Immortal Longings

Copyright © 2021 by Erin Eldridge.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/21/2021

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Prologue

John woke with a start, fumbling for his mobile on the nightstand. The clock read 6.30.

‘Cruz?’

‘Sorry, John, we’ve got a body.’

‘Okay. Where are you?’

‘Home, but I’ll meet you at Pruitt Park in, say, half an hour?’

‘Copy that. See you there.’

‘John?’ The lovely young woman alongside him stirred sleepily, raising herself on an elbow as she swept back a mass of dark hair with her other hand. ‘Is something wrong?’

John turned towards her. ‘Just work. I’m sorry, I have to go.’

‘Oh no,’ she affected a disappointed pout. ‘We were going to spend the day together, remember?’

‘I know, but that was Cruz. We have a homicide on our hands. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Go back to sleep.’

He leaned over and kissed the pout before throwing back the covers and heading to the bathroom. The girl fell back on to her pillows with a deep sigh.

Cruz was waiting beside the park gates when John arrived. The vicinity was already congested with police cars and personnel going about their business.

‘Did you have company?’ asked Cruz as they walked.

‘Yes, Simone.’

‘The French ballet dancer? Sorry, I spoiled things.’

‘You did me a favour, believe me. She was going to take me clothes shopping with her this morning.’

‘Clothes for you or clothes for her?’

‘Her.’

Cruz chuckled. ‘The worst possible scenario.’ He affected a mincing gait and a high, effeminate voice. ‘Does my butt look big in these?’ He grinned at John. ‘If you tell the truth, you’re dead meat. If you lie, they turn on you. Can’t win. Still, I’d hate to have to abandon Simone. She’s a class act.’

John shrugged. ‘We only catch up when she’s in town between tours. It’s not like we’re an item or anything.’

Cruz, who frequently felt mystified by John’s apparent detachment from the gorgeous women who drifted in and out of his life, regarded him curiously, but like the good friend he was, he simply said, ‘Wise man. No long-distance entanglements.’

‘So what do we have?’ asked John, changing the subject.

‘Homeless man. Stabbed to death in a drunken fight. We already have a guy in custody, so it’s one of the easier ones.’

Later that day, Simone had lunch with a girlfriend in lieu of the planned shopping trip with John. The girl-talk invariably centred on their relationship.

‘I adore him,’ confided Simone. ‘He’s so sweet and gentlemanly, considerate and kind.’ She leaned in to add, sotto voce, ‘Ten out of ten in the boudoir.’ Her girlfriend giggled. ‘But, sometimes, it’s like he’s not there, like he’s just not willing to share who he really is.’ She sighed heavily. ‘We never talk about love, or where we might be going with this. And then there’s our jobs.’ Simone gazed past her friend, her expression wistful. ‘Whoever does get him will be one lucky girl.’

By the time John had wrapped up his homicide case, Simone had left on tour, but not before he’d bought her flowers and taken her out to dinner. Come the weekend, he was invited to a party by an old college friend, Roger, and attended on his own. As he was catching up with Roger and other pals over a beer, a pretty, blue-eyed girl with auburn hair sidled up to take hold of his arm.

‘Want to dance with me?’ she asked, looking up at him from under her eyelashes, a flirtatious smile curving her lips.

John ran an appraising eye over her as he put down his drink. ‘Sure.’

Later that night, he drove her home, and they ended up in her bed with unseemly haste. Her name was Michelle, and she was very good company. John, concerned about the direction, or lack thereof, his love life was taking, decided he had to make a go of it, make an effort to commit to someone. Michelle became his steady girl, and word rapidly got around that John Ryan, inveterate playboy, was off the market—for now, anyway.

Six months later.

‘Morning, Rosa,’ John greeted his cleaning lady as the elevator doors slid back to reveal a plump, rosy-faced little woman, wrestling with a laden utility trolley.

‘Hi, John.’

‘Here, let me help you with that.’ John sprang forward to manoeuvre the trolley out of the elevator and safely into the corridor.

‘Oh, thank you, John.’ Rosa stood for a moment, a hand patting her ample bosom, getting her breath back. ‘You’re always such a gentleman.’ She sniffed, a frown replacing her smile. ‘More than I can say for some of them in this building,’ she added primly.

‘Really?’ John tried to look suitably shocked. ‘What about Mister Cadwallader, Julian? He’d be a real gent, wouldn’t he?’ John was referring to an elderly gentleman on the same floor, always beautifully attired, deporting himself with considerable style and gentility.

‘Hah!’ Rosa retorted. ‘He’s the worst. He puts on airs and graces, but he’s no gentleman.’ She glanced surreptitiously up and down the corridor before leaning in towards John with a secretive air. ‘He pinched my bottom!’ she hissed.

‘No!’ John quickly stifled an impulse to laugh, trying to look serious.

‘Yes, he did,’ said Rosa. ‘If Mister Gomez knew about it, why, he’d—he’d—Actually, he wouldn’t give a flying fart.’ Rosa sighed.

John grinned. ‘The money’s on the counter, Rosa.’

‘Thank you, John. You have a good day now. Oh, by the way, where’s that nice girl of yours? I haven’t seen her for a long time.’

‘She, uh, she got a promotion and moved to Portland,’ said John, sidling towards the elevator.

‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ replied Rosa, pursing her lips. ‘She was a sweet girl. So you broke up?’

John nodded. No fooling Rosa.

‘Never mind, John,’ the little woman added cheerfully. She’d witnessed quite a few young women come and go from John’s life. ‘There’s someone special for you. Fate will lead you to her. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘Hope so. Is that what happened to you—you and Mister Gomez?’

‘Hah!’ Rosa threw back her head, giving a deep belly laugh. ‘Enrico knocked me up, and my Poppa held a shotgun to his head. Sixteen, I was. And then he gives me five more babies. That’s all he’s good for—making babies.’

‘You’re still together though.’ John paused his hand over the elevator button.

Rosa nodded resignedly. ‘He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, never raised a hand to me.’ She sighed. ‘That’s as good as it gets, John.’

‘Well, gotta go. ’Bye, Rosa.’

‘’Bye, John. You mark my words. There’s a special girl for you. The women in our family, we have the gift, you know? I see a special girl for you.’

Rosa set off along the corridor, substantial rump swinging rhythmically, singing softly to herself.

John stepped out of the elevator in the basement and strode over to the fire-engine red classic Mercedes 450SLC in his designated parking bay. Beautiful spring day. Could put the top down? Yes, why not?

The Mercedes’ V8 engine rumbled into life, and John Conall Ryan, a twenty-four-year-old rising star in the Seattle Metropolitan Police Force, was on his way to work. Comparatively young, he’d been a homicide detective for eighteen months now and was rapidly gaining a reputation for whip-smart, incisive police work. He was highly regarded and deeply respected at his west precinct headquarters, fondly known as ‘Boothill’ because the well-preserved, American Gothic building stood on the corner of Hill Road and Bootle Avenue. Once a fashionable area of Seattle, it was now regarded as older and a bit seedy, harbouring some colourful characters along with some downright badasses as well. Boothill may have been a small precinct, but it had a big reputation, derived largely from its historic status.

As John swung the car out into the morning traffic, the warm spring sunshine caressed his face, and the slipstream ruffled his blond hair. Rosa’s words echoed in his mind: ‘That’s as good as it gets.’ Maybe she was right. Maybe you just had to settle for what life dealt you. Hope not. John preferred to dwell on what she’d said about her fey abilities, about there being someone special for him and that fate would help him find her. Well, pull finger, fate.

He turned on his radio. Michael Bublé was singing ‘I Just Haven’t Met You Yet’. ‘Love this song,’ said John to the world at large as he turned it up, beating time on the steering wheel and humming along. He stopped at the lights, and another sports car, with the top down, slid alongside; the driver, a pretty blonde, looked over at him and smiled. John smiled back. Michael continued to sing loudly. The blonde wrote something on a piece of paper, balled it up, and tossed it into John’s car. She winked and gave a little wave as the lights changed, and they both pulled away. John waved back and then gunned the Merc into a respectable lead. At the next set of lights, he unravelled the paper and read ‘Julie’, accompanied by a phone number. John grinned as he placed the smoothed-out paper in his inside breast pocket. ‘You’ve still got it, Ryan.’

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into his car park alongside Boothill precinct. Just as he did every morning, John started his run-up as he approached the big, double glass doors of the entrance, burst through them, slid dramatically across the black-and-white tiles in the foyer, and braked in front of the reception desk to high-five with a flourish the elderly desk sergeant on duty there. Maurie was an older officer, who had been badly wounded in the line of duty and now served in a more restful capacity.

‘Good morning, John!’ said Maurie with a wide grin, rubbing his tingling palm. He always enjoyed their morning greeting ritual. John had a way of making people feel they mattered to him. Aware that older people often became invisible, Maurie appreciated that.

When John bounded up the stairs two at a time and burst through the door into the precinct workroom, popularly known as ‘the hub’, he was greeted by a chorus of ‘Hi, John!’, ‘How’s it going, John?’, ‘Morning, John’. Following this cheerful exchange, he kicked off every day by razzing his partner, Cruz Martinez, whose desk was at right angles to his own, on the left as you came through the doors, and this morning was no exception. John pounced on his tense and cringing victim, looped one arm around his neck and vigorously ruffled his immaculately groomed black hair with his free hand, while Cruz unsuccessfully tried to fend him off, begging for restraint.

Happy-go-lucky John Ryan was popular with his colleagues. Indeed, some would say he was well loved by his colleagues. Everybody loved John, especially Hazel. Hazel was middle-aged and had been a good, solid uniform cop all her career. She loved Boothill and enjoyed her work as a community policewoman. One night, she and John had been working late in the hub when John had suddenly pushed his chair back, thrown his hands in the air, and announced, ‘Enough of this! Want to get some dinner?’

Hazel had turned in her chair to check behind her, thinking John must be addressing someone else. Then she’d realised he was looking straight at her. ‘Are you talking to me?’ she asked.

‘Well, there’s nobody else here,’ said John, flashing his trademark grin.

They strolled together to Dimitri’s restaurant, a popular local watering hole and eatery favoured by the Boothill police, and began what became an enduring friendship over a beer and a souvlaki.

Hazel had weathered a hard life. Her first husband had been a mean drunk who used her as a punching bag when under the influence. A beating he gave her in the early months of her pregnancy with their first child cost her the baby and any chance of having another. After that, she left him. ‘I was young and stupid,’ she confided to John. ‘I thought I could change him.’ She had remarried, a kind and decent man called Bill, and their beloved little dogs, Chewy and Champy, had filled the void of childlessness.

Hazel’s real passion was baking, and John subsequently often found tasty treats left on his desk in the hub. He’d glance over at Hazel, and they’d smile at each other, no words needed. Everyone at Boothill knew the young man and the older woman had a special friendship.

A few weeks ago, Hazel had been badly assaulted by a local thug when she’d gone to the rescue of a young woman he was manhandling on the street, not far from Boothill. When she radioed for help, John and Cruz were first on the scene. John had carried her in his arms back to HQ and comforted her until the ambulance arrived, while Cruz had unsuccessfully pursued her attacker. Hazel later said it was almost worth being bashed, to be carried in John’s manly arms. When she’d recovered and was back at work, John sat with her, while she went through the mugshots file until she positively identified her attacker, a known local criminal. John promised her he would get the guy, however long it took. He and Cruz tracked him down to his apartment, but he’d moved on.

‘If you see him,’ John told his sour-faced ex-landlady, ‘tell him John Ryan’s looking for him. He can run, but he can’t hide.’

Hazel said John was the last of the old-fashioned heroes and would have fitted right in at Camelot’s round table, riding a white charger, going forth to seek the Holy Grail. Cruz said he was just ‘an overgrown boy scout’.

John was a big presence at Boothill in more ways than one. He stood six feet four inches tall, or 193 centimetres, in his bare feet, even taller when wearing his beloved western boots, which was most of the time. He had broad shoulders, slim hips, and a thick mane of springy, blond hair that he preferred to wear long at the sides and on his collar, with a wayward fringe that flopped over his right temple. His eyes were a deep, hazel colour and definitely the standout feature in his handsome face, along with his winning smile. They seemed to look straight into your soul when he fixed his gaze on you. Cruz swore they changed colour when he was emotionally aroused. ‘I’ve seen hardened crims lose their nerve when John gives them a grilling. If Johnny’s eyes change colour, duck for cover!’

John could act the larrikin and even come across on occasions as boyishly vulnerable. His sparring sessions with Cruz, both verbal and physical, were legendary at Boothill (Cap still hadn’t recovered from the broken window incident), but when he made the transition to a tough, uncompromising police officer, he was all maturity and businesslike.

John liked nice clothes: smart, tailored pants, snug-fitting jeans, good quality shirts, ties, and snazzy vests with silk backing, and the traditional back-strap. He claimed they allowed for more comfort with a shoulder holster. He had two leather jackets: a brown bomber-style for work and a classier black for special occasions.

John was intelligent and well educated, hence his rapid rise in the SPD, and had a raft of interests which included music, live theatre, poetry (John Keats was his favourite), and the movies. He was a keen swimmer and a regular attendee at the local gym. To relax, he loved to read; history was his big focus, especially World War 11. One of his greatest passions was Italian food, and he had a favourite restaurant where he dined regularly.

John was one of those men who guarded his personal dignity and integrity. He knew who he was, and he let others know it too. He was often described as having ‘charisma’. Hazel said she didn’t know what the hell charisma was, but whatever he had, if they ever bottled it, she wanted at least a dozen.

John had principles that he chose to live by. For instance, he never dated female colleagues, preferring to keep business and pleasure separate, avoiding complications. When an attractive young rookie named Penny joined Boothill, she soon became weary of trying to get John’s attention and, finally taking the initiative, asked him out. She waited for a quiet moment to approach him. The encounter went something like this:

‘Penny, how can I help?’ John asked, leaning back casually in his chair as she hovered over his desk. Now that she was close to him, Penny felt her nerve faltering when she looked into those penetrating hazel eyes. However, she took a deep breath and soldiered on.

‘It’s not work related, John. I was just, um, wondering, if you weren’t busy this weekend, we could maybe take in a movie, or have dinner?’

John replied quietly, ‘I can’t do that.’

Penny cocked her head to one side. ‘You can’t this weekend or you can’t any weekend?’

‘That covers every weekend, Pen. I’m sure there’s any number of guys who would jump at the offer.’ He gave her a kindly smile.

Penny backed away from him, her face reddening, trying to salvage some shreds of dignity. ‘Well, thank you for your honesty, John. I guess that’s that.’

She’d been politely but firmly turned down. Cruz, who’d observed the exchange, watched her walk away. He looked over at John, shaking his head. John ignored him, peering at his computer screen.

Later, Cruz took Penny aside and explained to the chagrined young woman with his endearing bluntness, ‘John doesn’t screw the crew, so don’t take it personally. It’s a rule he’s made for himself. Of course,’ he added mischievously, ‘you could always leave the Force.’ Penny looked at him sideways with a sly smile. ‘Oh, god!’ said Cruz. ‘You’re actually thinking about it, aren’t you?’ He walked away, waving his arms and muttering to himself. ‘Bloody Ryan does it again!’

Later that day, John sat perched on the edge of his desk, one boot propped on Cruz’s, sipping water and watching him forage through the lunch lovingly prepared every day by his wife.

‘Hey, John,’ Cruz grinned, announcing what was a regular occurrence, ‘Lesley put in some extra pie for you.’ He passed over a large, wrapped wedge with ‘John’ written on it to his delighted partner.

‘Tell Les I said thanks and if she ever gets tired of you, I’m waiting in the wings,’ said John around a mouthful of pie.

‘Hah! No chance,’ retorted Cruz. ‘That would be like Cleo ditching Antony or Juliet dumping Romeo. She’s not gonna want rhinestones when she’s got diamonds. Anyway,’ he jabbed a finger at John, ‘you already scored baking off Hazel today. You’re like a big, pet gannet that we all have to feed.’

As everyone laughed, John leaped off his desk and wiggled his buttocks at Cruz. ‘Well, just be grateful I don’t leave droppings in here!’

Cap, who’d witnessed the exchange as he filled a cup at the water cooler, chuckled heartily, shaking his head. He’d recently told them, in a moment of irascibility, that they were ‘nothing but trouble’, and he’d felt bad about it ever since. He couldn’t imagine Boothill without John and Cruz.

On Friday nights, the Boothill team adjourned to a nearby bar called Billy the Kid. The proprietor had decided to go along with the Boothill theme, hence the name. To the police who regularly patronised it, it was simply known as Billy’s. That Friday, John made a point of buying Penny a drink, and they became firm friends. It was important to John that he got along with all his colleagues, male and female.

In fact, John loved women and they loved him right back. None of his relationships seemed to last very long, although he always appeared to part with his girlfriends on good terms. He was a true gentleman in the old-fashioned sense of the word, as Rosa had noted, and treated all his women well. It was a precinct joke that he owned an impressive little black book, but John would neither confirm nor deny.

John’s partnership with Cruz was a match made in heaven, and they had one of the best crime-solve records of any homicide detectives in the Seattle metropolitan police force. Their precinct captain, Eugene Moran, was justifiably proud of his boys and valued them highly as linchpins in his close-knit Boothill team. ‘Cap’, as he was invariably referred to, cultivated a hard-nosed, abrasive front, but underneath the crusty exterior beat a heart of gold, and he was both loved and respected by his staff. He demanded hard work from everyone, but he also jealously guarded their family and leisure time.

Working together now for eighteen months, John and Cruz had forged a deep friendship and spent time together outside working hours as well. Older by a few years and already a detective sergeant, Cruz was the stable, grounded rock of the partnership, while John was the creative, intuitive, even sometimes flamboyant, half of the duo. Cap described him as ‘a born cop with a sixth, seventh, and eighth sense for investigative police work’.

While John was still single, Cruz had been married to his childhood sweetheart, Lesley, for six years and had two little boys, Joshua (Josh), who was four-and-a-half, and Robbie, three years old. John spent a lot of time with the Martinez family and the boys, for whom he sometimes babysat, called him ‘Uncle John’. Sometimes, he’d be accompanied by a girl when he visited; more often than not, he was alone. He spent a lot of time with his own family too. On a Sunday, he frequently joined his parents and his two elder brothers and their wives for a traditional Ryan family roast dinner. The Ryans were a close-knit family, descended from solid, Catholic, Irish American stock. John’s parents, Mike and Mary, had survived a shocking personal tragedy, and their rock-solid marriage and enduring love for each other had provided a sound base of old-fashioned values on which they had raised their three sons. John spent a lot of time with his parents and his two elder brothers and their families. Pat’s two children—Lucy, who was seven, and Jack, who was five—adored him, and he often babysat them or took them out. There was always the rider that he might get paged by his job, but there were always contingency plans in place too, like Grandma Mary, or in the Martinez’s case, Cruz’s mom. John loved children and made no secret of his desire to have a big family one day. As with his other social liaisons, he would often be accompanied by a girl, but these romances never endured long-term, and John, rather undeservedly, had gained a bit of a reputation at Boothill as a ‘ladies’ man’. Those who thought they knew him well would have been surprised to learn that, in the midst of an apparently hectic social life, he frequently felt lonely. Sometimes, he wondered if Angie’s death had fatally wounded his ability to love someone. He didn’t talk to anyone about that though, not even Mary.

John’s typical weekend, when work didn’t intervene, involved hanging out with Cruz and his family, playing guitar in his cousin Danny’s band at The Shamrock Club on a Saturday night, working out at the gym or doing laps of the pool on a Sunday morning before joining his family at his parents’ place for Sunday dinner. He often stayed over with his folks on a Sunday night and went to work from there Monday morning, weighted down with containers of leftover food lovingly packed by his mom. He enjoyed yarning with his dad over a good whiskey, but the real love of his life was his mom, Mary. The whole family accepted that they had a special bond. The two older boys, Pat and Jimmy, favoured their dark-haired, dark-eyed dad in looks, but John was like his mom, sharing the same blond hair and hazel eyes.

John had a big circle of friends, most of whom formed a large and lively table of young people at The Shamrock on a Saturday night. They were generally referred to as ‘the gang’, and while most were partnered up, others were fancy-free. John vacillated between the two categories.

When John met Michelle, everyone thought he had found ‘the one’. Two years younger than him, Michelle was a pretty, blue-eyed young woman with auburn hair, cut in a neat bob. A lively, intelligent girl with a trim figure and impeccable dress sense, she had a bubbly, outgoing personality that endeared her to everybody. The venerable old Seattle law firm, where she worked as a legal secretary, valued her highly, while she, in turn, both loved her job and was ambitious to advance her career. She and John began a steady relationship, which everyone expected to become permanent. Michelle often joined the Boothill police for drinks at Billy’s on a Friday evening after work, and all John’s colleagues loved her. Especially fond of her was Cruz. He thought Michelle was a great girl and perfect for John. Lesley was more circumspect.

‘I think John really likes her,’ she told Cruz. ‘John’s deep, real deep. He won’t give his heart away easily.’

If John had a special bond with his mother, he was also close to Cruz’s wife, Lesley, and they often enjoyed a heart-to-heart about life, love, and the world in general. It was to her that John confided his concerns about finding a woman he could love unreservedly. He and Michelle, Cruz and Lesley frequently made up a foursome for a night out, and they always had a good time. On most Saturday nights Michelle hung out with ‘the gang’ at The Shamrock Club while John played, and she always made a point of grabbing him for a slow dance or two. She fitted in well with his friends who viewed her as a popular addition to the group.

John’s family liked Michelle too, and she often stayed over with John at his parents’ house. The fact that they shared the same room didn’t bother Mary or Mike. They accepted that John was a grown man with a grown man’s needs. Like Lesley, Mary knew John was deep, and when he fell in love, there would be no half measures. In her heart, she could not see that happening with Michelle. To Mary, it seemed that, emotionally, John always kept Michelle at arm’s length, going along with what others assessed the relationship to be, but without his heart being truly in it. Tired of being dubbed a ‘ladies’ man’, John tried to make it work, but if he were honest with himself, he knew deep down he was compromising and nothing more. While he and Michelle made a great team socially, when they were alone, they had little to say to each other, and John only ever revealed a narrow section of himself to her.

Things came to an inevitable head when Michelle began demanding further commitment. She wanted them to move in together, since she already spent considerable time at John’s apartment anyway. John hesitated. Michelle was hurt. Finally, she informed him she’d been offered a job promotion and that accepting it would mean a move to Oregon, to the Portland office. Instead of begging her to stay as she’d hoped, John encouraged her to make the move to further her career. The relationship, already in trouble, now entered its death throes. Michelle packed her bags and moved to Portland. John returned to single status.

Like most of John’s friends and colleagues, Cruz was shocked. Not surprised were Mary and Lesley.

--------------------

Cruz glared at John, fumbling for the comb he’d learned to keep in his top drawer, to draw it through his dishevelled hair. ‘Honestly, you’re like an overenthusiastic St Bernard,’ he said testily.

‘Ryan! Martinez! In here now!’ Cap had rolled out of his office like a pocket-sized Sherman tank and withdrawn again.

‘Yes, sir!’ said John, snapping to attention and clicking his heels. ‘On our way!’

‘Don’t give me any static, Ryan!’ Cap’s voice floated out of his office.

John grinned at Cruz, and they both joined Cap for the morning debrief. After bringing him up to date with progress on their current case, they left the hub to get on with some fieldwork.

As always, Cap’s parting shot was, ‘And Ryan, get your hair cut!’

John responded with his standard rejoinder. ‘Right away, sir!’

Cap returned to his office, muttering.

An essential part of John and Cruz’s day was a pit stop at Freddie’s doughnut stand. John said they had a tradition to uphold: cops eating doughnuts. Cruz pulled the unmarked car into the curb, and after some vigorous debate about whose turn it was to buy, John unfolded himself from the passenger seat and went to purchase their refreshments. Once they were both settled in the car with coffee and a doughnut each, Cruz continued the ritual, for every Monday morning anyway, by probing John about his weekend.

‘Do anything I should know about?’

‘Nah. Routine,’ replied John. ‘Played with Danny and the band Saturday night, went for a run Sunday morning, and spent the rest of the day with the folks.’

‘Still flying solo then?’

‘Yeah,’ said John. ‘Actually, I’m enjoying the space. It’s a personal choice.’ He handed Cruz the piece of paper he’d tucked into his breast pocket. ‘Girl threw this into my car this morning.’

Cruz chuckled as he read it. ‘You going to give her a call?’

‘No. One time, maybe. Not any more.’ He crumpled the piece of paper up with his napkin.

‘You’re starting to worry me.’

John grinned. ‘I always worry you. You’re a worry wart.’

A pause ensued and then Cruz asked, ‘Heard from Michelle?’

‘No.’

‘Can’t believe you let her get away. You guys were great together.’

John studied his coffee cup. ‘Well, bit of a problem there.’

‘Problem?’

He looked over at Cruz. ‘I couldn’t say the L word.’

‘What? Not even at the height of flagrante delicto?’

‘Nope. Not even then.’

‘That is a problem.’ Cruz shook his head slowly, staring ahead at the windshield. ‘Don’t know why. None of my business,’ he added quickly.

John took a deep breath, looking ahead at nothing in particular. ‘When I say it, I really want to mean it, you know? I want to feel—passion.’

‘You’re a hopeless romantic, you know that?’

John grinned. ‘I guess I am. Like John Keats.’

Cruz snorted. ‘The poet? He died of unrequited love, didn’t he?’

‘No, actually, he died of tuberculosis,’ said John. ‘That’s why he didn’t press his suit with Fanny. He knew he was doomed.’

‘Well, if you don’t iron your clothes, you can’t expect to pull the ladies,’ said Cruz.

‘You’re incorrigible.’ John rolled his eyes, laughing.

‘So that’s how you’re going to end up,’ chortled Cruz, ‘fading away in a garret somewhere, writing forlorn love poetry and coughing up blood!’

‘God, I hope not,’ said John. ‘No,’ he squinted, his face serious, ‘I know she’s out there. I just have to find her. I’m ready for it, you know? Sometimes I feel it’s this close.’ He held up his thumb and forefinger with a tiny gap in-between.

‘Aha!’ said Cruz in a moment of sudden revelation. ‘I know what you want! You want to be hit by the thunderbolt!’

‘Say what?’ said John. ‘The thunderbolt?’

‘Yes!’ Cruz was on a roll. ‘Like in The Godfather. You know, when Al Pacino goes to Sicily to hide out after shooting those guys in the restaurant? And then he’s out walking in the hills, and he sees that girl, and he’s like, wow, can’t move. And one of his bodyguards says, You’ve been hit by the thunderbolt! ’

‘I remember that!’ said John. ‘And they get married, and she gets blown up!’

‘Yeah, by the car bomb meant for him.’

‘Apollonia. Her name was Apollonia.’ John took a gulp of coffee. ‘God, that’s pretty tragic!’

‘Well, that’s what happens when you marry in haste,’ concluded Cruz sanctimoniously.

‘Hey,’ said John, ‘you can’t talk. You told me it was love at first sight when you met Les.’

Cruz gave a goofy grin. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it was. I was in sixth grade.’

John spluttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Sixth grade!’

‘Yeah. Her family just moved into the area, and the principal brought her into our classroom to introduce her after she enrolled. I was fooling around, doing something I shouldn’t have been, and then I looked up and wham! Couldn’t take my eyes off her. When she walked past me to her desk, she smiled at me, and I remember thinking, so clearly—I’m going to marry that girl. I was always in trouble at school, in with the bad boys, you know? I straightened up after that, started studying hard, getting good grades. When we reached high school, she finally agreed to go out with me. I had to work hard to impress her dad though. He was a Nazi!’ Cruz grinned to himself as he reminisced. ‘He finally decided I was okay when I produced two grandsons.’

‘You produced them?’ John chuckled. ‘Les might have some thoughts about that.’

‘Yeah,’ said Cruz defensively. ‘The man determines the sex of the child.’

‘Not really what I was getting at, but never mind.’ John smiled. Then he added softly, ‘I envy you.’

‘What? You the babe magnet, envy me?’

‘Yes, I do. Okay, I’ve been with a lot of women, but I’ve never found The One. You’ve never known anything else. It doesn’t matter how beautiful a woman is, if you’ve got nothing to say to each other.’

They were quiet for a bit and then John said, ‘God, I hope she doesn’t live in Lapland. I’ll never find her. What if I’m seventy before it happens?’

Cruz giggled. ‘Fret not, my flaxen-haired warrior of justice. Fate doesn’t work like that. For fate to function smoothly, she has to be here somewhere in Seattle. Just like my Les walked into my classroom that morning, you’ll find her. Although,’ he added quickly, ‘we all thought you had. Okay, Okay,’ seeing John’s frown, ‘taboo subject. Anyway, she’s probably not far from here, dreaming about meeting a guy like you. God knows why. She’d be better off with a big, blond poodle.’

This last remark prompted some spirited pushing and shoving before John gathered up the detritus of their repast and binned it.

‘Well,’ he said, sliding back into the passenger seat, ‘enough of this idle chitchat. We’d better go do some work.’

‘Hold it,’ said Cruz, what’s this week’s word?’ This was something he and John did every Monday, part of their own personal campaign to be new-image, ‘scholarly’ cops.

John looked thoughtful. ‘Persiflage,’ he replied. ‘It’s a posh word for idle chitchat.’

‘Persiflage,’ repeated Cruz. ‘I like it. It sounds like something you put on a salad. My turn next week.’

Both men put on their shades with practised synchronicity. ‘Cop mode,’ said John.

‘Cop mode,’ echoed Cruz.

John flung out an arm. ‘Forward ho!’ and Cruz pulled away from the curb with a flourish.

After a long day following up leads and making little progress, attending an autopsy, and negotiating with a reluctant witness, John and Cruz wearily made their way back to Boothill. Cruz was driving, and John was slumped in the passenger seat, intermittently reading some notes he’d made, when he suddenly sat bolt upright and shouted, ‘Stop the car! Stop the car!’

Alarmed, Cruz swung violently into the curb, slamming on the brakes with a squeal that turned heads. Before the car had even stopped, John tumbled out the door and hit the sidewalk, running back the way they had come. Bewildered, Cruz looked in the rear-view mirror to see him disappearing up the street, weaving around pedestrians, his long legs going like pistons and his blond mane flopping up and down.

‘Shit!’ said Cruz. Then he noticed John’s vest and gun where he’d tossed them on the back seat. ‘Oh shit!’ Cruz leaped out of the car, secured it quickly, and took off after John. He could see him ahead of him, pounding after a big black guy, and he pushed himself hard to catch up. Then John turned the corner and was out of sight. ‘Shit!’ said Cruz again. He rounded the corner to see a small crowd gathered, watching something. Cruz raced up, shoving onlookers aside, and saw John kneeling on the big black guy whom he’d pinned face down on the ground and was in the act of handcuffing him. Cruz stood, hands on hips, breathing hard, sweating like a horse. John glanced at him, and then looked again.

‘You okay?’ Cruz couldn’t speak. John got to his feet. ‘It’s the guy who ambushed Hazel.’

‘Is that right?’ replied Cruz icily, trying hard not to have a meltdown with members of the public watching. He stepped closer to John. ‘Do you realise you left your gear in the car?’ he hissed. ‘He could’ve been armed.’

‘Not this pussy,’ said John, prodding his captive’s buttocks with the toe of his boot. ‘He only picks on women, don’t you, pal?’ He leaned forward, placing deliberate stress on his last words.

‘Fuck you, Ryan,’ came the muffled response.

‘Not today, boyo,’ said John cheerfully. ‘You’re going down, and anyway, I don’t fancy you.’

The onlookers tittered.

Cruz was silent as they marched their captive back to the car, and he said not a word on the way back to Boothill. After the prisoner was safely in the cells, and they’d completed the requisite paperwork, the two men strolled out to the car park. It was dark already. Time to go home.

Once outside, John turned to Cruz. ‘Okay, buddy. Let’s hear it. I know you’re mad at me.’

Cruz delivered what he hoped was his best, malevolent stare. ‘Yeah, yeah I am,’ he said. ‘I’m pissed off with you because you know what? You broke the rules today.’

‘Who are you? My grade school teacher?’ John laughed. His attempt at humour met with a stony gaze from Cruz. ‘Okay, okay,’ said John. ‘I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.’ He ducked his head, giving Cruz a goofy grin. ‘Are we still buddies?’

‘I’m serious, John,’ said Cruz. ‘You could’ve been hurt. You took off without me and without your protection. I watch your back. You watch mine. Them’s the rules. I’m properly pissed.’

‘Jeez!’ John threw up his hands. ‘I said sorry. I was in the moment, you know? Saw the scumbag and went for it.’ He flicked his jacket open to expose his shoulder holster. ‘Got the old shooter back on, ready for business.’

‘Mm. Better late than never, I guess.’

Cruz stared resolutely into the middle distance, hands thrust into his coat pockets, jaw set grimly, seemingly unplacated.

John looked at him thoughtfully for a few seconds and then his face lit up. ‘Hey! I know. Let me make it up to you. Les and the kids are away, aren’t they, at her mom’s? Let me take you out for dinner, make up for being a bad boy?’

‘Nah.’ Cruz shook his head. ‘Les left me a frozen dinner for each night she’s away, and if I don’t eat them all, I’ll get a lot of grief when she comes home.’

‘That’s okay,’ said John. ‘I’ll come over and help you catch up tomorrow night.’ He flashed his irresistible grin and patted Cruz on the cheek. ‘I’ll take you to Fernando’s!’ He executed a neat pirouette and clapped his hands together, indicating that it was a done deal—as far as he was concerned, anyway.

‘Fernando’s!’ Cruz’s face broke into a smile in spite of himself. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ John laughed. ‘I’m in a generous mood.’

Fernando’s was Cruz’s favourite restaurant in the whole world. The food was Mexican Spanish, Cruz’s idea of taste bud paradise, competitively priced and consistently good, with legendary-sized servings. John and Michelle, Lesley and Cruz had enjoyed many a pleasant evening there. Miguel, the owner and maitre d’, was unashamedly gay, and it was a standing joke that he had a crush on Cruz, with whom he was always ardently attentive, flirtatious even. Cruz handled it good-naturedly. If it meant he always got star service and the biggest portions, then he didn’t care a jot about Miguel’s sexual orientation.

‘We’ll go in my car,’ said John, ‘and then I’ll bring you back. You call ahead to ask for a table.’ He glanced at his watch. Fernando’s was very popular, and it would be busy at this time of night. ‘He’ll find a table for you even if he has to build it from scratch!’ John chuckled while Cruz gave him a look that indicated he wasn’t amused.

As they drove, John heard Cruz saying, ‘That’s great. Thanks, Miguel. See you in ten.’ He swung round as he finished the call. ‘Not a word!’ He waggled a warning finger at John who was trying hard to stifle his mirth.

‘Can’t hide behind Les tonight,’ he said, instantly receiving a bruising buffet from Cruz.

As soon as they strolled into the humming restaurant, with its cosy ambience and mouth-watering odours, Miguel came rushing forward, arms extended in a warm welcome.

‘John! Cruz! Lovely to see you both! Come, I have a nice table for you! No ladies tonight?’ he called over his shoulder as they followed him.

‘No ladies, Miguel.’ John gave a wink and grinned. ‘Boys’ night out tonight.’

Miguel’s eyes alighted on Cruz with undisguised fervour. ‘Boys’ night,’ he purred. ‘That sounds very nice. I will personally serve you.’

As he seized two menus and led them to their table, John dug Cruz in the ribs, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He received a vicious dig back for his effrontery. ‘Ouch!’ said John.

Miguel pulled out a chair for Cruz and hovered solicitously. John he left to seat himself. ‘Can I take your jackets?’ he asked.

John shook his head. ‘We’re armed, Miguel. Might scare the patrons.’

Miguel’s eyes shone. ‘That is so—manly,’ he breathed. ‘I leave you now to look at the menu. I be back soon.’ He squeezed Cruz’s shoulder before he sashayed off.

‘Don’t say a word!’ Cruz stabbed a warning finger at John.

‘Who me?’ John held up his hands, palms outwards, face a picture of contrived innocence. He frowned intently as he studied the menu and started singing under his breath, ‘Love is a many splendoured thing.’

Cruz slammed his menu down on the table. ‘If you’re going to keep this up, I’m going home! You’re supposed to be impressing the hell out of me, remember?’

John put on his best serious face. ‘Sorry, pal, sorry. No more teasing. Just good, honest gourmandising. Want a beer?’

He signalled to a waiter and ordered two beers. Cruz grudgingly conceded to be mollified.

‘I know what I’m having,’ said John. ‘You okay?’

Cruz grinned with anticipation. ‘Yeah. I can never go past the beef enchiladas with that hot sauce.’

Miguel bustled up and stood close to Cruz with his pen poised over his notepad. He took their orders, commending Cruz on his choice. ‘I make sure it is perfect, just for you.’ He gave a coy smile, batting his eyelashes before he hurried off.

‘I’m saying nothing,’ said John innocently as Cruz shot him a challenging look. He leaned forward. ‘So am I forgiven?’

Cruz flashed his endearing smile. ‘You sure are. But,’ he pointed a finger accusingly, ‘if you ever do that again, I’ll shoot you myself!’

‘Oh,’ John clasped his hands under his chin, ‘I love it when you’re masterful,’ he cooed.

Cruz gave him a pitying look.

The food arrived, and silence fell as serious enjoyment of their dinners ensued. John found time to observe, ‘Hey! Yours is bigger than mine!’

‘That goes without saying,’ retorted Cruz.

Patrons regarded them curiously as they exploded into laughter.

---------------------

In an apartment building not far from John’s, a young woman had just arrived home from work. Her roomie darted out of the kitchen, throwing her hands in the air with relief.

‘Maria! Thank goodness you’re home! I was just going to call you.’

‘Sorry, Hannah, it’s been one of those days. My computer had a tantrum, and by the time Herbie fixed it, I was way behind with my work. That’s why I’m late.’

‘We have to pick Ellie up in ten minutes,’ said Hannah, checking her watch.

‘Oh, I don’t really have time to change then. Just give me a second to freshen up.’

Maria hurried into her bedroom, tossing her bag on to the bed. Then she went into the bathroom and ran some water into the sink. She looked at herself in the mirror. ‘Yuk!’ she said spontaneously. She was sure she looked how she felt—tired and out of sorts. ‘I think my period’s coming,’ she mused to herself. After hastily splashing some water on her face and drying it, she brushed her hair, added a small diamante clip by way of adornment, swiped on some lip gloss, retrieved her bag, and returned to Hannah, who was waiting patiently beside the apartment door.

‘I must look awful,’ said Maria, grabbing her coat from the cloak stand.

‘You look lovely as always,’ chided Hannah. ‘Let’s go!’

----------------------

‘I wish I knew how he makes this sauce,’ Cruz said to John. ‘I’ve tried to replicate it at home, but it never tastes as good as Miguel’s.’

‘I’m sure he’d give you the recipe if you asked,’ replied John with a wink.

‘Something he adds that just gives it a real flavour boost.’ Cruz leaned back in his chair, his face reflecting intense concentration. ‘It could be—nah, on the other hand, it could be something really subtle, a pinch of saffron—’ His voice trailed off. John had suddenly gone very quiet and still and was staring past him with a peculiar, fixed expression on his face.

Cruz slowly lowered his knife and fork. ‘John? You okay?’

No response. Cruz turned his head to check out what John was staring at. He saw three young women being shown to one of the semicircular booths on the opposite side of the restaurant. ‘Someone you know?’ he asked, turning back to John.

At first, John appeared not to hear him again, and then he said, ‘Hmm? No, nobody.’

‘So what do you think he puts in that sauce, apart from the usual suspects like chilli, paprika, cayenne—’ His voice trailed off once more as he realised John wasn’t listening to him. He was still staring fixedly at the three young women as they settled into their booth and the waiter handed them menus.

The girl in the middle. The girl in the soft, cream dress. John couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was slim, with a nice figure, and had a cascade of wavy, shoulder-length, chestnut hair that had something shiny it in. She had big, dark, almond-shaped eyes, nice nose, beautiful mouth, small, perfectly oval face, and great eyebrows, which were very dark and quite straight. He ducked his head, staring past his right shoulder so as not to be too obvious. The restaurant was full, but she could have been the only other person there, as if she were seated in a spotlight. John willed her to look at him.

Cruz sighed with exasperation. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s one of those big tequila caterpillars in my food, and it’s wearing a sombrero, a bandana, and playing mariachi.’

‘That’s nice,’ murmured John.

Cruz looked at him from under lowered lids. ‘You know, darling,’ he said, patting an imaginary bouffant, ‘seeing it’s our first date, you’re rather ignoring me.’

‘Definitely saffron,’ said John.

‘I give up,’ said Cruz in disgust, returning his attention to his food.

Over in the booth, Hannah gave Maria a gentle nudge.

‘Don’t look,’ she said softly, ‘but there’s a lovely guy sitting directly opposite, and he can’t take his eyes off you.’

‘Well, someone should tell him it’s rude to stare,’ said Maria primly.

Hannah rolled her eyes. ‘Give him some encouragement!’ she hissed through compressed lips. ‘He looks great.’

‘I will not,’ replied Maria. ‘We’re here to celebrate Ellie’s birthday, not to pick up men.’ She raised her menu so that it completely shielded her face.

Hannah sighed. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asked in a tone of despair.

And then something happened that Maria could not explain, then or later. She felt an overwhelming compulsion that cancelled any will to the contrary. Slowly, very slowly, she lowered the menu until her eyes rose above its crest and she looked directly across the room at the young man with the mane of blond hair. At that precise moment, as if he knew, John’s head swivelled towards her, and Maria found herself looking into a pair of deep, hazel eyes from which there was no turning away. At the same time, she experienced the strangest sensation, as if someone had emptied a canister of butterflies into the pit of her stomach. Even more disconcerting was a voice in her head, which was saying, ‘I know you! I know you!’

Then John smiled at her, a warm, engaging, personable smile, and Maria felt a blush of epic proportions beginning at the base of her throat and rapidly working its way up.

Suddenly, a voice she’d been hearing on the periphery finally broke through.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ repeated the patient waiter, ‘would you like to order now?’

‘Oh yes, of course, sorry.’

Maria glanced at Hannah who had observed the whole encounter and was looking at her with a monumental smile on her face.

‘Well done!’ she said.

Cruz pushed his plate away, wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘That was outstanding,’ he said. ‘Which one is it?’

John seemed to have returned from where he had drifted off to and was eating again. ‘Hmm?’

‘Which girl?’ said Cruz, enunciating slowly.

‘The one in the middle, in the cream dress.’

Cruz tried to look without being too obvious. ‘Nice. Looks young.’ John nodded. ‘Sure she’s your type? Go on over and say hi.’

John shook his head. ‘No. Might scare her off. I know what to do.’

He watched as the waiter came in, carrying the girls’ orders.

‘Have dessert,’ he invited Cruz.

‘Dessert?’ Cruz patted his stomach. ‘Better not. Les doesn’t like me having dessert. Got to watch my Greek god body, you know?’

John sniggered. ‘Which god? Bacchus?’

‘He was Roman, mister know-it-all,’ replied Cruz smugly.

‘Go on,’ John persisted. ‘I’m paying, remember?’

‘Oh, why not,’ Cruz succumbed. ‘I could go for some of the pecan pie.’

‘Make that two,’ John told the hovering waiter, ‘and two coffees, please.’

John ate his pie slowly, keeping a watchful eye on the girls’ progress with their meals. He was picking they wouldn’t have dessert and probably wouldn’t linger too long with it being a Monday night, early in the working week. Sure enough, they followed up with just a coffee each. Their meal was now at the same finishing stage as his and Cruz’s.

Cruz dabbed his lips, leaned back in his chair, and stretched and yawned. ‘That was great. Time for beddy byes.’

‘Happy?’ asked John.

‘Oh yeah.’ Cruz licked his lips like a contented cat.

‘Great,’ said John. ‘Now I know how to put you in a good mood when it’s your time of the month.’

He glanced over at the girls. She had not made eye contact with him again. For her part, Maria had been so unsettled by the effects of their first eye-to-eye encounter that she had consciously avoided looking at John a second time.

‘Damn!’ said Hannah suddenly. ‘He’s leaving.’

John and Cruz were walking out of the restaurant without a backwards glance. Maria felt a pang of disappointment, but she gave nothing away.

‘Are we going to Chocolate Heaven for dessert?’ asked Ellie.

‘We sure are,’ said Hannah. ‘Drink up.’

John and Cruz halted at the service desk, and John took out his card to pay for the meal.

‘I will do this,’ said Miguel, bustling up and gently elbowing the young man at the till out of the way. ‘How were your foods?’ he asked with an endearingly characteristic lapse