Stood up by a fed, Jessica thought.
She needed new perfume.
Jessica made her way to the bar. The place was wall-to-wall blue. Officer Mark Underwood was sitting at the front bar with two young guys, early twenties, both of whom had the buzz cuts and bad-boy posture that fairly screamed rookie cop. Probies even sat tough. You could smell the testosterone.
Underwood waved her over. "Hey, you made it." He gestured to the two guys next to him. "Two of my charges. Officers Dave Nihiser and Jacob Martinez."
Jessica let it sink in. A cop she had helped train was already training new officers. Where had the time gone? She shook hands with the two young men. When they found out she was in Homicide, they looked at her with a great deal of respect.
"Tell 'em who your partner is," Underwood said to Jessica.
"Kevin Byrne," she replied.
Now the young men looked at her with awe. Byrne's street rep was that big.
"I secured a crime scene for him and his partner in South Philly a couple of years ago," Underwood said with a chest full of pride.
The two probies mugged and nodded, as if Underwood had said he once caught for Steve Carlton.
The bartender brought Underwood's drink. He and Jessica clinked glasses, sipped, settled in. It was a different surrounding for the two of them, far from the days when she was his mentor on the streets of South Philly. The big-screen TV in the front of the bar was showing a Phillies game. Somebody got a hit. The bar roared. Finnigan's was nothing if it wasn't loud.
"You know, I grew up not too far from here," he said. "My grandparents had a candy store."
"A candy store?"
Underwood smiled. "Yeah. You know the phrase 'like a kid in a candy store'? I was that kid."
"That must have been fun."
Underwood sipped his drink, shook his head. "It was until I OD'd on circus peanuts. Remember circus peanuts?"
"Oh yeah," Jessica said, recalling well the spongy, sickeningly sweet, peanut-shaped candies.
"I got sent to my room once, right?"
"You were a bad boy?"
"Believe it or not. So just to get back at my grandmother I stole a huge bag of banana-flavored circus peanuts-and by huge I mean wholesale huge. Maybe twenty pounds. We used to put them in the glass canisters up front and sell them individually."
"Don't tell me you ate the whole thing."
Underwood nodded. "Just about. Ended up getting my stomach pumped. I haven't been able to look at a circus peanut since. Or a banana for that matter."
Jessica glanced across the bar. A pair of pretty college girls in halter tops were eyeing Mark, whispering, giggling. He was a good-looking young man. "So how come you're not married, Mark?" Jessica vaguely remembered a moon-faced girl hanging around back in the day.
"Got close once," he said.
"What happened?"
He shrugged, sipped his drink, hesitated. Maybe she shouldn't have asked. "Life happened," he finally said. "The job happened."
Jessica knew what he meant. She'd had a few semi-serious relationships before becoming a cop. All of them fell by the wayside when she entered the academy. Afterward, she found that the only people who understood what she did every day were other cops.
Officer Nihiser tapped his watch, drained his drink, stood.
"We've got to run," Mark said. "We're on last out and we've got to get some food in us."
"And this was just getting good," Jessica said.
Underwood stood, took out his wallet, pulled out a few bills, handed them to the barmaid. He put his wallet down on the bar. It fell open. Jessica glanced at his ID.
VANDEMARK E. UNDERWOOD.
He caught her looking, scooped up his wallet. But it was too late.
"Vandemark?" Jessica asked.
Underwood looked around quickly. He pocketed his billfold in a flash. "Name your price," he said.
Jessica laughed. She watched Mark Underwood leave. He held the door for an older couple on his way out.
As she toyed with the ice cubes in her glass, she observed the ebb and flow of the pub. She watched cops stroll in, stroll out. She waved to An- gelo Turco from the Third. Angelo had a beautiful tenor voice, sang at all the police benefit functions, many of the officers' weddings. With a little training he could have been Philadelphia's answer to Andrea Bocelli. He even opened a Phillies game once.
She saw Cass James, a secretary and all-around sister confessor from Central. Jessica could only imagine how many secrets Cass James held, and what kind of Christmas presents she must get. Jessica had never seen Cass actually pay for a drink.
Cops.
Her father was right. All her friends were on the force. So what was she supposed to do about it? Join the Y? Take a macrame class? Learn to ski?
She finished her drink and was just about to gather her things to leave when she sensed someone sitting down next to her, on the very next stool to her right. Seeing as there were three stools open on either side of her, it could only mean one thing. She felt herself tense up. But why? She knew why. She'd been out of the dating pool for so long, the mere thought of fielding an advance, fueled by a few scotches, scared the hell out of her, as much for what she might not do as for what she might. She'd gotten married for many reasons, and this was one of them. The bar scene, and all its attendant games, never appealed to her much. And now that she was thirty-and the possibility of divorce loomed on the horizon-it terrified her more than it ever had before.
The figure next to her lurked closer, closer. She could feel warm breath on her face. The nearness demanded her attention.
"Can I buy you a drink?" the shadow asked.
She looked over. Caramel eyes, dark wavy hair, a two-day scruff. He had broad shoulders, a small cleft in his chin, long eyelashes. He wore a tight black T-shirt and faded Levi's. Just to make matters worse, he was wearing Acqua di Gio by Armani. Shit.
Just her type.
"I was just about to leave," she said. "Thanks anyway."
"One drink. I promise."
She almost laughed. "I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because with guys like you it's never one drink."
He feigned heartbreak. It made him even cuter. "Guys like me?"
Now she did laugh. "Oh, and now you're going to tell me I've never met anyone quite like you, right?"
He didn't answer her right away. Instead, he looked from her eyes, down to her lips, back to her eyes.
Stop it.
"Oh, I'll bet you've met a lot of guys like me," he said with a sly grin. It was the kind of smile that said he was in complete control.
"Why do you say that?"
He sipped his drink, paused, played the moment out. "Well, for one thing, you're a very beautiful woman."
Here we go, Jessica thought. Bartender, get me a long-handled shovel. "And two?"
"Well, two should be obvious."
"Not to me."
"Two is that you are clearly out of my league."
Ah, Jessica thought. The humility pitch. Self-deprecating, handsome, polite. Bedroom eyes. She was absolutely certain that this combo had gotten scads of women into the sack. "And yet you still came over and sat next to me."
"Life is short," he said with a shrug. He crossed his arms, flexing his muscular forearms. Not that Jessica was looking or anything. "When that guy left, I figured it was now or never. I figured that, if I didn't at least try, I would never be able to live with myself."
"How do you know he's not my boyfriend?"
He shook his head. "Not your type."
Cocky bastard. "And I'll bet you know exactly what my type is, right?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Have a drink with me. I'll explain it to you."