Her face melted, and I watched her fight back tears.
“Is that a promise?” she asked.
“Yes, it's a promise.”
She took my left hand and stared at the gold band encircling my third finger. Looked at it a long time, her eyes blinking with thought.
“Take it off,” she said.
“You mean my wedding ring?”
She nodded, and I tugged my wedding ring off my finger. I didn't know what Rose was up to, and I watched her lift my left hand and stare. The place where the ring rested was milky white, the rest of my finger dark brown.
“You never took it off,” she said.
Then I got it.
“Not once,” I said.
“Never went out on a Friday night and played the field?”
“No, honey.”
“No strippers on the side, or trysts with female cops? There were a couple who had their eye on you.”
“Nope.”
“You knew I was waiting, didn't you?”
“I hoped you were,” I said, smiling.
She rose from the couch and motioned to me. I stood up, and she unbuttoned my shirt and ran her fingertips across my hairless stomach. Her nose twitched, sniffing my skin, and before I knew it, her head was resting on my chest and I was holding her.
“I love you so much,” she whispered.
After a minute she called in late to work. Then, clasping my hand, she led me to her bedroom. She undressed me, then I undressed her. It was our little ritual and never failed to get us both aroused. We tossed the sheet on the floor and got into bed.
“I want to be on top,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Lie down.”
I was too tall for her bed, and my feet stuck out at the end. I wiggled my toes and pointed at them. She laughed and slapped me on the thigh.
“Move over, big boy.”
I slid across the bed until I was lying crosswise. Then Rose mounted me. At first our lovemaking was awkward, and I felt like a teenager doing it in the backseat of my car. Rather than be annoyed, my wife smiled at me. If she'd needed any more convincing that I wasn't fooling around, she just got it.
It only took us a minute to get our rhythm back, and then we were flying through the clouds. Rose knew what made me happy, and as I climaxed I was reminded of all the times in our relationship that she'd pulled through for me.
When we were done, she snuggled up beside me and put her head on my chest. Then she drifted off to sleep. Her energy was flowing through my overheated skin, and for a little while I felt whole again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At eleven we walked down to our cars and kissed each other good-bye. Rose was back in uniform and had her hair tied in a bun. Seeing Buster, she let out a happy squeal.
“You got a dog.”
She stuck her hand through the open window and scratched the back of Buster's head. To my utter surprise, Buster wagged his tail and acted like a normal dog.
“I like this dog. You should breed him,” she said.
“You're the second person who's told me that,” I said.
“Then why don't you?”
“He's got a mean streak a mile long.”
“Maybe it's the people you hang out with.”
Rose got in her Nova and lowered her window. When I was a cop, we'd never said good-bye. It was always “See you later.” I said that now and saw a tinge of doubt in her beautiful brown eyes. So I added a postscript.
“I promise.”
“When will that be?” she asked.
“Once I get this mess cleaned up.”
“Another six months?”
I shook my head. “They'll run me out of town before then. A couple of weeks.”
“Don't make a promise you can't keep, Jack.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it,” she said. “But that doesn't mean you will. You have to figure out what Skell did with those girls. If you don't, you won't be able to live with yourself, and neither will I.”
There was a finality to her voice that made arguing useless.
“I'll come the moment the case is solved,” I said.
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, it's a promise.”
We kissed again, and then I watched my wife drive away.
I decided to get lunch and cruised the neighborhood. Hyde Park was an eclectic mix of old homes, funky watering holes, and ethnic restaurants. Rose liked it here, and I tried to imagine myself fitting in. A sign boasting the best sub sandwiches in town caught my eye, and I pulled in.
Soon Buster and I were sharing a steak hoagie in my car. My vet said that people food was bad for animals, so I asked him why we ate it. He didn't have a good answer, so I continued to share my meals with my dog.
On the other side of the street, two workers were replacing a billboard. They were fifty feet in the air and were using putty knives to strip away an ad for a popular lite beer. It looked like dangerous work, and I wondered why they did it.
As the lite beer ad came down, the old ad beneath it was exposed. That ad was for a morning radio program, and showed a bad-boy DJ sitting on a throne with a pitchfork, his ears pointed to make him look like the Devil. Printed beneath his picture were the words Weekday Mornings, 6-10. Prepare to get Bashed!
I handed the last piece of my sandwich to my dog. The poster was for Neil Bash. Although I'd heard him on the radio many times, I'd never seen his face. He was big and homely, with a flat nose and jug ears. As more of his face became exposed I saw how someone had defaced his likeness with red spray paint. It said:
THIS MAN'S A FUCKING PIG!
The words bothered me. Whoever had written them had taken a real risk climbing up there. I wanted to know why. I got out of my car and called up to the two workers.
“Hey! You up there.”
One of the workers stopped, and found me with his eyes. His skin was the color of a pencil eraser, his hair jet black.
“What you want?” he called down.
“That guy in the sign. What did he do?”
“Dunno,” the worker said.
“Ask your partner, would you?”
The worker asked his partner. The partner shook his head. I guessed they were both illegals and scared I was from Immigration. The first worker turned back to me.
“We're busy,” the first worker said.
“Does your friend know?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“I just want to ask him a couple of questions.”
“Come back later,” the first worker said.
I knew what was going to happen if I came back later. They would both be gone.
The billboard had a ladder attached to it. I crossed the street and started to climb up. A stiff breeze was blowing, and I stopped midway and held on for dear life. One of my greatest fears was getting killed doing something stupid, like crossing the street without looking. Yet, for some reason, I continued to do stupid things. Finally the wind died, and I resumed my climb.
Reaching the top, I grabbed a handrail and looked around. I could see downtown's shimmering skyscrapers and rows of gritty warehouses in the Port of Tampa. Seeing me, the workers stopped what they were doing. I pointed at the devilish face on the poster.
“Tell me what he did.”
The second worker stepped forward. He was also Hispanic and looked scared out of his wits. I handed him and his partner some money, and they both relaxed.
“He did something bad,” the second worker said.
“What was that?” I asked.
The man scratched his chin.
“I think it was with a girl,” he said.
“A young girl?” I asked.
“Yeah. He did something bad on his radio show to a young girl. They ran him out of town.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Two, maybe three years ago.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
He smiled. I'd made his day, and he'd made mine. Neil Bash was living in Tampa at the same time as Simon Skell, and he was doing something with underage girls that got him in trouble.