Free Pulse by John Lutz

there.”
    Over another cool drink, she told him.

12
    F edderman and his wife, Penny, went out for dinner. Hot on a case as he was, he and Penny didn’t get to eat together often.
    This was a special treat, pasta and wine at D’Glorio’s, a block down the street from their apartment. Penny’s old apartment, actually. They’d moved in together after their marriage, choosing her place because it was larger and more of her furniture was worth saving. Most of Fedderman’s flea-market ensemble was hauled away as junk.
    In D’Glorio’s you knew you were in an Italian restaurant, with its red and white checked tablecloths, wax-coated wine bottle candle holders, Verdi operas playing softly in the background, the scents of garlic and mystery spices wafting from the kitchen.
    They were finishing their wine and waiting for their tiramisu desserts when Penny brought up the subject that had been nagging her for weeks, and almost unbearably for the past several days.
    “It isn’t getting any easier,” she said.
    Fedderman sipped his cabernet as if he knew good wine from bad, and raised his eyebrows. He’d known something was weighing on Penny lately. Now he was going to learn what it was.
    “Whenever you leave,” she said, “I can’t help thinking it might be the last time I see you alive.”
    How many cops’ wives have said that to their husbands ?
    He relaxed, but only slightly.
    “Accountants’ wives think that kind of thing, too,” Fedderman said. He actually wasn’t sure of that.
    “Accountants’ wives know the statistical probabilities and don’t worry as much as I do.”
    “You’ve thought this out,” Fedderman said.
    “I’m just saying ...”
    “What?”
    “I’m not sure I can keep living this way. Wondering daily if I’m going to lose you.”
    He smiled at her, unable to disguise his pleasure in knowing she loved him enough to worry about him so. Yet it was the intensity of her emotions that was a threat to their marriage. At least she seemed to be telling him that.
    “It’s not like being a cop on TV, Pen. The truth is, most of the time it’s a boring job. Just like an accountant’s.”
    “Accountants don’t run around trying to confront serial killers,” Penny said.
    “Who are trying not to be confronted,” Fedderman pointed out lamely.
    “Don’t try to tell me about serial killers,” Penny said.
    Fedderman nodded. Her sister had been the victim of a serial killer two years ago. That was how he and Penny had met, when he’d accompanied her to identify the body.
    “What I’m trying to tell you about is my job,” he said. “Tomorrow I’m gonna attempt to contact the parents of a murder victim’s roommates, to see if any of their daughters mentioned anything we might find useful. That’s the sort of thing I usually do, Pen. I’ll be at a computer or on the phone most of the day. The only danger I’ll face is carpal tunnel syndrome. It’s more likely that a book at the library will fall from a shelf and injure you than that I’ll be hurt on the job.”
    Penny finished her wine. She didn’t look as if she believed him in the slightest. “Maybe you should worry about me, what with Henry James and Ayn Rand looming.”
    “Not really. Even Stephen King isn’t much of a threat. And talking on the phone to the parents of the dead woman’s roommates isn’t likely to be dangerous for me. Damned unpleasant, but not dangerous.”
    Their tiramisu arrived, along with coffee. They ate and sipped silently for a while. The restaurant was warm, but it was a comforting warmth that had more to do with the scents of spices from the kitchen than with the summer heat outside.
    “So tomorrow you shouldn’t worry,” Fedderman said.
    “What about the day after?”
    “Nobody knows about that one,” Fedderman said. “Not accountants or airline pilots or salespeople or hedge fund managers or cops. There isn’t much we can do about the day after tomorrow.”
    “Except try to live to it and