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?“Which explains why you get stuck running from panel to panel, according to the program.”
?“Randall’s idea of a joke,” I muttered.
?“Nice guy.”
?I sighed and put my notebook away. “I felt like they were getting to you before I even had a chance to say hello, and it made me so angry.” I looked at him, trying to appear contrite. “I guess I took it out on you.” I reached out for my glass and finished off my drink in one long swallow. “So I acted like an ass and pissed you off,” I admitted as I put my glass down.
?“Look,” he said, “why don’t I buy you dinner?”
?I looked at him as if he were insane. “Why would you do that?”
?“A lot of reasons. First of all, I think both of us are a little fragile right now. We both lost important relationships.”
?“Mine was for the better.”
?“Second, it gives us a chance to get started again on the right foot.”
?“What about you and Candy?”
?“That’s the third reason. I want to try and figure out what would be her motivation to drug me.”
?“So you can find her and try to sleep with her again?”
?It was his turn to sigh. “Look, it was nice to have an attractive blonde interested.” He raised those eyes to me. “But, in the clear light of day, I’ve just left behind twenty-five very good years. It’s hard to know what I want right now.”
?“What you need is to want to live again.”
?His mouth fell open in stunned amazement. I guess I had hit the nail on the head. And I understood—really understood. I had been hiding as well, just like him, but in a different way.
?“Ms. Homes?” a voice said.
?We both turned.
?A tall man in a rumpled suit stood next to our table. He had a large mustache and a shaved head and was built like a linebacker.
?“Yes,” I replied, surprised. I slipped my notebook back into its hiding place.
?The man flashed a leather wallet with a gold shield. “I’m Detective DeStadler. May I ask you to come with me?”
?“Why? What is this about?” Mark demanded.
?He looked back and gave a nod to a large African-American man dressed in a similar cheap suit, who I assumed was his partner.
?“I’m afraid it’s about your husband, Randall Lawrence,” DeStadler stated as his partner drew near.
?“What the hell has he done this time?” I said, annoyance creeping into my voice. “Look, we’re divorced. I am not responsible—”
?“It’s not what he’s done, ma’am,” DeStadler said, his mouth a hard line. “It’s what was done to him. He’s dead.”
?His partner added, “Murdered.”
11. Deadline
Mark Watkins
?I accompanied Sheryl to the police station.
?Actually, I didn’t have a choice. Once DeStadler learned I was Mark Watkins, he insisted I accompany them as well.
