My cell phone buzzed with that irritating series of beeps. And I had just sat down with my bottle of Labatt’s Blue to watch Monday Night Football. I hoped it wasn’t work as I let it ring three times before I even moved. Only work would be calling me now. Unfortunately, on my job, it meant that somebody was dead.
I snatched the phone off the countertop in the kitchen. That little screen showed the name and number of the person intruding in my life. “Hey, Mike,” I said into it.
“Detective Smith,” replied the gruff voice. Mike was my partner but he always had this way of calling everybody by their official title and last name. It was a quirk that I never got used to, almost distancing in a way. “We’ve got a big one tonight.”
I couldn’t believe it. I just worked all weekend and long hours too. And I’m dying to see Miami trash Buffalo tonight. I missed all the games yesterday and I think the disappointment showed in my voice as I said, “For the love of God, who could it be.”
Mike paused before replying, apparently wanting to draw out my suspense. I didn’t feel suspense, only annoyed. “You’re gonna love this one. Your best friend was just shot in the head.”
Now Mike perked my attention. It was rare to work on cases of people you actually knew. But my best friend? This was probably his sick idea of a joke. He was actually going to make me ask again. I had a girlfriend once that was like that, saying a statement like, “Boy, I had a bad day,” and then waiting for me to respond with a simple. “Oh, yeah. What happened.” As if my response actually pushed the conversation forward. If I had a bad day and wanted to tell somebody, I just told them, not wait for somebody to feign interest.
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