Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

view of most of the honkers. And a great silence befell the earth.
    A uniformed cop rushed over and swiped something through the machine and the arm rose. “Sorry, Detective.”
    I eyed Crawford as he sped through the lane. “Wow, that’s impressive. Where can I get one of those?”
    “One of what?”
    “One of those, ” I said. “A gold shield. They’re like the keys to the city.”
    “Well, I can’t get you one, but I can get you access to one,” he said. “You know, close enough, if you get my drift.”
    I took a deep breath. “That’s why I came to see you.”
    He remained silent. His expression told me that he already knew that.
    “Listen, Crawford—”
    “ ‘Listen, Crawford’ doesn’t exactly sound like a promising start to this conversation. Or any conversation, for that matter.”
    He had a point.
    We merged onto the West Side Highway. Once we passed the huge Fairway grocery store and its glaring neon sign advertising FRESH-KILLED POULTRY , he spoke again. “Let’s focus on one thing at a time.”
    “One thing at a time?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Let’s find Kevin first.” He took one hand off the wheel and put it over mine. “Let’s get through this month,” he said, his perception about my emotional state astounding me. I looked out the window. “Let’s find Kevin first,” he repeated.
    “Thanks, Crawford,” I whispered, watching the scenery speed by, a blur of blue river and green trees.
    He chuckled. “If we can’t find him, who’s going to marry us?”
    Under normal circumstances, a line like that would bring on gastrointestinal distress, but the twinkle in Crawford’s eye, accompanied by his hand squeezing mine, made me think that the eventual conversation we would have to have might turn out better than I hoped. He knew. He had probably known all along. It was obvious to me that he knew the problem was not with him or my feelings for him, but with me and my complicated past, my emotional baggage, and a host of other things that he probably knew he’d have to put up with if—sorry, when —this marriage took place.
    I knew I was lucky. The question was, why? The guy was a gem, but even guys like Crawford are likely to run out of patience. I decided to focus on his current good humor as well as the task at hand.
    I pulled out the piece of paper that Crawford had handed me. Kevin had gotten two parking tickets—a day apart—in a trendy West Village neighborhood, leading Crawford to believe that our prodigal priest was staying somewhere in the vicinity of the poorly parked car. I had driven with Kevin long enough to know that (a) he’s a crappy driver and (b) an even crappier parker. He can’t parallel-park to save his life so once he got his car into a spot, he was probably going to leave it there. He can turn water into wine and bread into body, but get into a spot with his Honda Fit that would normally fit a Hummer? Not on your life.
    And the West Village? Another curious clue in the story. Kevin only goes two places: the Food Emporium by St. Thomas and his mother’s house in the Throgs Neck section of the Bronx. There was nowhere else, in his world. So to think that we had to track him down in lower Manhattan was completely unbelievable to me. Crawford slid into a parking spot behind Kevin’s Fit that was semilegal and put his police credentials in the window. He turned to me and told me that we would just have to wait.
    My growling stomach told me that this was not going to be easy, and given our environs—a bustling West Village street filled with bistros and trattorias—I mentioned to Crawford that it might be using our time more wisely if we got a snack while waiting. Or an appetizer. Or dinner.
    He didn’t need much convincing. We were happily ensconced at a table at the Riviera Café and Sports Bar in seconds, across the street from his and Kevin’s parked cars. An extra five to the hostess got a seat at one of the tables that sat along a bank of almost floor-to-ceiling windows, affording us a perfect view of Kevin’s car and the apartment buildings near it. We decided that Crawford would sit facing the window and I would have my back to it, because as we all know, I’m easily distracted. But even better than our seats was that just two minutes after we had sat down I had a giant Ketel One martini in front of me with my requisite three olives. I decided that the Riviera Café was my new favorite restaurant. Things were back to the way I liked