Free Thursday's Child by Teri White Page A

spaghetti and some tuna fish salad. He tossed a mental coin once and then a couple more times until it finally came up heads for spaghetti. The glass bowl went directly into the microwave. During the three minutes and thirty seconds that it took to heat through, Gar buttered a couple of slices of wheat bread, sprinkled on some garlic salt, and slid them into the toaster oven. All the while, he worked at studiously ignoring the relentlessly blinking message light. A Diet Coke—in a glass bottle, because he hated the taste of plastic or aluminum—completed the meal. Everything went onto a tray, which he carried, one-handed, out to the deck. He liked having a view of the Pacific as he ate.
    The house belonged to Mickey, of course. No cop could afford a place like this—if he was honest, anyway. The place was a souvenir of her very early, very brief marriage to a soap-opera star. Once, just after he’d moved in here with Mickey, Gar had tuned in to the afternoon drama, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ex. He looked quite ordinary. Ordinary, at least, for a soap-opera doctor/sex symbol who was suspected of trying to kill his rich wife by poisoning her with a strange South American drug.
    As he ate, Gar watched a pair of gulls play tag against the blue sky. Spock sat at his feet, hopefully watching each forkful of spaghetti.
    Gareth Sinclair thought of himself as a happy man, at least at moments like this. He could watch the ocean, his leg wasn’t hurting too much, and Mickey was working nearby. He pretty much had it all. Or at least as much as a pensioned-off old cop could expect to have.
    The main thing was not to question any of this. Don’t ask why they had found one another or why Mickey loved him. Don’t ask. Just accept it and keep on being happy. After all, what was so hard about being happy?
    But even as he finished the spaghetti and garlic toast, feeding an occasional bit to the dog, the flashing light of the answering machine still occupied a corner of his mind. The message that was waiting might have been perfectly innocent, of course. An old buddy from the department who wanted to meet for a beer. Some asshole peddling insurance or aluminum siding. Hell, maybe he’d won the lottery.
    None of the idle speculation fooled him at all. He knew damned well what kind of message was waiting on the machine. Somebody had lost a child and they wanted him to find it.
    Gar sighed and set the plate down onto the flagstone. There was nothing left on it but a little sauce and some crumbs, but the dog began to lick eagerly anyway.
    â€œNo wonder that animal is fat.”
    He turned and saw Mickey standing in the doorway. It was, as always, a minor revelation. After his wife’s death from breast cancer, Gar hadn’t really planned on getting into a new relationship. Face it—he wasn’t exactly a handsome young stud. No soap-opera star. And although he knew that it was a pretty sexist attitude, Gar was not willing to settle for what he thought he might be able to get: either a plump and kindly widow of his own age, or a too-thin, too-tan, too-desperate tennis-playing divorcee. What else could he expect? It simply never occurred to him that a twenty-five-year-old might come into the picture. Especially a beautiful, talented twenty-five-year-old.
    â€œI hate eating alone,” he said, justifying sharing his meal with a dog.
    â€œPoor thing. A good woman would be waiting for you when you came home, right?”
    â€œSure,” Gar said. “With a cold drink and a hot meal. And an eager libido.”
    â€œ Libido? ” she said. “Have you been reading the dictionary again?”
    â€œHa-ha.”
    She smiled quickly and then nodded back toward the kitchen. “Did you see that your message light is flashing?”
    â€œI saw.” He picked up the plate and started for the house. As he passed Mickey, she stretched up to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “I was