Blue Smoke

room light was still on when she prepared for bed. Watching his mammoth TV? she wondered. Letting his friend have his bed in her hour of need.
    She hoped they’d shared a little minestrone, a little TLC.
    She’d never had a male friend, a contemporary, who would have donethat for her, she realized. The men in her life who weren’t family were teachers like John, partners and associates. Or lovers.
    It was interesting, and different, she decided, to feel like friends with a man before you took him to bed, or allowed yourself to be taken.
    She turned off her light, closed her eyes and hoped sleep would smooth out the rougher edges of her day.
    I t was just before three A . M . when her phone rang. She came alert quickly, switching on the light before grabbing the phone. Even with her job, middle-of-the-night phone calls always rammed her heart in her throat. Thoughts of family, accidents and death to loved ones came first.
    “Yes, hello.”
    “I got a surprise for you.”
    Part of her mind registered the number on the Caller ID as unfamiliar, another focused on the voice. Low, a little harsh, male. “What? What number are you calling?”
    “Big surprise for you. Coming soon. When you get it, I’ll be jerking off—and imagining your mouth on my cock.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake. If you’re going to wake somebody up with a lame obscene call, don’t call a cop.”
    She hung up, took the time to write down the number, the time of the call.
    And switching off the light again, went back to sleep and forgot about it.

17
    It had been a long time since Reena had reviewed Joshua Bolton’s case file. She didn’t know why she did so now. There was nothing new to see there. The matter had been closed for years, with the investigators, the ME, the lab all signing off on accidental death.
    There was no reason to see anything else. No forced entry, head trauma consistent with a fall, no burglary, no vandalism, no motive. Just a young man falling asleep while smoking in bed.
    Except she’d never known him to smoke.
    Still, the team had recovered a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches—both with his fingerprints. That had weighed against the fact that the girl he’d been sleeping with had insisted the victim didn’t smoke.
    She’d have weighed it the same, Reena admitted, as she read over the reports. She probably would have weighed it the same, come to the same conclusions. Closed the file.
    But she’d never completely accepted it, and couldn’t now.
    She was still reading the reports, with the crime-scene photos spread over her desk, when her phone rang.
    “Arson Unit, Detective Hale.”
    “Reena? This is Amanda Greenburg. Mandy? We met—in a moment of humiliation last night at Bo’s.”

    “Sure. I remember.” She stared at what the fire had done to the boy she’d known.
    “How could you forget? Listen, I just wanted to apologize.”
    “No need. Really.” She touched her fingers to the photo of Josh. “But I wonder if you’ve got time to meet me. I’d like to talk to you, if you can manage it.”
    “Sure. When?”
    “How about now?”
    S ince the day was fine, Reena snagged an outdoor table at a little coffeehouse a five-minute walk from the station house. She’d barely settled in when she saw Mandy jogging up the sidewalk, a large square shoulder bag bumping against her hip.
    Her hair was an explosion of screaming red, her face as foxy as a terrier’s. She wore Jackie O–style sunglasses that, inexplicably, suited her.
    “Hi.” Mandy dropped into a chair.
    “Thanks for meeting me.”
    “No problem. Coffee,” she said when the waiter came out. “And keep it coming.”
    “Diet Pepsi.”
    “Okay, I just want to get this off my chest. I was really messed up last night, and Bo’s not just my best friend, he handles hysterical females pretty well for a guy. We don’t sleep together.”
    “Anymore,” Reena finished.
    “Anymore. Haven’t been down that road for years. We’re like, you know, Jerry and Elaine. Seinfeld ? Except Bo’s not as cynical. My ex . . .”
    Mandy paused, waited until their drinks were served. “We lived together for over a year, Mark and me. Eloped to Vegas on a whim. Things got shaky almost from the minute we got back, I don’t know why. It’s easier if you know, don’t you think?”
    “Yes. It’s always best to know.”
    “I didn’t. Then he comes to me one night, tells me he’s sorry—and he was—he’s sorry but this isn’t working for him, and