BLACK NOTICE. PATRICIA CORNWELL

Rose had gotten weary of running a house and had moved into an apartment in the near West End, off Grove Avenue, several blocks from a café called Du Jour, where I now and then ate Sunday brunch. Rose lived ir~ an old three-story dark red brick building shaded by big oaks. It was a relatively safe area of town, but I always scanned my surroundings before I got out of my car. As I parked next to Rose’s Honda, I noticed what looked like a dark-colored Taurus several cars away.

Someone was sitting inside it, engine and lights off. I knew that most unmarked Richmond police cars were Tauiuses these days, and I wondered if there was a reason a cop might be waiting out here in the dark, cold air. It was also possible the person was waiting for someone to come down to go somewhere, but again, one generally didn’t do that with headlights and engine off.

I felt I was being watched and got my seven-shot Smith & Wesson revolver out of my satchel and slipped it into my coat pocket. I followed the sidewalk and caught the car’s tag number on the front bumper. I committed it to memory. I felt eyes on my back.

The only way to get to Rose’s third-floor apartment was to take stairs illuminated wanly by a single light overhead at each landing. I was anxious. I paused every few steps to see if anyone might be coming up behind me. No one was. Rose had hung a fresh Christmas wreath on her door, and its fragrance stirred powerful feelings inside me. I could hear Handel’s music playing inside. I dug into my satchel, pulled out a pen and writing pad and jotted the tag number on it. Then I rang the bell.

“Goodness!” Rose exclaimed. “What brings you here? Do come in. What a nice surprise.”

“Did you look through the peephole before you opened the door?” I quizzed her. “At least you could ask who it is.”

She laughed. She was always teasing me about my security worries, which were extreme in the minds of most people because they did not live my life.

“Did you come here to test me?” she teased me once more.

“Maybe I should start doing that.”

Rose’s furniture was warm and perfectly polished, and although I would not call her taste formal, it was very proper and exactly arranged. Floors were the beautiful hardwood one didn’t find anymore, and small Oriental rugs were spots of color on them. A gas fire was burning, and electric candles glowed in windows overlooking a grassy area where people used their Hibachis and charcoal grills in warmer weather.

Rose sat in a wing chair and I settled on the couch. I had been to her apartment only twice before, and it seemed so sad and strange to see no sign of her beloved animals. The last two of her adopted greyhounds had gone to her daughter, and her cat had died. All she had left was an aquarium with a modest number of guppies, goldflsh and mollies constantly moving around, because pets were not allowed in the building.

“I know you miss your dogs,” I said, not mentioning the cat, because cats and I didn’t get along. “One of these days I’m going to get a greyhound. My problem is I would want to save all of them.”

I remembered hers. The poor dogs would not let you stroke their ears because they had been yanked by trainers, one of the many cruelties they suffered at dog tracks. Rose’s eyes got bright with tears, and she turned her face from me and rubbed her knees.

“This cold is hard on my joints,” she commented, clearing her throat. “They were getting so old. It’s just as well Laurel has them now. I couldn’t bear another thing dying on me. I wish you would get one. If every nice person would just get one.”

The dogs were put to death by the hundreds every year when they could no longer perform up to speed. I shifted on the couch. There was so much in life that angered me.

“Can I get you hot ginseng tea that dear Simon gets for me?” She mentioned the hairstylist she adored. “Maybe something a little stronger? I’ve been meaning to stop and pick up shortbread cookies.”