Free Hot Flash by Carrie H. Johnson

message. I tried his home landline. After ten rings and no appeal to leave a message, I hung up.
    I showered and put on clean khaki pants and a blue polo shirt—our lab uniform—and accessories, which included gun belt, handcuffs, and baton. The whole police outfit was unflattering, and with accessories added at least ten pounds to my already weight-sensitive parts. You would think hoisting around the extra weight would help melt away some poundage. Not happening.
    I tried Laughton again before leaving the house.
    Still no answer, so I decided to drive over to his place before going to the station. My first-ever visit to his place of residence. Ahem.
    Laughton lived in Old City on cobblestoned Church Street. Old City is a neighborhood of Center City bounded by Vine Street to the north and Walnut Street to the south. It is one of Philly’s most popular nightlife destinations, with an artsy aura. His condo was the only one with a private entrance street side. His Audi Quattro manned the entrance. It took me leaning on the doorbell Dulcey-style and banging on the door Calvin-style, which brought neighbors to their windows spewing obscenities at me, before he answered.
    Surprise lost, he droned, “I thought you were going to Boston.” He was shirtless and rumpled-looking, and he squinted to lessen the effect of sunlight in his eyes. “You shoulda called first,” he said, turning back into the town house. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve had Jemima clean the place.”
    I shuddered down to my core at this new feeling between us. A wave of pain and sadness slid through my body, leaving goose bumps behind.
    I stepped over the threshold, holding the wall to steady myself. When I got inside I hesitated, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, then closed the door and followed Laughton down a short hallway. It felt like ten o’clock at night in the apartment rather than the bright morning hour of 10 a.m. that it was. The hallway opened into a living space with high, beamed ceilings and dark wood floors, accented with muted-colored orientals. A giant Robert Freeman painting hung on one wall. To the left were a kitchen and a short hallway, which I guessed led to his bedroom.
    I closed the door and followed him farther into the room, completely dark save for a sliver of sunlight through an open fold of the floor-to-ceiling drapes that covered two walls, as well as the light from the television. The room reeked of cigarettes accented by the morning after a party boozy smell. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the coffee table. The smoke settled in the sliver of sunlight and swirled in the air like a fog. I could handle the smoke. I had smoked for thirty years myself before quitting two years ago. But the stench of old beer and stale butts that overflowed several ashtrays around the room permeated the air and challenged my breathing.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Laughton? Talk to me,” I said. I dropped the file on the table in front of him. “What about this? And why didn’t you ever tell me you were once a married man?”
    He ignored me for a few moments before saying, “You tell me. All these years we’ve been partners and you never mentioned you had a sister.” The words, laden with sarcasm, spilled from his mouth.
    Guilt and betrayal blew through me. “You never asked. I had no reason to mention it.” My voice intensified. “Why do you have this file?”
    His face looked ashen in the glow from the television. I followed his gaze.
    â€œLaughton!” I yelled in frustration.
    The words I was about to say lodged in the back of my throat. On the television, Jesse Boone stood on the stairs of the Criminal Justice Center, reporters’ microphones shoved in his face. Laughton reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
    â€œI been telling you all I was innocent. They had to let me go,” Boone said, laughing as he pushed his