“I was kidding.”
His eyes narrowed and the color was flinty. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“I swear. It’s your business, and I’m a loyal Ridge employee. Paul said so.”
Sullivan’s look only softened marginally, but he didn’t challenge her. “What do you say we pick a date for our next date?”
They pulled out their phones simultaneously and began comparing schedules.
22
Karl Longabach gaveSullivan’s desk a knuckle rap as he passed. “You awake?” he asked, dropping into his chair.
“Am now,” said Sullivan. “Finishing up a double.”
“That’s rough. Overtime’s nice, though.”
“I’m a little lost. You coming or going?”
“Going as soon as I finish up some paperwork.” He removed his hat, put it on the corner of his desk, and riffled through a drawer to find the forms he needed. “What the hell is it with these users huffing paint fumes? You’d think it’d be one or the other. Pick your poison, for God’s sake. This guy that just got the Narcan plunge had his face practically buried in a paint tray. His wife was screaming at him the whole time to wake the fuck up and finish the damn job. He woke, but he’s not going to be painting anything for a while. There was nothing she liked about that.”
Sullivan was as alert as he had been at the beginning of his shift sixteen hours earlier. He turned around to look at Karl. The officer was patting down his pockets, looking for his cheaters so he could start writing. “On your head,” said Sullivan, pointing to his own.
Karl patted his head, offered a sheepish smile when he found the glasses, and set them on his nose.
“Did you find any product?” asked Sullivan. “A baggie, maybe?”
“Nope. I asked his wife about his dealer, but she had nothing to say. Wouldn’t even tell me how long he’s been using. I was going to look him up and see if I could find him in the system. I never had him in my sights before. Troy Street. Twenty-eight. Lives over on Parkview. Any of that mean anything to you?”
Sullivan shook his head. “What color was the paint?”
“That’swhat you want to know? Jesus, Sully.” When Sullivan continued to stare at him, Karl shrugged heavily. “Beige. It was beige.” He held out his left hand, put it in front of Sullivan’s face, then turned it so Sullivan could see his nails. “Look for yourself. I had to pull his head out of the paint, and I didn’t get it all washed off what with the wife hollering at me to stop using her water. Really. I just saved her husband’s life, and she was on me about the water. Go figure.”
Sullivan took Karl by the hand to steady it and examined his nails. “Go figure,” he said, although for different reasons. “That’s bisque.”
Chief Bailey stepped out of his office. “You two done holding hands? Because you’ve got reports, Longabach, and you’re off the clock, Officer Day.”
Karl tried to pull his hand back, but Sullivan didn’t let him go. “Come look at this, Chief. Tell me what you think.”
Bailey approached, adjusted his glasses, and leaned over to look at Karl’s hand. “You’ve been using that hand cream I recommended, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. My wife likes it too.”
“So, what am I looking at, Day?”
“The paint around his cuticles and under his nails. What color would you say that is?”
Bailey squinted. “Oh, that’s bisque.”
Sullivan released Karl’s hand. “See? Told you.”
Karl looked from his colleague to his boss. “What is it with you two?”
Bailey said, “I suppose you thought it was beige. What are you? Colorblind?”
“Going back to work now,” said Karl, bending over his form. “You talk amongst yourselves.”
Bailey straightened. “In my office, Day.”
