NYPD Red 4 Read Free Page B

it is you call it when two people start living together but hang on to both apartments because they’re not so sure it’s going to work out.
    “Hurry up,” she said as soon as I opened the front door to my apartment.
    “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I was—”
    “I know, I know,” she said. “It’s coming up on the eleven o’clock news.”
    She was on the sofa wearing black running shorts and a turquoise tank top, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She patted the cushion next to her, and I sat down.
    “You must be starved,” she said, leaning over and giving me a kiss.
    I was, but you don’t come home five hours late and ask what’s for dinner. I didn’t have to. Cheryl had set a plate of cheese, olives, salsa, and chips on the coffee table along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I dug into the food as a somber anchorman led off with the murder of Elena Travers.
    The report was interspersed with film highlights of Elena’s career, the limo crash, her body on the red carpet, and a still shot of the missing necklace. And since Kylie and I had been involved in three high-profile cases in the past year, the reporter thought it was newsworthy to point the cameras at us and mention us by name as we entered the Ziegfeld to question Craig Jeffers.
    The piece ended with a shot of a teenage girl, tears streaming down her face, kneeling down to add a bouquet of flowers to the makeshift memorial.
    “It’s terrible,” Cheryl said, her own eyes watery and ready to spill over. “I’m glad you and Kylie are on the case. You’ll solve it.”
    “It won’t be easy,” I said. “It seems like a robbery gone bad, so there’s no direct link between the killer and the victim.”
    “Don’t look so down. You’ve cracked tougher cases.”
    “I know, but it’s going to mean working overtime. I’m sorry.”
    “Stop it,” she snapped.
    I didn’t know what I’d done, but clearly it wasn’t good. “Stop what?” I said.
    “Apologizing.”
    “I thought women liked apologies,” I said, turning on my boyish smile. “Especially if they’re accompanied by flowers or jewelry.”
    She muted the TV. Not a good sign. “I don’t know what other women like, Zach, but the woman you’re living with doesn’t like you apologizing on spec.”
    “I’m not sure what that means.”
    “It means you just apologized to me in advance for working overtime. It’s manipulative. You’re trying to preempt any negative reaction I might have the next time you come home late.”
    “I thought I was taking responsibility for my actions.”
    “And I think you’re asking for a free ride. ‘How can Cheryl be mad? I told her this would happen.’ ”
    “What can I say? I feel guilty for all the times I’ve worked late.”
    “Why? You’re a cop. I know you keep crazy hours. In fact, you may remember that I’m one of the people who helped you land this job.”
    “So what’s my best course of action here, doctor?” I said. “Should I retract the apology, or should I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness for having made it?”
    That cracked the code. She laughed. “I have a better idea,” she said. “We’ve both spent the whole night focused on death. Let’s do something that reaffirms life.”
    She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. She dimmed the lights to a warm golden hue, and we undressed slowly, deliberately, not touching, leaving just enough space between us for the anticipation to build.
    “Not yet,” she whispered as I stood there naked, clearly ready. It was agonizing and tantalizing at the same time. I waited as she pulled back the sheets and lay on the bed.
    “Now,” she breathed softly.
    I lowered my body gently to meet hers, let my tongue caress her breasts, and slid effortlessly inside her.
    And there in the soft light, entwined with the woman I was growing to love more and more every day, all the harsh realities of carrying a badge and a gun melted away. My anxieties about the