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“There I am, sitting in my rocking chair, knitting little booties, in our little rose-covered cottage by the side of the road,” Louise said, “while our three adorable children . . . You get the picture.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Peter said.
“And the doorbell rings, and I go to answer it, and there stands Hizzoner the Mayor Carlucci. ‘Sorry, Mrs. Wohl,’ Hizzoner says. ‘But your fine husband, the late Inspector Wohl, was just shot by an angry housewife. Or was it a bandit? Doesn’t really matter. He’s dead. Gone to that Great Roundhouse in the Sky.’ “
It took Peter a moment to reply, but finally he said, “Are you always this cheerful in the morning?”
“Only when I’m on my way to see a severed head while en route to a funeral,” Louise said. “But I’m serious, Peter.”
“Then I’ll answer you seriously,” he said. “I am a Staff Inspector. I don’t respond to calls. Supervisors supervise. The guys on the street are the ones that have to deal with the public. That’s for openers. And most police officers who do their twenty years on the street never fire their pistols except on the range.”
“That’s why you carry a gun all the time, right?” Louise countered.
“I can’t remember the last time I took it out of the holster except to clean it,” Peter said.
“I can,” Louise said. “The very first time I saw you, Peter, you were jumping out of a car with your gun in your hand.”
“That was an anomaly,” Peter said. “Dutch getting shot was an anomaly. He’s probably the first captain who fired his weapon in the line of duty in twenty years.”
“That may be, but Dutch got shot,” Louise said. “Got shot and killed. And there you were, with your gun in your hand, rushing to the gun battle at the OK Corral.”
“What did you think when you saw me getting out of my car?”
“ ‘Where did that good-looking man come from?’ “
“How about ‘Thank God, it’s the cops’?” Peter asked, softly.
She met his eyes for a long moment.
“Touché” she said, finally.
“That’s what I do, baby,” Peter said. “I’m a cop. And I’m good at what I do. And, actuarially speaking, I’m in probably no more of a risky occupation than a, hell, I don’t know, an airline pilot or a stockbroker.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Moffitt,” Louise said.
“Eat your eggs before they get cold, baby,” Peter said.
“I don’t think so,” she said, pushing the plate away. “I think I would rather get something to eat after I look at the head.”
“I’m sorry, but that is necessary,” Peter said.
“Peter, I don’t know if I could spend the rest of my life wondering if I ‘m going to be a widow by the end of the day,” Louise said.
“You’re exaggerating the risk,” he said.
“Is it graven on stone somewhere that you have to spend the rest of your life as a cop?”
“It’s what I do, Louise. And I like it.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” she said, and got to her feet. “Go put on your policeman’s suit, and take me to see the severed head,” she said.
“We can talk this out,” Peter said.
“I think everything that can be said on the subject has been said,” Louise said. “It was what Daddy was talking about when he said the idea of us getting married was a lousy one.”
“Come on, baby,” Peter said. “I understand why you’re upset, but—”
“Just shut up, Peter,” Louise said. “Just please shut up.”
