forensic scalpel to me.”
“He’d be afraid to cut you open. There’s coffee in your veins, not blood.” Harry’s eyes met his. “He’s doing the autopsy on Summer Young at six.”
“You going?”
Harry nodded.
“Count me out, man. I can’t take that cutting-open business, weighing the hearts and livers, and all that horror stuff. Tell me, Prof, what makes a guy become a forensic expert, anyway?”
“It’s a science. Without doctors like Blake, we might never know what really happened. He’s a detective, only his detecting is done after death.”
Rossetti shivered. “Yeah, well, I’ll stick with the living, thanks.”
Harry laughed. “Not if you keep on drinking that coffee.”
“So? And speaking of health, when did you last have a real meal? And I don’t mean at Ruby’s.”
Harry thought about it. “Three weeks ago. At Marais, in the company of a delightful woman—unknown to you,so I won’t bother telling you her name—whom I was supposed to call back.” He shrugged regretfully.
Rossetti stared curiously at him. “A good-looking guy like you, Prof. With your education and that fancy apartment. Women must be fallin’ over themselves to get into your bed.”
Harry laughed again. He stood up and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for the compliment. But a person needs time to build a relationship. I called, she called back—we had a drink, an evening here, an hour or two there. It’s just not enough.”
He called for the check, laid the money on the table and added a five-dollar tip. He had a soft spot for waitresses—they worked hard for their money, and he knew most of it came from tips.
The young woman smiled appreciatively at him as she scooped it up. “Thanks a lot,” she called. “You have a good day now.”
Rossetti turned and gave her a wink and she laughed.
“See that,” he said to Harry. “One encouraging word and you’d have had yourself a date.”
Harry sighed exaggeratedly. “Rossetti, Rossetti, you’re the self-confessed Casanova, not me. It was you she was smiling at. Besides, she probably has a husband and three kids.”
“Since when was that a problem?” Rossetti looked smug.
Harry laughed. “Shame on you, a good Italian Catholic boy. If only your mama could hear you. And your priest.”
“Believe me, he hears it all. Including how I feel about rapists and killers and how I want to rip the balls off them.”
Squeeze was tied to the post outside the café next to an almost-empty dish of Alpo. Harry unhitched the leash. “Meet you back at the car,” he said to Rossetti.
“Sorry about this, boy,” he muttered as the dogtugged him down the road. “But it’s been a tough couple of days. I’ll make up for it with a good long run later.”
Squeeze wagged his tail, sniffed the grass, and did his duty. Harry guessed that whatever went down it was all right with Squeeze.
In the car, driving back to Boston, he thought about the woman he had taken out to dinner three weeks ago. She was attractive, charming, cultured and very self-assured. She came from a good Boston family and her parents knew his.
“It’s a put-up job between them,” she had said when she called and left a message on his machine. “I’ve been away, working in Paris for a couple of years, and my parents think I’m out of the social swing. And your mother seems to have given up all hope. This may be our last chance as far as they’re concerned, so why don’t we make them happy? Won’t you please have dinner with me, one evening next week?”
He had been charmed when he played back the message, and charmed by her. She was tall and slender with a good body, and she wore her long dark hair pulled back, Spanish style, in a knot at the nape of her creamy neck. Her brown eyes sparkled and so did her wit. Dinner had been fun, and so had the drink a couple of nights later at her place. But he had pulled the eight-to-four shift and had to run. He had seen the regret in her eyes and
“He’d be afraid to cut you open. There’s coffee in your veins, not blood.” Harry’s eyes met his. “He’s doing the autopsy on Summer Young at six.”
“You going?”
Harry nodded.
“Count me out, man. I can’t take that cutting-open business, weighing the hearts and livers, and all that horror stuff. Tell me, Prof, what makes a guy become a forensic expert, anyway?”
“It’s a science. Without doctors like Blake, we might never know what really happened. He’s a detective, only his detecting is done after death.”
Rossetti shivered. “Yeah, well, I’ll stick with the living, thanks.”
Harry laughed. “Not if you keep on drinking that coffee.”
“So? And speaking of health, when did you last have a real meal? And I don’t mean at Ruby’s.”
Harry thought about it. “Three weeks ago. At Marais, in the company of a delightful woman—unknown to you,so I won’t bother telling you her name—whom I was supposed to call back.” He shrugged regretfully.
Rossetti stared curiously at him. “A good-looking guy like you, Prof. With your education and that fancy apartment. Women must be fallin’ over themselves to get into your bed.”
Harry laughed again. He stood up and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for the compliment. But a person needs time to build a relationship. I called, she called back—we had a drink, an evening here, an hour or two there. It’s just not enough.”
He called for the check, laid the money on the table and added a five-dollar tip. He had a soft spot for waitresses—they worked hard for their money, and he knew most of it came from tips.
The young woman smiled appreciatively at him as she scooped it up. “Thanks a lot,” she called. “You have a good day now.”
Rossetti turned and gave her a wink and she laughed.
“See that,” he said to Harry. “One encouraging word and you’d have had yourself a date.”
Harry sighed exaggeratedly. “Rossetti, Rossetti, you’re the self-confessed Casanova, not me. It was you she was smiling at. Besides, she probably has a husband and three kids.”
“Since when was that a problem?” Rossetti looked smug.
Harry laughed. “Shame on you, a good Italian Catholic boy. If only your mama could hear you. And your priest.”
“Believe me, he hears it all. Including how I feel about rapists and killers and how I want to rip the balls off them.”
Squeeze was tied to the post outside the café next to an almost-empty dish of Alpo. Harry unhitched the leash. “Meet you back at the car,” he said to Rossetti.
“Sorry about this, boy,” he muttered as the dogtugged him down the road. “But it’s been a tough couple of days. I’ll make up for it with a good long run later.”
Squeeze wagged his tail, sniffed the grass, and did his duty. Harry guessed that whatever went down it was all right with Squeeze.
In the car, driving back to Boston, he thought about the woman he had taken out to dinner three weeks ago. She was attractive, charming, cultured and very self-assured. She came from a good Boston family and her parents knew his.
“It’s a put-up job between them,” she had said when she called and left a message on his machine. “I’ve been away, working in Paris for a couple of years, and my parents think I’m out of the social swing. And your mother seems to have given up all hope. This may be our last chance as far as they’re concerned, so why don’t we make them happy? Won’t you please have dinner with me, one evening next week?”
He had been charmed when he played back the message, and charmed by her. She was tall and slender with a good body, and she wore her long dark hair pulled back, Spanish style, in a knot at the nape of her creamy neck. Her brown eyes sparkled and so did her wit. Dinner had been fun, and so had the drink a couple of nights later at her place. But he had pulled the eight-to-four shift and had to run. He had seen the regret in her eyes and
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