She stopped, blinking in surprise as a figure startled her.

“Hey, Lucy,” the man said. Smelling of camphor and cigarettes, the superintendent—he’d been old when she grew up here—was carrying bound newspapers out to the sidewalk. Outweighing him by thirty pounds and six inches taller, Lucy grabbed two of the bundles from him.

“No,” he protested.

“Mr. Giradello, I have to stay in shape.”

“Ah, in shape? You’re stronger than my son.”

Outside, the cold stung her nose and mouth. She loved the sensation.

“I saw you in your uniform tonight. You get that award?”

“This Thursday. It was just the rehearsal today. And it’s not an award. A commendation.”

“’S the difference?”

“Good question. I don’t really know. I think you win an award. A commendation they give you instead of a pay hike.” She piled the trash at the curb.

“Your parents’re proud.” A statement, not a question.

“They sure are.”

“Say hi for me.”

“I will. Okay, I’m freezing, Mr. Giradello. Gotta go. You take care.”

“Night.”

Lucy started up the sidewalk. She noticed a dark blue Buick parked across the street. Two men were inside. The one in the passenger seat glanced at her and then down. He lifted and drank a soda thirstily. Lucy thought: Who’d be having a cold drink in weather like this? She herself was looking forward to an Irish coffee, boiling hot and with a double dose of Bushmills. Whipped cream too, of course.

She then glanced down at the sidewalk, stopped suddenly and changed course. Amused, Lucy Richter reflected that patches of slick ice were probably the only danger she hadn’t been exposed to in the past eighteen months.

Chapter 21

Kathryn Dance was alone with Rhyme in his town house. Well, Jackson, the Havanese, was present too. Dance was holding the dog.

“That was wonderful,” she told Thom. The three of them had just finished a dinner of the aide’s beef bourguignon, rice, salad and a Caymus Cabernet. “I’d ask for the recipe but I’d never do it justice.”

“Ah, an appreciative audience,” he said, glancing at Rhyme.

“I’m appreciative. Just not excessively.”

Thom nodded at the bowl that had held the main course. “To him it’s ‘stew.’ He doesn’t even try the French. Tell her what you think of food, Lincoln.”

The criminalist shrugged. “I’m not fussy about what I eat. That’s all.”

“He calls it ‘fuel,’” the aide said and carted the dishes to the kitchen.

“You have dogs at home?” Rhyme asked Dance, nodding at Jackson.

“Two. They’re a lot bigger than this guy. The kids and I take ’em to the beach a couple times a week. They chase seagulls and we chase them. Exercise all around. And if that sounds too healthy, don’t worry. Afterward we go for waffles at First Watch in Monterey and replace any calories we’ve lost.”

Rhyme glanced into the kitchen, where Thom was washing dishes and pans. He lowered his voice and asked if she’d engage in bit of subterfuge.