For nineteen years he survived, even thrived, on the monotonous regimen of a workaholic. As a uniformed officer, he could not extend his working hours, so he went to school five nights a week and Saturdays, until he earned a Bachelor of Science in Criminology. He used his degree and his superb service record to climb into the ranks of the plainclothes detectives, where he could labor well beyond his scheduled tour of duty each day without screwing up a dispatcher’s roster. During his ten- and twelve- and fourteen-hour workdays, he thought of nothing else but the cases to which he had been assigned. Even when he wasn’t on the job, he thought about current investigations to the exclusion of just about everything else, pondered them while standing in the shower and while trying to fall asleep at night, mulled over new evidence while eating his early breakfasts and his solitary late-night dinners. He read almost nothing but criminology textbooks and case studies of criminal types. For nineteen years he was a cop’s cop, a detective’s detective.
In all that time, he never got serious about a woman. He didn’t have time for dating, and somehow it didn’t seem right to him. It wasn’t fair to Barbara Ann. He led a celibate’s life for weeks, then indulged in a few nights of torrid release with a series of paid partners. In a way he could not fully understand, having sex with a hooker was not a betrayal of Barbara Ann’s memory, for the exchange of cash for services made it strictly a business transaction and not a matter of the heart in even the slightest regard.
And then he met Wilma Compton.
Leaning back against the booth in The Bolt Hole, Frank seemed to choke on the woman’s name. He wiped one hand across his clammy face, pushed spread fingers through his hair, and said, “I need another double Scotch.” He made a great effort to articulate each syllable, but that only made him sound more thoroughly drunk than if he had slurred and mangled his words.
“Sure,” Tony said. “Another Scotch. But we ought to get a bite of something, too.”
“Not hungry,” Frank said.
“They make excellent cheeseburgers,” Tony said. “Let’s get a couple of those and some French fries.”
“No. Just Scotch for me.”
Tony insisted, and finally Frank agreed to the burger but not the fries.
Penny took the food order, but when she heard Frank wanted another Scotch, she wasn’t sure that was a good idea.
“I didn’t drive here,” Frank assured her, again stressing each sound in each word. “I came in a taxi ’cause I intended to get stupid drunk. I’ll go home in a taxi, too. So please, you dimpled little darling, bring me another of those delicious double Scotches.”
Tony nodded at her. “If he can’t get a cab later, I’ll take him home.”
She brought new drinks for both of them. A half-finished beer stood in front of Tony, but it was warm and flat, and Penny took it away.
Wilma Compton.
Wilma was twelve years younger than Frank, thirty-one when he first met her. She was charming, petite, pretty, and dark-eyed. Slender legs. Supple body. Exciting swell of hips. A tight little ass. A pinched waist and breasts a shade too full for her size. She wasn’t quite as lovely or quite as charming or quite as petite as Barbara Ann had been. She didn’t have Barbara Ann’s quick wit or Barbara Ann’s industrious nature or Barbara Ann’s compassion. But on the surface, at least, she bore enough resemblance to the long-dead woman to stir Frank’s dormant interest in romance.
Wilma was a waitress at a coffee shop where policemen often ate lunch. The sixth time she waited on Frank, he asked for a date, and she said yes. On their fourth date, they went to bed. Wilma had the same hunger and energy and willingness to experiment that had made Barbara Ann a wonderful lover. If at times she seemed totally concerned with her own gratification and not at all interested in his, Frank was able to convince himself that her selfishness would pass, that it was merely the result of her not having had a satisfying relationship in a long time. Besides, he was proud that he could arouse her so easily, so completely. For the first time since he’d slept with Barbara Ann, love was a part of his love-making, and he’d thought he perceived the same emotion in Wilma’s response to him. After they had been sleeping together for two months, he asked her to marry him. She said no, and thereafter she no longer wanted to date him; the only time he could see her and talk to her was when he stopped at the coffee shop.