Blueblood Read Free Page B

girl with a butch hair cut said. “You haven’t finished a paper on time since grade school. You’ll probably be ABD until you die.”
    I quirked an eyebrow at Amanda. “ABD?”
    “All But Dissertation,” she said. “Your required classes are done and only the writing is left, but fewer than half finish. It’s the most dreaded acronym in higher education.”
    “Ah,” I said. “Kind of like DOA?”
    “Yes,” she said, then tilted her head. “Exactly like that, actually.”
    I nodded. “Say, I’ve been wondering. If a guy gets a Master of Arts degree does this make you a Mistress of Arts?”
    “God,” one of the girls in a graduation gown said, rolling her eyes.
    “It’s okay, Miranda,” Amanda said. “He’s just trying to get my goat. His macho male id reacts instinctively against the thought of someone getting an advanced degree in Gender Studies, so he pokes fun at it, trying to diminish the importance of the degree in order to bolster his own frail ego. Childish, really.”
    “Marty sees button, Marty pushes button,” I said. “What are you crazy kids up to now?”
    “There’s a lunch and reception, then a happy hour, then a party at the dean’s house.”
    “Followed by parties at everyone else’s houses?”
    “Pretty much,” she said. “Are you up for it?”
    I shook my head. “I can’t. I’ve got some work to do for a friend. But pick a night sometime this week. I want to take you out to dinner. Bring Jay or whoever, too. If they’re not DOA.”
    “ABD.”
    “Whatever,” I said. “I want to celebrate. You deserve it. Hell, I deserve it.”
    Her eyes were shiny. “Thank you, Marty. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
    I smiled and squeezed her arm. “No sweat, kid. I could say the same.”
     

 
     
    Chapter Three
     
     
     
    By four the next morning, the sleep thing wasn’t working. Pre-dawn hours weren’t anything new to me, of course; as a homicide cop, rising early was practically a job requirement. But most cops look forward to retirement as a chance to get some real sleep and learn how to wake up at more human hours. And I probably could’ve trained myself out of getting out of bed before the sun with a few months of late-night TV and beer. But last year I’d received news that would keep anyone awake at night.
    Stage two colorectal cancer.
    I’d like to say I handled the news well, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t rock me. I thought my life was over. There was the basic issue of staying alive, of course, but then all the things that made life worth living seemed like they were being taken away, too. Like being a cop. Doctors told me I didn’t have to retire, that plenty of people worked through their disease, but it wasn’t like I answered phones for a living. I was a cop. I couldn’t afford to fall down—literally—on the job. So I quit rather than let anyone down.
    Doing the right thing didn’t make it more palatable, though. It was a retirement that I hadn’t wanted or planned for. I was angry and scared and sick. A few things kept me distracted—like helping keep Amanda alive while she was being stalked by her mother’s killer, for instance—but a poor night’s sleep became a constant. When the disease didn’t have me up, pacing the floor, anxiety did.
    Hopefully, though, it wouldn’t be long before I had some news. Round one of chemo was over and I was due to go to my oncologist’s for a checkup soon. I had no idea if the news would be good or bad. Amanda had been a rock through the months of chemo, coaching me to think positive, look for silver linings.
    But silver linings and wishes weren’t always enough to keep the fear and the anxiety and tension away.
    So it was still dark out when I grabbed a bowl of plain oatmeal, sat at my kitchen table with the overhead light on, and put Bloch’s files in front of me. I started to read. And read. And read some more. By the time the sun peeked over the trees in my backyard, I’d already