else.
    â€œI just want to keep you around,” I said lightly. “I don’t have many real friends. I can’t afford to lose any.”
    â€œI’ll be around, I promise.” He patted my hand. “Looky here.” He held open his jacket, displaying an array of vials and bottles in his shirt pocket. “I could open a pharmacy.”
    A small brown bottle stood out, with a strip of red tape across the twist-off lid. “What’s that one?”
    â€œNitro,” he said, “for chest pains. The tape is my own idea. Makes it easier to spot and hold on to in case I need it in a hurry. The bottle is so damn small.” He held it up, frowning at the fragile bottle dwarfed between his thick fingers. “The doctor said to stash ’em everywhere so they’re in easy reach. Keep one in here,” he said, patting his pocket, “one in the car, in the kitchen, in the bathroom. Never know when you might need it in an emergency. See? I’m prepared for anything.” He slipped the bottle back into his shirt pocket with the others. “Now tell me all about this Downtown Rapist.”
    I did. “Cranks galore are calling the hot line. I’m getting some of the slopover: calls, letters.”
    He looked up from his salad. “Anything?”
    â€œNaw.” I shook my head, laughing self-consciously. “One wacko wrote that my poetic license has been revoked; another told me take his advice and start writing about Haitians instead of Cubans before I make him mad.”
    â€œThey sign them?”
    â€œI don’t think the first one did. The second one, some scribble. You know how they do.”
    â€œLatino?”
    â€œSeemed to be.”
    â€œPass them on to the squad, Britt. Let the lab take a look at them.” He launched a new assault on his salad.
    â€œThere’s enough on their plate already. They hate me for breaking the story, and they’ll hate me even more if the publicity doesn’t bring in something useful.”
    â€œYeah, but you can’t take chances, Britt. The guy is dangerous.”
    â€œWho said you were my father?”
    He laughed. “Okay, okay, you got me. But I know how you work, Britt, and sometimes you navigate a little bit too close to the edge. You always were a wing walker. Remember, I’m not there anymore