Free The Ice Maiden by Edna Buchanan

after a drug bust. “Show it to her,” he said, and handed them to me, “but make sure you mix it in with the rest.” A half-dozen other mug shots, all men, approximately the same age and description, were in the envelope. Burch wrote Sunny’s address on the outside.
    â€œI hear she’s some kinda artist now,” he said, as we walked back to our cars, pausing for a last look at the Miami Beach skyline winking in the haze. “You know, Britt,” he commented, as I climbed into the T-Bird,“you’re a pretty girl, but you really oughta do something with your hair.”
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    My landlady, Helen Goldstein, and her husband, Hy, were out in their patio chairs, enjoying the late evening. “We couldn’t take the TV news anymore,” she told me, when I stopped to share some of my fresh-picked vegetables.
    â€œBut isn’t it too smoky out here?”
    â€œIt’s chased away the mosquitoes,” she said cheerfully, then peered more closely in the dim porch light. “Britt, what happened to your hair?”
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    I left the frozen pizza in the oven too long, nibbled some anyway, and went to bed. Frustration burdened my dreams. I searched in vain for the brown-haired girl in the blue sweater, then tried and tried to make an urgent call, but the phone would never work. I was trapped, on deadline, in impossible, impassable traffic. Then I had to pee but never could find a rest room. The digital face of my bedside clock glowed in the dark when I awoke—3:24 A.M. Part of my dream was real, I thought, and climbed out of bed to visit the bathroom. I blamed the beer.
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    Unable to go back to sleep, I wondered why some women, like Gretchen and K. C. Riley, don’t know or care that we should help each other, especially in times like these. Loneliness and fear are always more acute in the wee small hours. Was Lottie right about Fitzgerald? I wondered. Maybe…
    I groped for the TV remote and flicked fitfully, hoping for something to occupy my restless mind. A startling image caught my eye. Mesmerized, unable to take my eyes off it, I watched. Finally, knowing I shouldn’t, I reached for the phone. He answered on the first ring.
    â€œHey, Fitz,” I murmured.
    â€œDo you have any idea what time it is, young lady?”
    â€œSorry, did I wake you?”
    â€œNo, sweet thing. Matter of fact, I was thinking ’bout you.”
    â€œImagine that. I was thinking about you too.”
    â€œJust get in?”
    â€œNope,” I said. “Couldn’t sleep.”
    â€œMe too. Just watching the tube.”
    â€œMe too,” I said. “Wait a minute! What are you watching?”
    He chuckled evasively.
    â€œThe History channel!” I accused. “You’re watching it too! Shame on you. So am I.”
    â€œI’m missing you, baby. Big-time, right about now.”
    I laughed aloud, surprised at the sound in my dark bedroom. “Did you see what those Greeks were doing?”
    â€œHow about those Roman frescoes?” he said. “Who’da thought? Say, when are we getting together?”
    â€œWish you were here right now,” I said, voice dropping to a seductive whisper.
    â€œMe too. How about Tuesday? I’ve got an early deposition in a homicide case, but I can drive down right after. I’ll put in for the time tomorrow.”
    â€œCan’t wait to see you, gorgeous.”
    â€œHey,” he said, “I can get dressed right now, hop in the car, and be there in time for breakfast.”
    â€œDon’t tempt me,” I said, voice husky. “You know we both have to work tomorrow.”
    â€œThe Volusia state attorney’s office and the Miami News would manage fine without us.”
    â€œSee you Tuesday,” I said.

4
    â€œHow could I have known he’d be watching The History of Sex too?” I said, phone to my ear, as I brewed coffee the next morning.
    â€œI’da stayed up