12th of Never

to me and my partner and says he’s got some information on a possible terrorist threat. And he wants to give us the info, but not there. He says he has to be really careful.”
    “Oh, my God,” Morales said, eyes fixed on his.
    “So we arrange to meet him at a little park after morning prayers and whatnot, and I check out a car from impound, looks nothing like a cop car.”
    “Like a sports car?”
    “Exactly. A BMW. Red. And so me and my partner drive to the park, and there’s the imam sitting on a bench, wearing his robe and his cap and reading the Koran. And my partner waves to him like to signal him, the plan being we’ll park the car in the shadows and talk. But the imam doesn’t see us. And so we go around the block three times, trying to signal him, and he looks right past us.”
    “Humph,” said Morales. “That must’ve been frustrating.”
    “Now, at the same time we’re going around and around, this almost retired cop drives to the park in his black-and-white, parks at the far corner under the trees. He’s just running out his time before getting his pension. And so he’s sitting in the car reading his fishing magazines—and I see this whole thing unfolding.”
    They were cracking crab legs with their hands, putting shells in a bowl.
    “Hang on a sec,” Morales said. She reached over, knocked a bit of crab off his chin.
    Rich grabbed her wrist, kissed her palm, released her hand, and went on with his story. Mackie colored, smiled up at him, and he smiled back at her.
    “So the old-timer is reading
Outdoor Life
,” Richie said, “and the imam sees him and jumps off the bench and starts running toward the cruiser. Now, understand, this sergeant knows nothing about this. He hears the door open behind him, jerks his head around, sees this guy in Middle Eastern clothes dive into the backseat.”
    Morales was shaking her head and laughing into her napkin.
    Rich said, “And we can see all this going down and there’s nothing we can do. The old-timer goes flying out of the car, screaming that there’s a suicide bomber in his car, and ‘
Everyone run
.’”
    Morales was laughing with tears in her eyes. “Richie, no, please.”
    “Yeah, and we get the imam out of the backseat and calm the cop down and we get the info and turn it over to the FBI. And they tell us that the intel involved New York City, and we never hear another word about it.
    “And that, since you asked, is the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job.”
    “Good story.” Morales dried her eyes, looked at him, and said, “This is nice, Rich. I’m getting a little bit crazy about you.”
    He couldn’t stop looking at her. Was he available? He wasn’t sure. It was too soon after his breakup with Cindy to get involved and yet he really, really liked Morales.
    He said, “Let me see a picture of Benjamin.”
    She went for her purse, which was looped onto the back of her chair, opened her wallet, and pushed the photo toward him.
    “Oh, man. He is a good-looking boy.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Where is his father?”
    “So you want me to tell you about the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job?”
    She grinned.
    He said, “Come here.”
    He pulled her into a hug, her hair tickling his nose, her arm going around him, both of them still sitting at the table. He kissed the top of her head and said, “We’ve got time to get into the deep stuff.”
    “Yes,” she said. “I want this to take a lot of time.”
    Richie held her, thought how good this felt, and that he couldn’t wait for more.

Chapter 92
    IT WAS THE end of another torturous night in the Saint Francis pediatric oncology wing. As light slashed through the windows, Joe and I were still waiting for something good to happen. Dr. Sebetic and his colleagues had stuck pins and needles into our daughter, ran her small body through imaging machines, sent her fluids out to labs, but nothing had yet been concluded. I’m a good interrogator, but I got nothing from the medical staff.
    And so two days after we checked Julie into Saint Francis, the death sentence that would not quit still hung over her precious head.
    Right then, Joe was sleeping beside me in our private hospital room and Julie was dozing fitfully in her incubator, within arm’s reach of the bed.
    Neither of them stirred when my phone rang.
    Brady said, “How’re you all doing, Boxer?”
    He actually said “ya’ll,” his voice sugared with a trace of drawl from his years in