his face with a towel. He was wearing running shoes, sweatpants, and a nylon jacket, and if you'd asked ten strangers to guess his age, all of them would have undershot it by a decade. "I just don't like the idea of having to tag along with CPD, Lincoln."
I understood that. Joe had retired only six months earlier, and I knew working on an active police investigation from the outside would feel strange to him. It was too late now; I'd made the agreement with Weston, and I had a two-thousand-dollar retainer check in my pocket to seal the deal.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You know the case interests you, and our plate isn't exactly full of other projects."
He grunted but didn't say anything, gazing around the office as if seeking support from the furniture. Our little office is on the city's westside, on the second floor of an old stone bank building. It has hardwood floors badly in need of a polish, two desks, a small bathroom and secondary office, and freshly painted walls that look frighteningly bright in the old building. My contribution to the office furniture sits across from our desks: a set of four wooden seats from the old Cleveland Stadium. The stadium had been torn down in the early nineties, and they'd auctioned off some of the memorabilia. I'd purchased the chairs and had them refinished, and I thought they looked pretty decent, if slightly out of place. Joe referred to the seats by various vulgar names and refused to sit in them. It was hard to believe he was an Indians fan. No sense of nostalgia.
"Well, I told Weston we're in it now," I said, "so let's not hassle over whether we should have taken the case. Let's figure out how we're going to get started."
"We could get started by grabbing a sandwich," Joe said. "I'm starving." Joe eats with a ravenous appetite, but he also drinks almost nothing but water and runs several miles each day, so he's still trim and fit even in his fifties.
"I haven't paid very close attention to the case," I said, ignoring him, "so we probably ought to review the newspaper articles before we make any calls down to CPD. Hate to look uninformed, you know."
"You're looking for an excuse to drag Lois Lane into it," he said with a sigh. "Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse."
I grinned. "I'm sure Amy will be happy to assist in any way possible."
"Fabulous," he said. "I'll tell you what: How about you track down the background information while I go get something to eat? Then, when I come back, you can give me a concise briefing and I'll be able to focus without being distracted by my growling stomach." He pushed away from the desk.
"That's fine," I said as he opened the door to leave. "I'm expecting to do most of the work around here. You old guys don't have the stamina to keep up."
Amy Ambrose agreed to come by on her lunch hour with all therelevant articles. Around noon she stepped through the door, wrinkling her nose.
"Your stairwell reeks. The winos taken to sleeping there again?"
"Hello to you, too."
"Yeah, yeah." She shrugged off her coat and flopped onto one of the stadium seats. She looked good, as she always did. Her hair was a little longer than it had been when we first met in the summer, but it was the same dark blond and had the same soft curl. Amy was a reporter for the Cleveland
Daily Journal
and in the summer she'd been assigned to cover a murder investigation. The murder victim had been a patron at my gym, and Amy showed up at my door looking for information. With my usual charm, I'd told her to go to hell. A day later she was back, with more information about the case and about me than most reporters could turn up overnight. She'd won my respect, my assistance, and, soon, my friendship. She was outspoken and brazen and cocky, but she was also completely her own person, and she was genuine. We were drawn together because of that--two self-reliant loners who trusted only our own judgment and ability when under pressure. Outside of Joe, she was my closest
I understood that. Joe had retired only six months earlier, and I knew working on an active police investigation from the outside would feel strange to him. It was too late now; I'd made the agreement with Weston, and I had a two-thousand-dollar retainer check in my pocket to seal the deal.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You know the case interests you, and our plate isn't exactly full of other projects."
He grunted but didn't say anything, gazing around the office as if seeking support from the furniture. Our little office is on the city's westside, on the second floor of an old stone bank building. It has hardwood floors badly in need of a polish, two desks, a small bathroom and secondary office, and freshly painted walls that look frighteningly bright in the old building. My contribution to the office furniture sits across from our desks: a set of four wooden seats from the old Cleveland Stadium. The stadium had been torn down in the early nineties, and they'd auctioned off some of the memorabilia. I'd purchased the chairs and had them refinished, and I thought they looked pretty decent, if slightly out of place. Joe referred to the seats by various vulgar names and refused to sit in them. It was hard to believe he was an Indians fan. No sense of nostalgia.
"Well, I told Weston we're in it now," I said, "so let's not hassle over whether we should have taken the case. Let's figure out how we're going to get started."
"We could get started by grabbing a sandwich," Joe said. "I'm starving." Joe eats with a ravenous appetite, but he also drinks almost nothing but water and runs several miles each day, so he's still trim and fit even in his fifties.
"I haven't paid very close attention to the case," I said, ignoring him, "so we probably ought to review the newspaper articles before we make any calls down to CPD. Hate to look uninformed, you know."
"You're looking for an excuse to drag Lois Lane into it," he said with a sigh. "Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse."
I grinned. "I'm sure Amy will be happy to assist in any way possible."
"Fabulous," he said. "I'll tell you what: How about you track down the background information while I go get something to eat? Then, when I come back, you can give me a concise briefing and I'll be able to focus without being distracted by my growling stomach." He pushed away from the desk.
"That's fine," I said as he opened the door to leave. "I'm expecting to do most of the work around here. You old guys don't have the stamina to keep up."
Amy Ambrose agreed to come by on her lunch hour with all therelevant articles. Around noon she stepped through the door, wrinkling her nose.
"Your stairwell reeks. The winos taken to sleeping there again?"
"Hello to you, too."
"Yeah, yeah." She shrugged off her coat and flopped onto one of the stadium seats. She looked good, as she always did. Her hair was a little longer than it had been when we first met in the summer, but it was the same dark blond and had the same soft curl. Amy was a reporter for the Cleveland
Daily Journal
and in the summer she'd been assigned to cover a murder investigation. The murder victim had been a patron at my gym, and Amy showed up at my door looking for information. With my usual charm, I'd told her to go to hell. A day later she was back, with more information about the case and about me than most reporters could turn up overnight. She'd won my respect, my assistance, and, soon, my friendship. She was outspoken and brazen and cocky, but she was also completely her own person, and she was genuine. We were drawn together because of that--two self-reliant loners who trusted only our own judgment and ability when under pressure. Outside of Joe, she was my closest
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