Read Dead Man's Thoughts for Free Online

ecstasy. Bilbo Baggins was right; Water Hot is a noble thing. I eased myself into it inch by inch, shuddering as the heat tamed my aching muscles. The steam curled up around my head, and I closed my eyes and felt deeply relaxed and at peace.
    When I came out, I went straight to the bed where Nathan lay. I was naked and steamy, and he ran his hands over my soda-softened skin.
    I groaned as his hands roved, touching me with delicate, cool strokes. I began to glow, my mind floating deliciously on sensual awareness like a dragonfly skimming over a still pond. He increased speed and pressure. My body began to sing inside, louder and louder, climbing an invisible peak of pleasure until climax. I turned and smothered Nathan’s body with my own. We coupled, then lay exhausted in each other’s arms.
    As we drifted into sleep, I heard Nathan murmur that he wanted to talk to me. “In the morning,” I murmured back. Then we slept.
    I woke first. The plastic alarm clock said 7:45. I lay in bed wondering what to do. I was late. I had things to do at work, and I still had to go home and change.
    My gaze wandered around the bedroom. Less decorated than the living room, it still had touches of Nathan’s personality. The pictures on the walls were mine, photographs of a fall hike we’d taken on the Palisades. Variations on a theme—silver river, colored leaves, jutting stones. There was also a framed artist’s sketch of Nathan as a fiery trial lawyer—the kind they show on TV in lieu of camera shots of the actual trial—given to him by the artist.
    I got up, stiff with cold, and padded into the bathroom. Sleeping naked makes me feel vulnerable; in the cold light of early morning, my body seemed white and gross.
    When I came back from the bathroom, Nathan, lying in bed as soft and sweet as a child, almost tempted me. I nearly pulled off the blanket and snuck in to cuddle up to his warm back.
    But that would mean being late for work. If I’d known—but I didn’t.
    I leaned over and kissed him awake. He stirred, barely conscious, and I whispered, “Bye, love. See you at work.” I ruffled his surprisingly soft gray hair and dashed out the door to catch the IRT.
    I never saw him alive again.

F IVE
    â€œT raffic cop with the Iceman,” Sylvia Mintz remarked. “Better you than me.”
    Traffic cop is what you do on the third day after you work arraignments. All your jail cases are on anyway, so you might as well answer the calendar. It’s called traffic cop because you’re supposed to make order out of chaos. I was traffic cop this Thursday morning because my—and Nathan’s—cases from Monday night dominated the AP4 calendar.
    We were waiting for the elevator in Criminal Court. Sylvia was on her way to the tenth floor, where she was on trial. A drug case. Cocaine. The undercover cop was due to testify, and she was pessimistic.
    â€œI can’t believe I’m trying this case,” she grumbled. “They’ve got everything but a movie of my guy selling to the undercover.” She was dressed for trial. Navy suit and gray blouse, a far cry from her usual bright colors and far-out designs.
    â€œCheer up, Syl,” I said. “In a couple of days, it’ll be all over, and you can go back to spending your afternoons shopping at A & S.”
    â€œKiss the Iceman for me,” she retorted sweetly, crowding into an elevator.
    Kiss the Iceman. Fat chance. The Hon. Perry Whalen wasn’t called the Iceman because he had the milk of human kindness in his veins.
    I pushed into the next elevator and closed my eyes. Some day I’m going to go berserk in a Criminal Court elevator from the lack of air and the smell of crushed humanity. I’ll lose control and bite the neck of the person in front of me, and they’ll take me away to a nice place with a big green lawn and adult-sized swing sets.
    But not this time. The doors opened; I stepped