Part 12 (2/2)

”What did you come up with from my office?” I asked, not really in the mood for small talk.

He really didn't have too much to tell although he was still fixated on the ”X” that had been etched in my desk. ”Someone with an unoriginal Zorro complex is looking for something and leaving their mark,” he said, pausing for a moment. ”It was on the dash of the car, too, but n.o.body's supposed to know that.”

I guess he really did trust me. ”That's one of those things you keep from the public, right?”

”Yeah, we don't want that getting out because every lunatic in the Bronx will come out of the woodwork to confess.” He opened a box of pizza-there were two on my countertop-and the smell hit me in the nose, making my mouth water. ”I'm off duty, though. Remember? No shop talk.” Next to the pizza boxes was a bag from the store around the corner, from which he pulled out paper plates, napkins, forks and knives, and a bottle of wine. He had found two winegla.s.ses in my cupboards and had taken those out as well. ”I've got one plain and one extra garlic and sausage. You looked like an extra-garlic woman.” He looked at me, waiting for my answer.

”You were right,” I said, and got up to get a piece of pizza. He pulled a slice from the pie and handed it to me on a paper plate.

He also gave me a stack of napkins. ”You also look like an extra-napkins woman,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. I shot him a look, but took the stack of napkins anyway. He was right about that, too.

He pulled a Swiss army knife from his pants pocket and got out the corkscrew to uncork the wine. ”Do you want a gla.s.s of wine or a big can of Foster's?” he asked.

”Funny,” I said.

He had the bottle open in a few seconds and poured two gla.s.ses, one of which he handed to me. He took his gla.s.s and tipped it toward me. ”A toast?”

I thought for a moment. ”To solving this case?”

”You can do better than that,” he said, his gla.s.s raised and still tipped toward me, a smile on his lips.

”I don't think I can,” I said.

He thought for a moment. ”Then I'll try,” he said. ”To you,” he said softly, and clinked his gla.s.s against mine. I averted his gaze and took a sip, my face flus.h.i.+ng. ”You blush a lot,” he remarked.

I blushed a deeper red. ”It's kind of like your sad face. It only comes out sometimes.”

”Sad face?”

I pulled my mouth down into my imitation of his face, drawing my lips thin. He laughed heartily, spraying wine into a napkin. On a roll, I continued, ”Then, you've got the really bad-news face,” I said, and did my impression of that expression.

His laugh was a deep bellow, punctuated by snorts. I generally wasn't a fan of the snort-the only component of Max's belly laugh and one that I was accustomed to-but because it was him, I accepted it. I actually found it attractive.

”Do they teach you that in cop school?” I asked.

”It's called the Academy, and no, they don't teach us to make faces,” he said.

”Do they teach you how to deal with suspects who vomit?”

”I'm down one pair of shoes, remember?”

”What do they teach you, then?”

”Oh, I don't know. How to deal with criminals, shoot guns, how to drive a cruiser,” he said pointedly and looked at me, ”. . . eat donuts . . . you know, the regular stuff.”

”I think they should add Vomit 101.”

”I'll mention that at the next cop-school meeting.”

I sat at the table and he joined me with his wine. I dove into my pizza like it was my last meal. I don't know where he got it, but it was better than any pizza that I had tasted in my life. Or I was just starving, and it was just the same c.r.a.ppy pizza from the c.r.a.ppy pizza place around the corner. He watched me for a minute. ”You were hungry. When was the last time you had a meal?”

”If you count three Devil Dogs, a bottle of coffee, and a chocolate donut as a meal, this morning around eight.” I finished my pizza in three more bites and got up to get another slice. ”You ready?” I asked, opening the box.

He was still on his first piece and shook his head. I found it hard to believe that you could be as big as he was and eat pizza as slowly as he did, but apparently, it was true.

I returned to the table with another slice. I chewed on my thumb for a minute. ”I thought we weren't going to see each other in a social capacity anymore.”

”This isn't a social call. I'm guarding you,” he said, unconvincingly.

”I don't think that's going to hold up in front of a police review board.”

He focused on a piece of sausage on his pizza and didn't respond.

”Besides, if you have me under surveillance, shouldn't you be asleep?” I asked.

”There is a difference between guarding and surveillance.” He ate the sausage. ”We cover that in cop school, too.”

I ate my pizza in silence. When I was done, I got up and got another slice and the bottle of wine. ”One more?” I asked. He handed me his plate, and I gave him another slice; I poured more wine in both of our gla.s.ses. ”How's your stomach?”

He rubbed his midsection. ”Harry Potter?”

I bowed my head solemnly. ”There are many life lessons to be learned from Master Potter.”

”Like?”

”Like love thy neighbor.” I paused. ”Something my ex-husband apparently took to heart.” He looked at me, puzzled. ”I'm pretty sure that Ray had an affair with Terri, next door.”

The look on his face told me that he wasn't going to comment. I didn't feel the need to elaborate, either.

He changed the subject. ”Save some room,” he said. ”I brought cannolis from Arthur Avenue.” He motioned to a box on the counter and when I opened it, there were four beautiful cannolis wrapped in wax paper; the ends were sprinkled with chocolate chips. Arthur Avenue was a street in the Bronx noted for its spectacular Italian restaurants and decades-old bakeries, which specialized in pastries like cannolis, napoleons, and eclairs. I stopped myself from falling instantly in love with him; my love of the cannoli was greater than even my love of G.o.d and country. ”I hope you like cannolis,” he said.

”Just a little bit,” I said, putting my index finger and thumb together. I was disappointed that he brought only four; I had been known to eat at least that many by myself. I sat down again and got to work on the third piece of pizza, confident that I would have room for dessert. When I finished that slice, I drank the rest of my wine, and poured more into my gla.s.s. I was feeling pretty good now, full and more than a little drunk.

”How did you get to Arthur Avenue to get cannolis? You're a pretty busy guy.” I stared at him closely. ”Do you have a clone?”

”Honestly?” He looked away, a little bashful.

I nodded.

”I radioed a cop from Motorcycle One to pick them up and meet me at the Van Cortlandt Park entrance to the Deegan.”

”You did a moving-vehicle cannoli handoff?” I asked, incredulous. ”You are a crime-fighting Irish superhero.”

”No, we pulled over.” He ate his pizza. ”He owed me. I got his kid out of a jam.”

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