“Yeah, that one,” Susan Hart said. “You and Tom Woodhouse were hard on him, holding up the crime-scene photos, telling him it was his fault. But you didn’t find anything, did you?”

“No. He was scared. Seemed kind of young.”

“Of course he’s young. That’s why I’m going to wait until we get out of college. I want him to grow up before we get together.”

Mahler wondered at her certainty. “I waited. Look what good it did me. Divorced two years later.”

“You were older, just not grown up. Besides, she was wrong for you, nothing in common.”

“We knew how to do one thing really well.”

“But it wasn’t enough, was it? Ron and I never had sex. We’ll be good at it.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

Susan Hart laughed. “You started it. Come on, Eddie; you’re forty-three.”

“In the interrogation, Ron was afraid to say anything about your relationship.” Mahler was relieved to change the subject. “Probably thought he’d look guilty.”

“Of course he did. For months we’re dating, and he’s having all these teenage-boy fantasies about me. Then I’m dead, and he’s got two old farts, you and Tom, asking him creepy questions.”

“But I could tell from his embarrassment he liked you.”

“That’s because you’re the great and wonderful detective.” Susan Hart put a hand on his arm. “I used to think about Ron when I was running. You run seventy-five miles a week, you have a lot of time to think. The big thing on your mind, of course, is pain. I got tendinitis in the Achilles—hurt like crap. But the rest of the time, you think about…things.”

“Isn’t it distracting?” Mahler asked.

“For you, maybe. But I’m a girl. We can do two things at once. In my runs, I imagined what Ron and I will say in our wedding ceremony. I don’t want the usual stuff—some lame-ass poem by Shelley or Shakespeare that everyone’s heard a hundred times. I mean, look at those guys. Shelley eloped with a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl. Shakespeare left his wife behind in Stratford when he went to London. What do they know about marriage?”

“My ex-wife had one of her bridesmaids recite ‘You’re My Best Friend’ by Queen.”

“Yeah, and look how that worked out.” Susan Hart’s voice turned serious. “No, I want each of us to write an original poem. If Ron can say how he feels, he’ll know who he is. You can’t go through life being a kid, Eddie, not knowing who you are.”

Mahler opened his eyes. He watched Coyle sit on the sofa facing him and put two coffees on the table. The men looked at each other silently.