Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 3

At one point I wanted to jump up and shout, “Look at the timeline, people. Tripp was in police custody six hours before Hunter was executed for his sins.” But I figured if Tripp could sit there without saying a word, so could I.

I sat through five eulogies, but when Mayor Sykes got up to speak, I left. She was what she was, but I didn’t have to watch.

The string of nightly dinners I’d had with Kylie ended at three. There was a lot of paperwork to do, but nothing to keep us working late, and she was out the door every night before six.

On Thursday I overheard her on the phone with her friend Janet Longobardi, the woman who had set her up with the divorce lawyer.

I couldn’t pick up the entire conversation, but I caught enough to bum me out even more.

“He’s really responding well to this Better Choices program. No, he’s still living in Shelley’s apartment, but we’re talking about going away together for the weekend. The lawyer’s on hold for now, but trust me, I’m keeping all my options open.”

I wondered if that’s what I’d become. An option Kylie was keeping open.

I hadn’t expected to hear from Cheryl before Mildred’s funeral on Tuesday, and I didn’t. By Friday afternoon I still hadn’t heard from her, and she hadn’t come back to the office.

At 3:00 p.m. I was at my desk, staring at a half-eaten bagel that had been sitting there since breakfast, wondering how I was going to get through the weekend. And just when I was sure things couldn’t get any worse, they did. The text came in from Cheryl.

Short notice. Long drive. Dinner at NWHC? 8 pm.

These days it’s easy to end a relationship. You can text. You can email. You can even do it in 140 characters or less on Twitter. But Cheryl wasn’t the type to end things electronically. She’s old-school. When she breaks it off with a guy, she has to do it to his face.

That’s what the last-minute dinner invitation was. She wanted to meet me at a restaurant in Ulster County, and would I mind making the two-hundred-mile round-trip so she could dump me properly.

I texted her back.

Sure.

It seemed like a fitting way to end a miserable week.

As long as I had to drive two hours for my farewell dinner with Cheryl, at least she picked a great restaurant. Her house in Woodstock was only five miles from New World Home Cooking, but having tasted chef Ric Orlando’s food before, I knew it was well worth the hundred-mile trip.

I pulled into the NWHC parking lot ten minutes early and went inside. It’s a big old rambling barn with art on the walls, music in the air, and a staff that never forgets a face. Liz Corrado, Ric’s wife and partner, greeted me with a hug.

“Cheryl’s not here yet, but you’re in luck,” she said, escorting me to the bar. “It’s Free Drinks for Heroes Night.”

“Just a club soda for now,” I said, knowing I had to stay sober for the ride back to New York.

A few minutes later, Cheryl arrived wearing a white parka and a matching ski cap that set off her dark brown eyes, jet-black hair, and glowing caramel skin. She looked spectacular.

Then she spotted me, and her face lit up. She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a lingering kiss. Not what I had expected.

Liz showed us to our table, and Cheryl ordered a bottle of champagne. Also not what I had expected.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“You should call the New York Times. Those idiots had January tenth plastered all over today’s paper.”

And then she said the last thing I ever expected. “I don’t care what day it is for the rest of the world. You and I are starting the year all over again. The first ten days are getting a mulligan — like they never happened.”

“No penalties?”

“I think we should analyze our game so we don’t make the same mistakes again, but no penalties.”

“I’ve already been analyzed by a woman who is as renowned for her psychological insight as she is for her flapjacks.”

“Ah yes. And what did Dr. Gerri say?”

“I don’t remember it verbatim, but something about me being a jealous asshole.”

“Spot-on. And what did she say about me?”

“I believe her exact diagnosis was ‘perfect in every way.’”

“I’m not. I’ve been holding out on you. I’m sorry.” Her eyes watered up, and she turned away.

“Hey, whatever it was, it’s over. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “A few months ago Mildred called me. She knew Fred would be devastated when she died, and she asked if I could be there to help him get through it. I couldn’t say no.”

“Wow. I thought—”

“You thought I dropped everything for Fred,” she said, “but I stopped loving him a long time ago. What I did I did for Mildred. I’m sorry. I feel terrible.”

“Why? What you did was nothing short of noble.”

“I should have told you, but you were under the gun with the Alden case, and once I knew Mildred only had a few days left, I couldn’t think straight. I was going to call you after the funeral, but...”

“Fred needed you.”

“He lost his mother and the baby he thought was his. I did the best I could, but now it’s over.” She let out a sigh. “I’m ready to move on. Are you?”

“Just tell me where we’re going.”

“I was thinking my house for the weekend.”

“I didn’t bring any clothes.”

She smiled and let her tongue brush her lip. “What makes you think you’ll be needing any?”

The waitress brought the champagne, opened it, and poured two glasses.

“I never congratulated you and Kylie on closing the Alden case,” Cheryl said, lifting her glass. “Here’s to two of the best cops on the force. What is she doing to celebrate this weekend?”

I reached across the table. “Damned if I know,” I said, touching my glass to hers.

Her eyes told me it was the perfect answer.