Patty Levine felt like a weight had been lifted from her as the last of the unmarked cars pulled away from the Law and Order Pub, leaving just her and Tony Mazzetti in the parking lot. They both knew that any attraction they felt for each other had to be kept low key for now. An office romance meant scrutiny, gossip, and sometimes jealousy. She didn’t have time for any of that.

She looked up at Mazzetti now that they were alone in the lot. Still a little old-fashioned, she was waiting for him to make a move. If that failed, then she knew what to do.

He looked across the hood of her car and said, “You busy?”

Did he have an investigative task or was it a come-on? She had no idea how to read him, and that made it all the more exciting. She felt anxiety but no need to reach for Xanax. She liked this feeling and just smiled.

Tony Mazzetti said, “I was wondering if you might like to have a private drink with me?”

“Off duty?”

“Off duty.”

“No police talk?”

“Not unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

She nodded and then, without any idea it would come out of her, “How about my condo? I have a bottle of wine that’s been collecting dust for three years.”

“Will you actually drink with me?” His eyes twinkled in the streetlights. She liked his cute expression. It was the opposite of his persona around the Sheriff’s Office.

Patty considered the possibility of a drink. She’d taken her last Xanax on her way home from UF after the geologist came on to her. She hadn’t felt anxious, but with habit, took one of the peach-colored pills about the same time she did every day. That was more than eight hours ago. Her back or hip didn’t hurt, which meant there was no need for a pain pill. That left only Ambien. She needed her sleeping pill if she wanted any hope of dozing off. Based on her careful analysis, she finally answered him, “Sure, I’ll have a glass of wine.”

A grin slid across Tony Mazzetti’s handsome face, lighting up his brown eyes. She liked the brash New Yorker and realized most everything he did for show was just an act. He was a history buff who liked to write. That was more like the real him. She was sure of it. Regardless, she was ready for some quiet time with him based on two important facts: he was really well built, and she hadn’t slept with a man in almost a year. She needed a shot of confidence as well as a chance to get to know this guy better.

Mazzetti said, “I’ll follow you.”

She thought, I hope so.

William Dremmel had to commit himself to acting quickly. He already had his knife open and in his hand. He popped the automatic locks of the minivan and took a deep breath. This was something he’d never done before. He was about to assault the old man and planned to jab the knife into his abdomen and his throat, then shove him into the van and dump him God knew where.

The man’s little dog yipped behind the van and that made Dremmel freeze for a second. What would he do with the dog? If he left it, the cops would know the owner was gone faster than if he took it. That was one more clue that could potentially point to him. Either option was unacceptable.

He thought about it and decided he couldn’t kill the dog. Not with the knife anyhow. But maybe there was a way he could use the little dog in his research. It was a different metabolism than what he’d been working with. Unlike the girls or even Mr. Whiskers, the original or II and III, the little dog would present new opportunities.

Dremmel processed the decision, yanked the door handle, and slipped out onto the asphalt road. He turned and hurried to the rear of the van, ready to strike without warning. He couldn’t afford to allow the man to scream.

As he cleared the rear bumper, the knife in his hand, but held low, he saw the man’s face clearly in the light of the dim bulb suspended on the rough wooden pole. He froze and the man turned to look in his direction.

“Hello,” said the man.

“Um, hello,” answered Dremmel, now frozen in place a few feet from the elderly dog walker.

“Am I blocking you?” The man touched his dark glasses. “I know my way around but sometimes get in front of cars waiting to pull out. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Dremmel now realized the cane was not a walking aid but an indicator that the man was blind.

“I’m afraid Pico here is not much of a guide dog. But he’s a good friend.”

Dremmel squatted down and let the little Chihuahua scurry to him and sniff his hand. He patted the white dog, then reached under him to get a feel for his weight. “This is one tiny dog, mister.”

“My daughter gave me little Pico Sanchez about three years ago, and I couldn’t live without him now.”

Dremmel made the snap decision that the man had no info he could give the cops and, reluctantly, that the dog was too small to provide any reliable or transferable research results.

He stood up and said, “Have a nice night.”

“You too son, you too.”

As Dremmel pulled away from the curb, leaving the old blind man with his useless little dog, he wondered where his Stacey could be and when he’d have her all to himself.

John Stallings had rushed home to make sure he could help both kids with their homework. The problem with that theory was that he’d have to understand their homework.

Charlie’s wasn’t that difficult, but as the TV show Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? had taught everyone, there are things you learn that you forget. Most of Charlie’s history quiz on the settling of Plymouth seemed familiar, but there was no way he’d know the facts right off the top of his head. The name Miles Standish and the Puritans were familiar, but reading the little paragraphs taught him more than he thought he ever knew about the settlement in what is now Massachusetts. He never realized they left from Holland or that the entire ship was not filled with people seeking religious freedom. He never knew that the expedition started off with two ships but one never left European waters. Regardless, he made it sound like this was all old news to him as he ran Charlie through the simple fifteen-question quiz over and over.

Lauren’s homework was another story. The algebra didn’t even seem familiar to him, and he couldn’t fake it.

Stallings looked at his thirteen-year-old and said, “Is this the same math they taught when I was in school?”

“You mean back when you used slate tablets to add up the figures?” Her smile did more to lift him than any beer he had ever thought of.

“Yeah, we’d never even heard of calculators.”

She looked at him and knitted her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

He laughed out loud and said, “Yes we did, I’m not that old.”

The evening continued like that with Maria coming out of the den for a good part of it. He’d noticed the subtle shift in her appearances with the family. From near-hermit status to a quick meal here and there, to spending more time at least in the same room with the family. Stallings would take it. He’d take whatever he could get. This was the woman he’d been crazy in love with almost twenty years ago and through all that they had suffered his feelings for her hadn’t changed. Sure he got frustrated at her repeated stints in rehab and her withdrawal from the family after Jeanie disappeared, but she still had that magic quality to light up a room when she wanted to. He wanted to be around when she wanted to light up rooms again.

After the kids had gone to bed and he’d straightened the kitchen and house, he was surprised when Maria joined him on the couch for the ten o’clock news. She’d told him that she cleaned the kitchen every morning after making the kids breakfast, but he knew she rarely got up with the kids, never made them breakfast, and hadn’t dragged a clean dish towel across any surface in the kitchen in a long time. But his mother had given him a little marital advice when he was young, and the smartest thing she’d said was, “As the husband you can be right or you can be happy, but you can’t be both.” Now he knew it was one of those times to keep his mouth shut. He was rewarded by Maria sitting next to him on the couch.

Of course the first story was about the serial killer. He cringed at the name Bag Man, but even the cops were using it now. Carl Cernick had gained the name “The Phantom” because there were so many false sightings of him. Six different men had been questioned because of the tips. The questioning was at the PMB, and the men were in custody no matter what they were told. Each time homicide was sure it was the right guy. Stallings was in the burglary unit at the time and paid little attention to the case. Until he solved it.

Now the newscaster opened with a line that made him take notice. The pretty young woman said, “Home Depot, the target of a new lead for the Bag Man investigation.”

“How in the hell did that happen?” he muttered.

Maria turned to him. “What?”

“That was a confidential line of investigation. Tony Mazzetti is gonna be pissed.” Stallings knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help but let a slight smile spread across his face.

Patty Levine lay on top of the sheets naked, computing how big of a dose of Ambien she would take. She took into account the two glasses of pinot noir she’d had a couple of hours earlier and the level of frustration that had risen in her since. She figured one canceled out the other.

She stared straight up into the dark, catching just a hint of streetlights through her blinds. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as she tried to control her anxiety and disappointment. She still had a muscular body and worked on it, but nothing like she did when she competed.

As she was about to get out of bed and pad to the bathroom she felt the whole mattress shift. She turned to face the muscular, naked form of Tony Mazzetti, who said for the ninth time, “I’m sorry. This has never happened before.”