Free The Deadhouse by Linda Fairstein

this trivia exercise. My four years of major
concentration in English literature before going to law school raised
my expectation of taking the evening's pot.
    "Well, gentlemen," Trebek enthused, turning to the three contestants
poised at their buzzers. "The answer is, the majestic leader who urged
his troops to battle with the phrase: 'Soldiers, forty centuries are
looking down on you.'"
    Dead meat. Chapman had not only studied military history at Fordham,
but the subject had become a passion for him: he read about it
voraciously and visited battlefields whenever the opportunity presented
itself. The butcher from Kansas City and the ophthalmologist from
Louisville seemed as clueless as I was, neither one writing anything on
his electronic screen.
    "Belly up, blondie. What's your best guess? Double or nothing?"
    "Not a prayer." I watched the pastry chef from Baltimore record his
answer with furious determination, as I tried to think of a
civilization with that long a heritage. "Who was . . . Genghis Khan?"
    Chapman gloated as he picked up the sixty dollars, giving the
correct response while Trebek was telling the chef he had guessed
incorrectly. "Napoleon, 1798. Rallying his men to fight the Egyptians
at the foot of the great pyramids of Giza. Enjoying a brief success,
actually, like ten days, before m'man Horatio Nelson arrived in time to
destroy the entire French fleet."
    I sidled up next to him and reached my fingers into his pants
pocket, pulling out the wad of money. "But you forgot to put it in the
form of a question, so—"
    As he slapped my hand away, the doorbell rang.
    "And one more surprise for the night," Mike added. "Hope you don't
mind, I told the doorman your guest didn't have to be announced." I
walked behind him as he went to the entrance, and gasped with delight
to see Mercer Wallace.
    He towered over both of us, six feet six inches tall with dark black
skin and a rock-solid chest that had stopped a bullet just four months
ago. Mercer grabbed me in an embrace as we swayed each other back and
forth. "This is the very best of Christmas presents," I said, pulling
his face down to mine and planting a kiss on the top of his head.
    "So this was the date you were meeting at Lumi's, huh?" I said to
Mike. "And not planning to invite me? Santa may have to rethink whether
that was naughty or nice."
    "Well, if you hadn't suggested stopping here, I was going to take
you there. But they don't have a TV and I didn't want to miss the
chance to score a few bucks off you, Coop. You allowed to drink yet,
Detective Wallace, or does it still pour out through that mean-looking
exit wound in your back?" He headed back to the bar to fix a club soda
for Mercer.
    I had visited Mercer at his home at least once a week since the
shooting last summer, and I knew his recovery from the chest wound that
had threatened to rip him apart had progressed well. He was due to come
back to work on modified duty early in the new year, but I thought it
would take more than a holiday party to bring him to my doorstep.
    Chapman was in the den pouring drinks against the background noise
of
Win Ben Stein's Money
on the Comedy Central channel. The
brainiac host was, as usual, about to knock off all the contestants
with a string of good answers to tough questions, while I watched
Mercer—still limping slightly—walk ahead of me and sit down. "Just took
enough money off Coop to buy you a Kwanza present, Detective Wallace."
    Mercer raised his glass and we all clinked. "To a better year for
each of us. And to Lola Dakota, may she rest in peace."
    "Mercer started beeping me this morning with a million things he
wanted to know. Said he was coming into the office to bring his case
folder and notes for us, so I figured he might as well make a guest
appearance at the armory."
    We spent close to an hour talking about all the facts Mercer
remembered from handling the domestic assault investigation that was
part of Lola's original complaint. She had loved the quiet