Free Dead of Night by Randy Wayne White Page B

drops by one to one and a half degrees per hour. That’s what you’re talking about. I did my preliminary examination at eleven-thirty. Applebee’s temp was thirty-five Celsius, which is only two degrees below norm. See what I mean?”
    Intentionally ignoring the point, I said, “Then he could have died half an hour or so before the girl came on scene. What a relief if Melinda heard that. It might spare her one hell of a lot of emotional turmoil down the road.”
    Ms. Graves began to chuckle, her tone saying, Okay, you win.
    I said, “It’s a good cause.”
    “You’ve never met the girl before, Ford?”
    “Nope. But she needs help.”
    “Are you always so persuasive? If the motivation wasn’t so noble, I might be offended. Instead, I might let you persuade me to have a cup of coffee after we’re done. There’re a couple of all-night places near Kissimmee. But we can’t stay long. I’ve got an early call.”
    I said, “I’d like that. I really would. But there’s another detective coming to talk with me, and it’s already close to midnight.”
    The woman was nodding, looking at me, stroking her brown cheek, amused. She waited for a while, letting me see that she knew something I didn’t, before asking, “Why can’t men just come out and say that they’re already involved with a woman? Is it because they want to leave their options open? Or is it because they’re embarrassed?”
    “Embarrassed?”
    “Embarrassed to be in love.”
    “It’s that obvious?”
    “Not until I asked you out for coffee. That expression on your face. Talk about panic. For a second, I thought you might run away and hide.”
    “For the record, Ms. Graves, the answer would have been yes. Under different circumstances.”
    “Rona.”
    “Rona.”
    It was true. I’ve met enough decent, interesting women over the years to wish that we lived lives proportionate in number to the number of strangers we’d like to get to know better.
    The woman gave me a fraternal pat on the shoulder. “You really are a persuasive one. The professor type, but with charm. I’ll speak with the girl. You’re right. It could be a good and healthy thing for me to do. If Her Highness the constable reads the official report, though—well, there’s no way to control that.”
    My cell phone began to ring as I thanked her. Watched her walk across the lawn toward Applebee’s brightly lighted house.

    With the phone to my ear, from across eleven hundred miles of America, I listened to my old workout pal, my lover, and the expectant mother of our unborn child say, “Ford, what bullshit excuse do you have this time? Have I told you lately what a gigantic pain in the ass you are? If I haven’t, let me say it again just to be sure you’ve pulled your head out of your butt long enough to listen.”
    I waited until she’d repeated herself before I replied with affection, “Hello to you, too, dear Dewey Nye. You expect to kiss an infant with that sailor’s mouth of yours?”
    “You’d give a week’s pay to get a wet one from me.”
    “More.”
    “Really. Then I may start charging.”
    She could. Dewey is a very kissable woman: Blond, fit, five-ten, and 160 pounds or so of raging, self-reliant pregnant female. She was once ranked among the top-ten tennis players in the world, and plays mostly golf now, beach volleyball, and some racquetball. Still competitive and outspoken. It’s hard to tell from her locker-room vocabulary, but she’s also intuitive and sometimes overly sensitive.
    “How much would you pay?”
    It was fun talking with her. Nice not to be locked inside my own brain, launching from a ski ramp over and over, seeing Applebee in the closet, so I played along. “Money is so awkward between friends. I was thinking more of a barter system. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. So to speak.”
    “Oh sure. Take it out in trade. Trouble is, it’s tough to remember what you look like. I see you so seldom. Or even hear from you.”
    I