12th of Never

Chapter 19

IT HAD BEEN a long, loud, fussy night, but Julie had finally worn herself out and gone to sleep on Joe’s chest. His clock projected the time on the ceiling in bright red digits. It was 4:54. I reorganized my blanket and settled in for what I hoped would be maybe forty-five minutes of deep sleep.

But Joe was wide awake. He said, “Let’s talk about this again, Linds. I think in this case I know what’s best for you better than you do.”

I yawned, fluffed my pillow.

“I can’t go back yet, Joe. I’m only going to be thinking about you and Julie, anyway.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the oldest of seven. I have burped and changed a lot of nephews and nieces, and while it might hurt your feelings, I’m good with Julie. I can take fine care of her.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, yes. I’ll go back to work.”

“Wait.”

“What am I waiting for?”

“I had some persuasive arguments I haven’t used yet.”

I started laughing. “I’m persuaded. You did a good job, Joe.”

“But you said you didn’t want to go back to work.”

“You won, sweetie. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

He laughed and I fell asleep without saying another word. I woke up at seven, snuck out of bed, and showered. After that, I felt around in the dark for my blue blazer; I found it and my trousers in plastic wrap on hangers in the closet.

Since my trousers seemed to have shrunk, I picked out a big shirt—one with pink pinstripes—and hung it out over my waistband, which I would have to do until I was a size 10 again.

Get used to it, everyone.

I buckled on my shoulder holster, got my gun out of the nightstand, then hung the chain holding my badge around my neck.

I air-kissed Joe and Julie so that neither of them woke up, carried my shoes out to the hallway, and put them on as Martha did a happy dance.

I took my dog for a short walk. I mean short. As soon as she did what she needed to do, I took her back home, then went back out to the street and looked for my car.

Did I feel guilty leaving Julie?

You bet I did. I thought of my baby girl, and it was like an umbilical bungee cord was connecting us, pulling me back toward home.

But I had gotten a compelling, nearly irresistible call from my former partner, Warren Jacobi, now chief of police. He had said, “I’m not saying drop-kick the baby and come in right away. It’s like this. Brady is short-staffed and over-whelmed. He needs your help.”

My old blue Explorer was parked a half block down from our apartment. I got in, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started right up, almost as if it had been waiting for me.

I pulled out onto Lake Street and the car shot away from the curb, tires screeching. I could not wait to get to the Hall.