Free Random Victim by Michael A. Black Page A

again, her plastic fork poised between them.
    “Is that all?” she asked. “You look like you wanted to say something else.”
    “I was just admiring your rings,” he said, pointing at twin topaz rings that she wore on each hand.
    “Thanks, the necklace belonged to my grandmother,” she said, holding up a matching blue stone set in ornate silver. “I wear
     the rings when I’m out in public so people won’t notice my palms so much.” She turned her hand over and displayed a thick
     crust of yellowish ridges. “Calluses from the weights. I’ve been wearing gloves more lately trying to get rid of them.”
    “Why did you get so heavy into weight lifting?” Leal asked. He tried to soften the bluntness his voice had betrayed by asking
     a quick follow-up question. “I mean, you trying to get ready for the police Olympics, or something?”
    “Actually, I’m a bodybuilder, not a weight lifter. I still have to pump a lot of weights, but the aim is to develop and shape
     the muscles rather than lift more poundage.”
    “I see,” Leal said, biting into his chicken sandwich, and wishing that he’d kept his mouth shut.
    “My ex and I used to compete in couples’ competitions,” she said. “He was really into it, too. Unfortunately, he was also
     into ’roids real heavy.”
    “Those as bad as I’ve heard?”
    Hart raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Worse, actually,” she said. “Bodybuilding’s all about looking good, not being healthy.
     The dieting, the training, it can all get to be too much sometimes. Add chemicals that destroy your liver into the mix and
     you can end up with some serious problems.”
    Leal found himself wondering if she was injecting anything to achieve her build. But that seemed a stretch for someone so
     health conscious.
    “Is that how you met? In the couples’ competitions?”
    “No, actually we met at Western Illinois University,” she said. “Both law enforcement majors. I was into track and field in
     those days. A little gymnastics until I got too big.” She smiled. “We got married right after graduation. I got on County,
     and he became a personal trainer. He kept flunking the urine tests until he went off the juice. Then he finally got called
     by Chicago.” She ate more of her salad, then said, “That’s when I found out that cops make lousy husbands.”
    Leal smirked.
    Hart looked at him quickly.
    “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
    He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, it’s true.
    I was so busy playing supercop, spending all my time at stakeouts and bars that I let my marriage go down the tubes.”
    “That’s too bad,” Hart said. “Kids?”
    “Yeah. Two girls.”
    “Wow, how old?”
    “Six and eight. They live with their mother. She remarried and moved to California. A suburb of LA. Thousand Oaks. Beautiful
     place, but far, far away.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    He blew out another slow breath and realized he was telling her much more than he had intended. But what the hell, we’re partners,
     he thought. “I get them for two weeks around Christmas, and for a month in the summers. That’s when I usually take my vacations.”
    “It must be hard not to see them more.”
    “Yeah, it is,” he said, thinking that at least they didn’t have to sit through the panic of seeing him in the emergency room
     with his chest half-open. “But they’ve got a stable family life, and they’re both doing good in school. Great schools out
     there.” His voice trailed off. “How about you? Kids?”
    She shook her head. “I guess it’s probably better that we didn’t have any.”
    The ubiquitous odor of the dead and decaying bodies hung in the air so pervasively as Leal and Hart walked through the main
     refrigerated depository, that Leal was once again reminded of his initial trip to the morgue. It had been many years ago,
     but the memories never seemed to quite go away. His partner had taken him for a meal first, too. A late breakfast.