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  Sullivan did not respond immediately, weighing the consequences of sharing his thoughts with her. He hadn’t even run what he was thinking past the chief or any of his colleagues. He needed to know more. Coincidence was not evidence.

  “All right,” he said finally. “But there’s a condition.”

  Ramsey leaned toward him and whispered, “Jeez, Sullivan, I’m going to sleep with you again.”

  He blinked. “Good to know, but that wasn’t the condition.”

  “Oh. Well, okay.”

  “Confidence is the condition. You don’t repeat what I say and you don’t involve yourself in it.”

  “That’s two conditions, but all right.”

  “Two parts of the whole.”

  “You’re stalling. Spill.”

  Sullivan took another bite of gnocchi and then pushed his plate back. “You recall that overdose death that I told you about when we had breakfast at Eat’n Park?”

  “The mom with the baby? Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, she and her boyfriend, partner, handyman, whoever he was to her, were doing a kitchen touchup earlier in the evening. My best guess at the time was that they took a break to party.”

  “Kitchen touchup?” asked Ramsey. “Caribbean Coast?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ramsey’s cheeks puffed before she blew out a breath. She pushed her plate away and poured herself a glass of red. “What’s the connection in your mind? Obviously, you’ve made one.”

  “I’m entertaining one. There was a can of Caribbean Coast on the kitchen table of the last OD I responded to this week. No paint job in progress or one that had been recently completed, but the can had been opened and resealed. There were drippings on the can and some spattering on the table. I can’t say the same about the other overdoses. Maybe there were cans where I couldn’t see them. Maybe there were no cans at all.”

  “Not a lot to hang your hat on.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But your hypothesis is that there are drugs inside the Coast cans. Is that it?”

  “See? That’s why I kept it to myself. Ridiculous, right?”

  “I don’t know. What kind of drugs?”

  “Fentanyl. Bagged, of course.”

  “The paint isn’t terribly expensive.”

  “Neither is fentanyl. A little goes a long way.”

  “Have you considered just buying a can of Caribbean Coast and looking inside?”

  “Sure. Thought it. Did it. Nada.”

  “Nada?”

  “Paint. Nothing but paint. Now I own a gallon of a color so boring that I wouldn’t use it on a bet.”

  “I seem to recall that your bathroom walls are bisque.”

  “They’re biscuit.”

  “Yikes. My bad.”

  “It has hints of pale gray. Bisque is more of an off-white shade.”

  “Good to know. I beg your pardon. Obviously, you watch more HGTV than I do.”

  “No, probably not. Biscuit was on sale.”

  Ramsey laughed, shook her head, and returned to the real concern regarding the paint. “But you’re still thinking there’s something about the paint. You wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.”

  “It could be a specific lot number.”

  “Or it could be you’re way out in left field.”

  “Or it could be that.”

  “But then you could be onto something. When I was chatting with Mason, I noticed that the men clustered in paints didn’t talk much. No one looked strung out. I’m pretty good at evaluating that. It’s part of my personal safety plan.”

  Recalling that she had stopped a meth head exiting the store, Sullivan arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh? You have a personal safety plan?”

  “I didn’t say I always follow it. Sometimes a shoplifter pisses me off and I can’t help myself.” She sipped more of her wine. “How can I help? You want me to scope out lot numbers, start an inventory?”

  “Have you already forgotten what I said about interfering?”

  “That? You were serious about that?”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t make me regret telling you.”

  “I was kidding.”

  His eyes narrowed and the color was flinty. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “I swear. It’s your business, and I’m a loyal Ridge employee. Paul said so.”

  Sullivan’s look only softened marginally, but he didn’t challenge her. “What do you say we pick a date for our next date?”

  They pulled out their phones simultaneously and began comparing schedules.

  22

  Karl Longabach gave Sullivan’s desk a knuckle rap as he passed. “You awake?” he asked, dropping into his chair.

  “Am now,” said Sullivan. “Finishing up a double.”

  “That’s rough. Overtime’s nice, though.”

  “I’m a little lost. You coming or going?”

  “Going as soon as I finish up some paperwork.” He removed his hat, put it on the corner of his desk, and riffled through a drawer to find the forms he needed. “What the hell is it with these users huffing paint fumes? You’d think it’d be one or the other. Pick your poison, for God’s sake. This guy that just got the Narcan plunge had his face practically buried in a paint tray. His wife was screaming at him the whole time to wake the fuck up and finish the damn job. He woke, but he’s not going to be painting anything for a while. There was nothing she liked about that.”

  Sullivan was as alert as he had been at the beginning of his shift sixteen hours earlier. He turned around to look at Karl. The officer was patting down his pockets, looking for his cheaters so he could start writing. “On your head,” said Sullivan, pointing to his own.

  Karl patted his head, offered a sheepish smile when he found the glasses, and set them on his nose.

  “Did you find any product?” asked Sullivan. “A baggie, maybe?”

  “Nope. I asked his wife about his dealer, but she had nothing to say. Wouldn’t even tell me how long he’s been using. I was going to look him up and see if I could find him in the system. I never had him in my sights before. Troy Street. Twenty-eight. Lives over on Parkview. Any of that mean anything to you?”

  Sullivan shook his head. “What color was the paint?”

  “That’s what you want to know? Jesus, Sully.” When Sullivan continued to stare at him, Karl shrugged heavily. “Beige. It was beige.” He held out his left hand, put it in front of Sullivan’s face, then turned it so Sullivan could see his nails. “Look for yourself. I had to pull his head out of the paint, and I didn’t get it all washed off what with the wife hollering at me to stop using her water. Really. I just saved her husband’s life, and she was on me about the water. Go figure.”

  Sullivan took Karl by the hand to steady it and examined his nails. “Go figure,” he said, although for different reasons. “That’s bisque.”

  Chief Bailey stepped out of his office. “You two done holding hands? Because you’ve got reports, Longabach, and you’re off the clock, Officer Day.”

  Karl tried to pull his hand back, but Sullivan didn’t let him go. “Come look at this, Chief. Tell me what you think.”

  Bailey approached, adjusted his glasses, and leaned over to look at Karl’s hand. “You’ve been using that hand cream I recommended, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. My wife likes it too.”

  “So, what am I looking at, Day?”

  “The paint around his cuticles and under his nails. What color would you say that is?”

  Bailey squinted. “Oh, that’s bisque.”

  Sullivan released Karl’s hand. “See? Told you.”

  Karl looked from his colleague to his boss. “What is it with you two?”

  Bailey said, “I suppose you thought it was beige. What are you? Colorblind?”

  “Going back to work now,” said Karl, bending over his form. “You talk amongst yourselves.”

  Bailey straightened. “In my office, Day.”

  “I’m off the clock, remember?”


  The chief was unmoved. “This will only take a minute.”

  Sullivan followed him in and sat down. He regarded his boss with raised eyebrows as the man ignored his office chair and stood hipshot on the edge of his desk. Sullivan was reminded of being in the principal’s office after a scuffle in the recess yard with Barry Bemeltree, AKA Barry Bumblebee. Recalling that occasion now, Sullivan manfully tried not to squirm. “Yes, Chief?”

  “Ease up, Day,” said Bailey. “This isn’t job related.”

  “Oh.” That was good, he supposed, and adopted a more relaxed posture. “What can I do for you, then?”

  “The missus and I went out to dinner a few nights ago. Valentina’s. It’s a favorite place for Italian.”

  Sullivan knew where this was heading. Bailey was on a fishing expedition. “I guess you saw me there.”

  “We did.”

  “Why didn’t you make yourself known, come over to the table?”

  “I wanted to, but Angie said to leave the two of you alone. She said you and Ramsey Masters were on a date. I saw two people bent over their cell phones, looking more interested in their Twitters than each other, so I was wondering which one of us was right. Me or Angie.”

  “I guess that depends on who you ask.”

  “You see anyone else in this room? I’m asking you.”

  “Then it was a date, and what you observed was us looking at our calendars to compare schedules. Our shifts don’t make it easy to arrange a date.”

  Baily considered that. “Huh. Guess I owe Angie a ten spot.”

  “You made a bet on whether or not Ramsey and I were on a date?”

  “Sure. I still don’t know what Angie saw that I missed, but then she’s a Hallmark-Christmas-in-July kind of woman, so I suspect she’s got a sense for these things that goes right over my head.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself. Ramsey’s not made her mind up about me and I’d rather not blow it.”

  “I can do that. I can’t speak for Angie. Hard to say who she’s already told.”

  “Why would she tell anyone? Who would care? We’re just not that interesting.”

  “Says you. Angie’s been putting this bug in my ear about setting you up with her first cousin’s daughter. That notion’s off the table now, so I thank you for that.”

  “Does Mrs. Bailey know Ramsey?”

  The chief shook his head. “Angie thought she looked familiar, probably because she’s seen her at the Ridge, but she couldn’t place her. Because of Ramsey’s position at the store, I didn’t enlighten her.”

  Sullivan blew out a breath. “Thank you.”

  Bailey removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief from his pocket. “So, what did you mean when you said Ramsey’s not made her mind up about you?”

  “Just that. We’re in that let’s-see-how-it-goes phase. Been there for a while. She’s cautious.”

  “Yeah? Well, don’t screw it up. I was serious when I spoke to her about the academy. She would make a fine addition. It’d be a shame if you were the reason she doesn’t consider it.” He replaced his glasses but didn’t slide them up his nose. He bent his head forward and regarded Sullivan over the top of the frames. “You know if she’s considering it?”

  “She hasn’t really talked about it.”

  “I see. Maybe you could…”

  “I can’t be your recruiter, Chief.”

  Bailey said nothing. After a moment he nodded and then stood. He went around his desk and sat. “You can go.”

  Sullivan stood. “Sorry. If it means anything, I also think she’d be an asset here, but all things being equal, I’d rather date her without an agenda.”

  “Understood. You like her.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then do right by her. I like her too.”

  23

  Their schedules being what they were, they landed on a Sunday matinee of Pippin as performed by Carnegie Mellon students and dinner afterward at The Grand Concourse. Ramsey was very much in favor of an early date and honest about her reasoning when Sullivan asked her.

  “Less sexpectation,” she said.

  “Sexpectation?”

  “You know. Less expectation on our part that there’ll be sex afterward.” She frowned, genuinely concerned when he choked on the wine he was trying to swallow. “Are you all right? Do you need me to—” She made a swiping gesture with her hand as though clapping him on the back.

  Sullivan shook his head, swallowed hard, and blinked back tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Jeez, Ramsey,” he rasped. “You sure can pick your moments.”

  She smiled. “I know. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I may never be right again, and it will be your fault.”

  “Sorry. But it’s true, isn’t it? About the sexpectation.”

  “Would you stop saying that? It’s not a word.”

  “Sure it is. I just said it.”

  “You made it up.”

  “All words are made up, Sullivan. What’s your problem? Why are we fussing about this?”

  Sullivan rolled the stem of his wine glass with his fingertips. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you disappointed that I don’t want to have sex later?”

  This was why he didn’t dare pick up his glass and take another swallow. It was fortunate he hadn’t already spewed the red. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Ramsey shook her head. “That’s no kind of answer. Look, Sullivan, I want to have sex with you again, I just don’t want it—” She stopped because his eyes had shifted up and to her left, and in the event she hadn’t noticed, he was also pointing in that direction. Out of the corner of her eye, Ramsey saw the waitress was hovering. She looked up, smiled, and said, “You’d want to have sex with him, wouldn’t you?”

  Their waitress, a petite brunette with tattooed eyeliner and pillow lips, seemed to give the question serious consideration. “Sure,” she said, and then, “Have you thought about dessert?”

  Without missing a beat, Ramsey ordered the key lime pie. Sullivan required a moment before he asked for the mango sorbet.

  “I don’t even like mango,” he said when the waitress was out of overhearing range.

  “Then why did you order it?”

  “I was thinking about sleeping with that waitress and it just came out.”

  Amused, Ramsey laughed. “Why, I believe you’re twitterpated,”

  “With the waitress? No. With you? Quite possibly.”

  “You know twitterpated means smitten, right?”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, then.” She finished off her wine. “Just checking.”

  “Look, Ramsey, why don’t you finish what you started explaining before the interruption.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear?” When he nodded, she began again. “As I was saying, I want to sleep with you, but I don’t want that to be an expectation at the end of a date.”

  “And you think I have that sexpectation?”

  She grinned a little crookedly. “Stupid word.”

  “Hmm. Am I right? You thought after our last date I was anticipating the same again?”

  “Are you saying it didn’t occur to you?”

  “I can’t say that, but it’s damn sure not a requirement. I like spending time with you. Whatever happens between us should happen naturally. Nothing forced. Going out together is not a prelude to sex.” He heard what he said and amended it. “Not always anyway.”

  “Phew. Glad you qualified that. You had me worried there for a moment.”

  “You’re just this side of insane. Anyone ever point that out?”

  “The ex mentioned it,” she said casually. “But usually he put me on the other side.”

  Dessert arrived and they traded plates once the waitress turned her back. Ramsey picked up a clean spoon and dug into the sorbet. She felt Sullivan’s eyes on her and looked up. Sure enough, he was studying her. “What?” she asked.
/>   “Did that bother you? What I said about crazy? I didn’t mean to invoke your ex.”

  “I’m not that fragile, Sullivan. At least not any longer. A few years ago, it probably would have put me in a mood, but I’m past that. Past him.”

  He nodded, took a bite of the key lime. “I’ve learned a few things about abuse over the years on the force. Philly, then here. Lots of ways one spouse can manipulate and control a partner.”

  “Are you asking if I knew I was being abused?”

  “I didn’t really ask. It was more of an observation. Do you mind?”

  She shook her head. “I understood it eventually. The way Jay managed our finances was an insidious form of abuse. He made me dependent on him for everything.”

  “Family?”

  “My parents adored him, and I didn’t speak up until I was ready to ask for a divorce. They said they understood, but I don’t think they did, not really. Most of that’s my fault. I never wanted to tell them everything. I still don’t. We talk now and again. They speak to Jay more often than they speak to me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They bring him up, tell me what he’s doing as if I’m interested. I usually end the conversation about then, but they have yet to pick up on the cue.”

  “You have siblings?”

  “An older brother. He has a wife, kids, lives down the block from my parents. Hank’s like Switzerland. Neutral. That works better for him with Mom and Dad.” Ramsey looked at her nearly empty wine glass and tried to remember if she’d had a second or third refill. Loose lips, she thought. She didn’t say much about her family when friends asked. It wasn’t that difficult to turn the conversation toward their families. People generally didn’t mind sharing information; she did.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sullivan.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re frowning. Is it the wine? The sorbet?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Of course. It’s the conversation.”

  Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. “I thought it would be all right, but it’s not. Can we talk about something else? Someone else?”

  “Uh-huh. How about those Steelers?”

  In appreciation of his effort, Ramsey smiled a little jerkily. “Maybe something else,” she said again. “The team gets a lot of air time at work. Thank God, they’re winning. It’s worse when the season’s upside down.”