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she’d ever had, the ME launched into an animated story of an anesthesiologist who’d poisoned his wife with succinylcholine. Frank watched as she explained the wife’s exhumation, charmed by Gail’s flying hands and lively accounting.
    Nook took center stage after Gail, recounting a body he’d found under a swimming pool. The ice was melting in Gail’s glass and Frank leaned over to ask if she’d like a fresh drink.
    “I’ll get it,” she insisted, but Frank waded to the bar, caught Mac’s eye and yelled, “Gin and tonic.” He nodded and Frank continued to the bathroom, grateful for the momentary quiet. Drying her hands she glanced at the face in the mirror. Nestled within shadows and a wreath of fine wrinkles, cobalt blue eyes stared back. She’d turned forty in January and looked every minute of it.
    When she returned with Gail’s drink, the ME protested, “You didn’t have to do that.”
    “You know the rules,” Frank said. “Tradition is, you drink at the Nine-three table, the LT picks up the tab.”
    “Who started that anyway?”
    “That would have been Joe Girardi, my old boss.”
    Gail sipped, eyeing Frank from under a fringe of dark lash.
    “You must have plenty of stories,” she observed.
    Frank did, but the boys were usually so busy trying to get their own tall tales in, they seldom asked. Frank mostly settled bets, paid the bill, arbitrated discussions, and nodded in the right places. Even after work, she was still the boss.
    “Yeah,” she nodded, tilting her head at the detectives, “But this is good for them. Lets them blow steam.”
    “And how do you blow steam?”
    “Listening to them,” she smiled.
    She wobbled her coffee mug, watching the film on top shimmy. Johnnie was questioning Nook’s story and he asked the doc a technical question. She jumped into the fray, and deftly defended Nook’s story without deflating Johnnie’s ego. No small task, Frank thought. Gail went on to top Nook’s story and Frank admired how she fit in with the Nine-three.
    Bobby took a turn and Frank’s thoughts drifted idly to Kennedy. She wondered what the manic detective was up to this Friday night. If she wasn’t working, and if conditions were right, she was probably surfing. If not that, then cruising on her in-lines or 10-speed, or defeating imaginary foes at kick boxing. Whatever she was doing, Frank was certain she’d be moving; the girl couldn’t sit for long. She reflected on the fling they’d had, an affair comprised mainly of passionate and aggressive love-making.
    Frank indulged in the memory of that last time with Kennedy. They’d stumbled around the apartment, groping each other like school kids, finally landing on the floor and filling themselves with each other. Then Kennedy’d given her that damn cocky smile and said, “I’m starving. Want pizza?”
    Still somnambulate, Frank had dumbly replied, “Sure.”
    They’d eaten dinner, talking about their week. Kennedy had pried (as always) into how it was going with Clay at the BSU. Frank had hedged (as always). It was going well but she hadn’t wanted to get into the details. Instead she’d told a story about a case Ike had caught. Kennedy had laughed around a bite of pizza, accusing Frank of changing the subject. Frank argued there was no changing subjects with Kennedy, only delaying them.
    “You know what?” Kennedy had asked. Expecting the inevitable confrontation, Frank had answered, “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    “I think we need to make love again. Slow this time. What do you think?”
    “Second best thing you’ve said all night.”
    “What was the first?”
    “Let’s get pizza.”
    Three days later Frank surprised Kennedy at her apartment. Not only was Kennedy surprised, so was Frank and a very disheveled Nancy.
    “Isn’t that right, Frank?”
    “What?”
    “162 stab wounds?”
    “Where?”
    “That Salvadoran woman who shredded her boyfriend, remember? Cut him 162 times. Crochetti had to count each one.