day Saturday and some of Sunday at the show.”
“You like going to teddy bear shows?” Tina gaped at me and made no effort to conceal the incredulity in her voice.
“Yeah, is that so strange?”
“Around here, it is. Most men don’t do that sort of thing.”
“Well, I think teddy bear shows are wonderful. Not to mention the fact that they’re great places to meet women,”
I said with all the earnestness I could muster.
“Excuse me?” Ash gave me a faux withering look while Tina giggled.
“And on that note, I’ll bid you ladies adieu for the evening. I have to go and start on my report.”
“Bradley Aaron Lyon, you are a total brat.”
84
John J. Lamb
“Yup. And your point?”
I clumped upstairs and went into the guestroom where the computer stood on a small wooden desk. From downstairs I could hear muted cheerful conversation and an occasional laugh from Ash and Tina—the warm and unmistakable sounds of a new friendship being born. I was glad because between moving into the new house and preparing for the teddy bear show, there’d been little time for Ash to make any friends.
Turning on a CD of an old Wes Montgomery album, I sat down to write as the funky and dolorous strains of
“Willow Weep for Me” played by the greatest jazz guitarist of all time filled the room. It had been over a year since I’d written an investigative narrative and at first the going was maddeningly slow because technical writing, as with any other acquired skill, suffers if you don’t stay in practice. Yet despite the frustrations, on a deeper level I was enjoying myself. Most cops loathe paperwork and therefore don’t invest any real effort in mastering it, which is just plain stupid because ninety percent of detective work is writing. However, I’d always prided myself on the quality of my reports and—this is going to sound arrogant—they were some of the best ever produced by SFPD. One of the finest compliments I ever received during my law-enforcement career was from a defense attorney who once told me that when he saw my name on the police report, he knew it was time to plea-bargain his client’s case.
The guestroom door opened and Ash came in. I suddenly realized the house was quiet and asked, “Did Tina go home already?”
“Sweetie, it’s nearly eleven. She told me to tell you good night.”
“Eleven? I guess I lost track of the time,” I said, also noting that at some point over the past hour the CD had The Mournful Teddy
85
ended, yet I’d been so focused on report writing that I hadn’t noticed it.
“She’s nice. I like her.”
“Yeah, and she’s got some cojones —so to speak.”
“And after she left, I called Scotty.”
“What did he say?”
“Congratulations, he misses us, and that I shouldn’t sign anything until we’ve faxed the paperwork to him. He’ll be home all day tomorrow.” Ash rested her head on my shoulder and looked at the screen. “So, how’s it coming?”
“Slow at first, better now.”
“Well, it’s late and I think you need to come to bed.”
She kissed me on the earlobe.
I groaned. “And I think I need my head examined for telling you that I have to call Sergei before I can do that.”
“Oh. I suppose if you’d rather talk to Sergei than—”
“Five minutes. I promise.” I dug the wireless phone and Sergei’s message from my pants’ pocket and started pressing the number.
He picked up on the second ring. “Bradley?”
“Evening, Sergei. I hope you had a good laugh.” Then trying to mimic his cultured English accent, I added, “Nothing I’d care to become involved in, my friend. You fraud.”
“You should have seen your face. It was priceless.”
“And how would you know whether I’d be a bloody awful spy? Is that your professional opinion as a former spook?”
Sergei chuckled. “Oh, I’m certain I don’t know what you mean by that, Brad.”
“And I’m certain you do, but I’d prefer to save that discussion for
“You like going to teddy bear shows?” Tina gaped at me and made no effort to conceal the incredulity in her voice.
“Yeah, is that so strange?”
“Around here, it is. Most men don’t do that sort of thing.”
“Well, I think teddy bear shows are wonderful. Not to mention the fact that they’re great places to meet women,”
I said with all the earnestness I could muster.
“Excuse me?” Ash gave me a faux withering look while Tina giggled.
“And on that note, I’ll bid you ladies adieu for the evening. I have to go and start on my report.”
“Bradley Aaron Lyon, you are a total brat.”
84
John J. Lamb
“Yup. And your point?”
I clumped upstairs and went into the guestroom where the computer stood on a small wooden desk. From downstairs I could hear muted cheerful conversation and an occasional laugh from Ash and Tina—the warm and unmistakable sounds of a new friendship being born. I was glad because between moving into the new house and preparing for the teddy bear show, there’d been little time for Ash to make any friends.
Turning on a CD of an old Wes Montgomery album, I sat down to write as the funky and dolorous strains of
“Willow Weep for Me” played by the greatest jazz guitarist of all time filled the room. It had been over a year since I’d written an investigative narrative and at first the going was maddeningly slow because technical writing, as with any other acquired skill, suffers if you don’t stay in practice. Yet despite the frustrations, on a deeper level I was enjoying myself. Most cops loathe paperwork and therefore don’t invest any real effort in mastering it, which is just plain stupid because ninety percent of detective work is writing. However, I’d always prided myself on the quality of my reports and—this is going to sound arrogant—they were some of the best ever produced by SFPD. One of the finest compliments I ever received during my law-enforcement career was from a defense attorney who once told me that when he saw my name on the police report, he knew it was time to plea-bargain his client’s case.
The guestroom door opened and Ash came in. I suddenly realized the house was quiet and asked, “Did Tina go home already?”
“Sweetie, it’s nearly eleven. She told me to tell you good night.”
“Eleven? I guess I lost track of the time,” I said, also noting that at some point over the past hour the CD had The Mournful Teddy
85
ended, yet I’d been so focused on report writing that I hadn’t noticed it.
“She’s nice. I like her.”
“Yeah, and she’s got some cojones —so to speak.”
“And after she left, I called Scotty.”
“What did he say?”
“Congratulations, he misses us, and that I shouldn’t sign anything until we’ve faxed the paperwork to him. He’ll be home all day tomorrow.” Ash rested her head on my shoulder and looked at the screen. “So, how’s it coming?”
“Slow at first, better now.”
“Well, it’s late and I think you need to come to bed.”
She kissed me on the earlobe.
I groaned. “And I think I need my head examined for telling you that I have to call Sergei before I can do that.”
“Oh. I suppose if you’d rather talk to Sergei than—”
“Five minutes. I promise.” I dug the wireless phone and Sergei’s message from my pants’ pocket and started pressing the number.
He picked up on the second ring. “Bradley?”
“Evening, Sergei. I hope you had a good laugh.” Then trying to mimic his cultured English accent, I added, “Nothing I’d care to become involved in, my friend. You fraud.”
“You should have seen your face. It was priceless.”
“And how would you know whether I’d be a bloody awful spy? Is that your professional opinion as a former spook?”
Sergei chuckled. “Oh, I’m certain I don’t know what you mean by that, Brad.”
“And I’m certain you do, but I’d prefer to save that discussion for
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