London Bridges

bombs had broken every bone in all of their worthless, useless bodies.
    Payback, revenge.
    It was a beautiful thing.

Chapter 61
    WE RECEIVED WORD in London that the deadline had been extended forty-eight hours, and the relief, though temporary, was still extraordinary for all of us. Within the hour, we got word of a bombing on Long Island—several Red Mafiya bosses reported dead. What did it mean? Had the Wolf struck again? At his own people?
    There was nothing useful for me to do after the long round of meetings at Scotland Yard. About ten at night, I met with a friend from Interpol at a London restaurant, the Cinnamon Club, which was on the site of what had once been the Old Westminster Library on Great Smith Street.
    I was past being exhausted and, in fact, had gotten my second wind. Besides, I always looked forward to spending time with Sandy Greenberg, who was probably the smartest police officer I had ever worked with. Maybe she had a new idea about the Wolf. Or the Weasel. At any rate, no one knew the European underworld better than she did.
    Sandy is Sondra to all but her closest friends, and I am fortunate enough to be one of them. She’s tall, attractive, chic, a little gawky, witty, and very funny. She gave me a big hug and kisses on both cheeks.
    “Is this the only way I get to see you, Alex? Some kind of terrifying international emergency? Where’s the love?”
    “You could always come to Washington to see
me,
” I said as we pulled apart. “You look absolutely great, by the way.”
    “I do, don’t I?” said Sandy. “Come, we have a table in the back. I’ve missed you terribly. God, it’s good to see you. You look wonderful yourself, even with all of this going on. How do you do it?”
    The dinner was a fusion of Indian and European that couldn’t be found in the States, at least not anywhere around Washington. Sandy and I talked for well over an hour about the case. But over coffee we lightened up and let things get a little more personal. I noticed a gold signet ring and a trinity band she wore on her pinkie finger.
    “Beautiful,” I told her.
    “From Katherine,” she said, and smiled. Sandy and Katherine Grant had been living together for about ten years and were one of the happiest couples I had ever met. Lessons to be learned, but who can ever figure it all out? Not me. I couldn’t even master my own life.
    “I see
you’re
still not married,” she said.
    “You noticed.”
    Sandy smirked. “Detective, you know. Investigator par excellence. So tell me everything, Alex.”
    “Not a lot to tell,” I said, and found my choice of words interesting. “I’m seeing someone I like a lot —”
    Sandy interrupted. “Oh, hell, you like
everyone
a lot. That’s the way you are, Alex. You even liked Kyle Craig. Found some good in the creepy, psychopathic bastard.”
    “You could be right, generally speaking. But I’m over Kyle. And I don’t like anything about Colonel Geoffrey Shafer. Or the Russian who calls himself the Wolf.”
    “I
am
right, dear boy. So who is this incredible woman you
like
a lot and whose heart you’ll break, or she’ll break yours—one or the other, I’m certain of it already. Why do you keep torturing yourself?”
    I grinned, couldn’t help it. “Another detective—well, actually, her title is inspector. She lives in San Francisco.”
    “How convenient. That’s brilliant, Alex. What is it, two thousand miles from Washington? So you have a date, what, every other month?”
    I laughed again. “I see your tongue is as sharp as ever.”
    “Practice, practice. So you
still
haven’t found the right woman. Pity. A real shame. I have a couple of friends. Well, hell, let’s not even go there. Let me ask you a personal question, though. Do you think you’re truly over Maria?”
    The thing about Sandy, as an investigator, is that she has thoughts that others don’t; she explores areas that are often ignored. My wife, Maria, had been murdered over ten years ago in a drive-by shooting. I’d never been able to solve it—and maybe I
wasn’t
over Maria. Maybe, just maybe, I couldn’t find closure until I solved her murder. The case was still open. That thought had been tugging at me for years and still caused some pain whenever it entered my head.
    “I am totally smitten with Jamilla Hughes,” I said. “That’s all I know for now. We enjoy each other. Why is that a bad thing?”
    Sandy smiled. “I heard you the first time, Alex. You like her a lot.