Simple Intent by Linda Sands Page A

have to keep up with these dicks for another hour, I’ll be too shit-faced to remember to turn on my recorder when they finally do say something important. I don’t know how many more blowjob-in-the-patrol-car stories I can listen to and frankly, I’m running out of cop jokes.”
    “Just do your best. Drop some names, see what kind of reaction you get.”
    “Yeah.” Reilly glanced at Deluca, then back at Sailor. “And, I’ll try to keep my eye on you, so I can, you know.”
    “What? Rescue me?” she said.
    “I’d love to,” Reilly said.
    Sailor laughed, surprised that she wanted him to do just that. She met Reilly’s eyes and almost said, “Let’s get out of here.” She imagined them running out of the ballroom holding hands like in a sappy musical, her glass slippers tapping across the marble floor. But Reilly wasn’t anyone’s Prince Charming, so she said, “Shouldn’t you be getting back with those?” 
    And maybe it came out a little rougher than she’d hoped. Reilly looked down at the pitchers he’d forgotten he was holding and when he looked up, Sailor darted her eyes away, as if she was searching for someone in the crowd. 
    Reilly followed her gaze. “Who’s that?”
    “Who?”
    “The blonde in the blue dress,” he said. “The one talking to the band leader.”
    “Isn’t that-”
    “Gina,” he said.
    “Yeah,” Sailor said. “Wait. Reilly, do you know her?” 
    “We’ve met.”
    “You’ve met?” she asked.
    “Yeah. She helped me with some directions.”
    “Reilly, that’s Berger’s girlfriend. Gina Chamblee? Deluca had her on the stand last week, remember? She was Lou Gallo’s alibi.”
    “No,” Reilly said. “That can’t be right. I heard Gallo was with his ex-wife. Hold on a second.”
    “Hold on a second? Reilly? Where are you going?” 
    It didn’t matter what she said, because Sailor was talking to his back as Reilly snatched champagne and glasses from an empty table in exchange for the pitchers. He pushed and excused himself through the crowd to get to Gina.
    “Pardon me,” he said to her sequined back, his breath warm on her neck. “Would you know where I can find the best breakfast in town?”
    Gina spun around. “Mr. Reilly?” She laughed. “Are you lost again?”
    Reilly smiled. “‘If I am lost, let me search no more. ’Tis here I find all that I need or wish for.’” He handed her a glass. “Don’t ask me who said that. If I could remember the rest, I’d give them credit.”
    “It’s lovely. You’re a man of surprises.”
    They touched glasses. Reilly said, “To my inspiration.”
    Gina took a sip, smiling. “So tell me, what are you doing here?”
    Reilly looked around. “Isn’t this the Alfonso wedding? I was hoping to kiss the bride.”
    Gina laughed. “Sorry, no brides here. You’ll have to find someone else to plant that kiss on.”
    “I don’t think that will be difficult.” 
    “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” she said finishing her drink, then handing him the empty glass. “As a matter of fact, you’re beginning to sound like Fast Eddie.”
    Before Reilly could respond, the song ended and the band moved off stage, to be replaced by a silver-haired gentleman at the microphone. The man cleared his throat, then raised his glass. The words were carefully chosen, his voice strong with the Irish lilt that was his calling card. “To my dear friend, Hiram. May you never forget what is worth remembering—aye—or remember what is best forgotten. Happy Retirement, my lad.” 
    Cheers of “Happy Retirement!” resounded through the ballroom.
    Reilly whispered in Gina’s ear. “Is that who I think it is?”
    “The one and only. His honor, E. Patrick Shanahan.”
    Oh, this just gets better and better,” Reilly muttered.
    “Sorry? I couldn’t hear you.”
    “I said, I think I’d like a little bread and butter. Would you excuse me?”
    “Sure. Looks like I’m needed, anyway.” She tilted her head toward the