No one spoke. She could hear a background of voices and telephones ringing, then a hand muffling the receiver. The peculiar dread of a mysterious call sanded her nerve endings.
Finally: “Cheryl Beth?” A man’s voice. A nice baritone, vaguely familiar.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’m not sure you remember me. My name is Will Borders. I was a patient at Cincinnati General when you were the pain nurse…”
She felt a catch in her throat and hesitated. Then, “Of course I remember you, Will. Tell me how you’re doing?”
“I’m doing well. I’m back at work, on the force.”
“I’ve seen your name in the paper and hoped you were all right.” She could hear more voices and phones in the background. “Where are you?”
“I’m in homicide right now. Detective Dodds sends his best.”
A deeper voice called, “Hello, Cheryl Beth!” and laughed.
“Tell him ‘hi’ back.”
She heard a rustling and Dodds came on. “Are you still as beautiful as the last time I saw you?”
“Hello, Detective Dodds.” She laughed. “The last time you saw me I was beaten up and bloody.”
“You were the most beautiful beaten up and bloody I’ve ever seen. Anyway, I’ll give you back to Mister President.”
“Sorry,” Will said. “He gets very enthusiastic.”
“I can see that. Why does he call you Mister President?”
“Long story.” He paused. “Anyway, I’m walking. I use a cane. But I’m walking.”
“That is so great. I prayed for that, Will.” She blurted that last part out suddenly and then worried if she had gone too far.
After a long pause, Will said, “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time. I’ve wanted to call and check in. There’s no excuse for not doing it sooner.”
She smiled and said nothing.
He said, “I wonder if you’d have a drink with me sometime? It’s okay if you say no. I understand. I know this out of left field…”
“Will,” she interrupted, “I’d love to.”
“God damn you.”
Will glared at Dodds as the entire homicide unit erupted in applause and laughter.
“I didn’t even know who you were dialing at first.”
“You may call me J.C. the matchmaker,” Dodds said, a smug grin on his face. “You were too much of a chickenshit, so I had to do it for you.”
“Asshole. And stop that ‘Mister President’ shit. Now where do I take her?”
“Palm Court,” came one suggestion behind his back.
“Too formal,” Will said. “What will that make her think?”
“I dunno,” Dodds said. “Like you have class? How about the Precinct? Historic old police station, cop motif, all that.”
“Across the river,” Lieutenant Fassbinder said. “Nice view of the city.”
It felt good to be back in homicide again, in the fifth-floor offices leased from the county in the art deco tower at 800 Broadway that once housed the