Free Midnight Club by James Patterson Page B

Lieutenant, anything you’d like. I’m going to have to write about you in the book. I’ve already written a little.”
    “You wrote about yesterday?” Stefanovitch coughed and patted his chest.
    “A little. Sure. I write every morning.” The look on her face was slightly impish, not so serious after all. Sarah McGinniss was actually much prettier than he had thought the other day. Her eyes had a nice sparkle.
    “How did I come off in what you wrote this morning?”
    “Just the way you were. Tough, pretty obnoxious. Remember, you’re the one who told me not to act so serious.” They both laughed. Things were improving.
    Their drinks came and the maître d’ made the usual impassioned plea for several of the house specials. Stefanovitch chose the calamari, plus mozzarella and beefsteak tomatoes. He was still learning to curb his appetite, adjusting to life in the Chair. Sarah went with a linguine, clam, and shrimp dish; prosciutto and melon to start.
    “My first impression was that you were pretty serious yourself,” Sarah said. She was talking with her head cocked to one side. The effect was captivating. “Aren’t you?”
    Stefanovitch thought that she was working him a little bit, interviewing him. He found that interesting, a challenge to be dealt with.
    “I don’t know if I trust first impressions very much anymore,” he said. “People are becoming too slick nowadays. There are too many good actors out in the world.”
    “Now you sound like a cop again,” Sarah said.
    “I am a cop. That was just my impression of one, though. Want to hear the Minersville, Pennsylvania, impression? The navy port-of-call impression? I do a few different voices, a few acts. Every street cop has to be a little bit of a con artist.”
    Sarah decided to take a chance as she listened to John Stefanovitch become more human. Afterward, though—while they were heading back to Police Plaza—she would wonder if she’d had any right to ask the next few questions.
    She leaned forward on her elbows, holding his eyes with her own. “Tell me something about your life before the shooting, Lieutenant. Your wife’s name was Anna, wasn’t it? She was a teacher?”
    Stefanovitch moved uncomfortably in his wheelchair. He raised his wineglass but didn’t drink from it. His fingers lightly twirled the glass.
    Sarah saw that he was uneasy with her questions.
    “Yes, her name was Anna. Originally, she was Anna Maddalena. We met in Ashland, Pennsylvania, after I got out of the navy. I was in for four years.”
    “Tell me about Anna.” Sarah’s voice was quiet, confidential. Instinctively, she’d always been a good interviewer. She knew how to listen to people.
    “I think that, uh… Let’s see. When I was growing up, somewhere in between the usual bar-hopping stints, I guess I wondered what love was all about. Like how are you supposed to know when you’re actually in love?”
    He was much more open than she’d expected. It was almost as if Stefanovitch needed to talk.
    “How do you know that this is it for your lifetime?” he continued. “I was kind of lucky. Very lucky. For about four years, my priorities in life were very clear. Anna was first. Then came my job. In that order, and never a doubt about it in my mind.”
    Sarah was noticing that Stefanovitch’s hands had slid together. He had workingman’s hands. His fingers were clutched a little tightly, though, white at the tips.
    “We just happened to fit very nicely together. I guess we completed each other. When I heard about Anna’s death—I don’t know how to describe what I felt. An emptiness, a sense of nothingness. Something shattered inside. I—I don’t even know what to say to you.”
    It was a small, subtle thing, but Sarah heard his voice catch on the last few words.
    “End of interview,” he said. “Okay?”
    A terrible sorrow had been etched across his face. His brown eyes darted away, infinitely sad in that moment of truth, but then he forced them