LITMIR.BIZ

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maneuvered the Crown Victoria into their parking space and killed the engine. He glanced at his watch, then at Doug. “You going home?”

      Doug had already gotten out of the car and retrieved his jacket, shrugging into the sleeves, despite the late-afternoon heat. The captain frowned on detectives walking around without jackets in public. No displaying your weapon in front of the citizenry—probably wasn’t a good idea for the criminals to see it, either. Like nobody knew they were wearing Glocks. Right!

      “I think I’ll go in for a while.” Doug’s gaze met his partner’s across the top of the car, just in time to see the flash of concern in Vic’s eyes. “What?”

      “Why don’t you come over for dinner? You’ve got to eat.”

      “Thanks, but no. I was over twice last week.”

      “Bev loves to have you—and the kids do, too. Andrea has a crush on you a mile wide. Right now it’s cute, although I will have to kill you in about eight years. Justin and Brandon would love to toss the ball around.”

      Doug ignored the stab of envy for his friend. Vic and Bev had been married twenty years. They had two teenage sons and an eight-year-old daughter—who was going on twenty-five. Vic was lucky. He was one of the few cops who had a marriage that had survived. His children were healthy, happy and thriving, and the Peterson clan always welcomed Doug with open arms. But lately he’d started to feel just a bit sad when he was there, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

      “I’ve got paperwork.” He slammed the car door. “See you in the morning.”

      “Just don’t stay here until all hours drinking coffee and skipping dinner.”

      “Yes, Mother.”

      “I mean it, McGuire. You’re turning into an old man before my eyes.”

      And since Vic was too close to the truth for comfort, Doug forced a grin and a lighthearted wave. “You should know, old man.”

      He headed for the station without looking back. The buzz of voices, calm against angry, swirled about him as soon as he stepped inside; the scent of cigarettes and stale coffee hit him like a punch to his empty stomach and set it to churning. Flickering florescent lights over his desk made the entire office seem like a surreal episode of Star Trek. Sitting down at his desk, he stared at the scene before him. Cops, perps and a couple victims.

      “Welcome to my life,” he muttered.

      He’d asked for this; planned for it by taking Pre-Law courses and joining the force immediately after he finished college. For him solving puzzles was what was important. And there’d never been a puzzle he couldn’t solve—unless you counted women.

      Women!

      Doug sighed. He just couldn’t figure them out. Take Judge Jessica. Boy, would he like to take Judge Jessica!

      Doug groaned at his wayward thoughts, and libido, forcing himself to pick up a pen and get to work. But within minutes his mind wandered once more. Name, address and crime just didn’t measure up to smooth skin, the scent of sin and a body he’d like to get to know from the tip of what he was certain would be great toes to the top of that too-smart head of hers. How long was that hair she pinned up so primly? And was that red-brown color for real?

      “Hey, McGuire!”

      “Huh?” Doug blinked at the desk sergeant. “What?”

      “I was calling your place. Don’t you sign in anymore?”

      “Sorry.” His mind was not where it should be today. “What do you want, O’Riley?”

      “You know that creep Judge Kirkland let go today?”

      Doug sighed, the image of Jessica’s hair trailing to her waist dissolving at the reminder of what had happened to the case of which he’d been so proud. “Gilbert? What about him?”

      “They just pulled him out of the Milwaukee River at Michigan Avenue with a plastic bag over his head.”

      Doug gaped. “What?”

      The sergeant shook his head and gave Doug a strange look. “He’s dead, McGuire. Peterson’s on his way. Meet him there.”

      Doug nodded and the sergeant retreated, still shaking his head. Doug sat at his desk and stared at the phone. Wouldn’t Judge Jessica just love to hear this? He couldn’t resist. He had to tell her, he thought, reaching for the phone.

      Sounding rushed, Liz Alexander answered after several rings. “I’m sorry, Detective, you just caught me on my way out. Judge Kirkland isn’t here. She was so upset about what happened today that she left early. I suspect she wanted to take a walk before her dinner meeting so she could clear her head. She does that sometimes.”

      “Dinner?”

      “At Water Street Bistro. Do you know it?”

      “Fancy. On the Riverwalk. Prime real estate.”

      “That’s the one.” Doug could swear he heard a smile in Liz’s voice, although he couldn’t figure out what was so funny. “Would you like to leave a message?”

      Doug grunted, annoyed that he’d given in to the impulse to call the judge. It had been childish. Even more childish was his irrational disappointment to find that the judge wasn’t waiting to talk to him.

      “No. No message.”

      “Detective?” Though Liz’s voice was unfailingly polite, he just knew she was smiling. He could see her grinning from ear to ear, and he gritted his teeth to keep from saying something he’d regret. Doug McGuire might be a smartass, but his mother never raised her son to be rude to a lady.

      “Yes, Liz.”

      “Jessica should be at the Bistro by six-thirty. She has dinner there every Thursday night.”

      “Thanks, Liz.” He hung up.

      Water Street Bistro would be her style, he thought. Candles and silver, white tablecloths and wineglasses on every table. Hovering waiters, a wine steward and a maître d’. He could see her in a black dress, single strand of pearls around that throat he’d love to taste, sipping champagne with some dude in a black tuxedo.

      Doug growled and stood up. He had work to do. Places to go. Dead bodies to see. And it would have to snow in hell before he’d step foot in the Water Street Bistro.

      Jessica always kept a pair of walking shoes beneath her desk. Often before work, and sometimes during the day, she would put on the shoes and walk off her frustration. Without her robes she was just another career woman in a suit and tennies, hoofing it down Wells Street.

      By the time she returned to her office, changed into her low-heeled taupe pumps and grabbed her briefcase and purse, she had no time to go home and change. So it was that she ended up at Water Street Bistro for her weekly dinner with her father wearing the same mint-green business suit she’d put on that morning before leaving her condominium on Lake Drive. She would have preferred just to go home, but her father would be crushed if she missed their dinner date. Every Thursday night the two of them got together and shared their lives. And she had to admit their dinners together always made her feel calmer and saner for a little while—just knowing that there was someone who loved you always, no matter what, could get a person through the toughest of times.

      Since her mother’s death ten years past, her father had thrown himself into his work, starting restaurants then selling them once they became well established. His latest venture, Water Street Bistro, was more successful than any of the others, and thus far he had given no indication he would sell. She hoped this meant he was beginning to get over her mother’s death, as much as it was possible to get over the death of the woman he had adored.

      Because of the importance of their weekly ritual, Jessica was surprised to arrive and find their usual table deserted.

      “Your Honor.” Bruno, the maître

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