Free Close Call by Laura Disilverio Page A

large face. “Think you could introduce me to one of those Victoria’s Secrets models?”
    â€œLinens. I sell hotel linens. Business is great.”
    â€œSure it is. It was a shame, you getting kicked off the force for beating up that punk,” Johanssen said, easing into a familiar complaint. “He deserved it, and more.”
    Paul knew what was coming: The guy who invented …
    â€œI tell you what, buddy, the guy who invented the video camera oughta be shot. That’s all there is to it. Shot. Why does video always work against the cops, huh? Tell me that. How come you never see a dirtball get convicted with video evidence but cops get suspended or fired or brought up on charges when some commie-pinko-liberal catches ’em doing their job? You got screwed, buddy. You ever want to get out of sales, I know a guy could hook you up with a security gig, bodyguard work, the like, not patrolling some construction site at midnight. Good money, too.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll let you know.”
    Johanssen grabbed a second donut as Paul headed for the door. “Don’t be a stranger.”

    A stranger was what his dad was, Paul thought, carrying on a one-sided conversation with the man who’d taught him to hit a baseball, walloped his behind when he caught him shoplifting a paperback from the mom-and-pop store on the corner, helped him pick out perfume for his mom’s birthday. Tabu. The spicy scent still lingered in some corners of the house, or maybe just in his memories.
    â€œI bought a snow blower today, Eldon,” William Jones announced.
    â€œGreat, Pop,” Paul said, glancing out the window at the sunny day.
    They chatted for another half hour, Paul answering variously to Eldon, Mark (his father’s partner on the force for eighteen years), and his own name. When his father drifted back to sleep, he tucked the sheet around him and went into the kitchen where Moira was making a pot of tea. She was maybe ten years younger than he, with wiry strands of gray threaded through her light brown hair, and she moved with an economy of motion he appreciated. He thought maybe she found him attractive, but he hadn’t pursued it, unwilling to risk upsetting his father’s situation if a few dates led to awkwardness. He’d never wanted a wife: watching his mom and dad go at it had soured him on marriage, and he’d trained himself to do without women, satisfying the occasional urge with a hooker. Now, though, he felt a stirring as he watched Moira cross the linoleum floor, her rounded hips stretching the fabric of her simple skirt.
    â€œYou startled me,” she said, catching sight of him in the doorway. One hand went to her chest. Then she smiled, the curve of lip and flash of teeth brightening the room with its porcelain sink turned the color of old sheets washed with black socks, its wallpaper grimed with grease from meals cooked in his childhood, its linoleum worn as thin as a bee’s wing in spots. His father had refused to change anything after Paul’s mother died of ovarian cancer in 1990.
    â€œWould you like some tea? I’ve been reading that green tea is full of antioxidants, so that’s what I’m having. But there’s Earl Grey or chamomile if you prefer.”
    â€œCoffee. I’ll make it.”
    â€œNo, no.” She beat him to the cupboard, pulling out the two-cup coffee maker and crossing to the freezer for the Seattle’s Best he stored there. He hovered in the doorway, feeling almost like an intruder in his own home, the house he’d grown up in. He knew suddenly he’d sell it when his father died. The idea intrigued him and he lost himself in imagining what kind of a house he’d buy in its place. Not a condo or townhome … too many neighbors to watch his comings and goings. And he wanted a yard, someplace to have a garden.
    â€œLet’s sit outside. We don’t want Bill to overhear us,”