John dropped us off at the station. Imogen and I hopped in my car and headed back home for the evening. We fixed ourselves a drink, lounged on the couch, and went over the day's activities. There was certainly a lot to talk about. For starters, we had opened our new office. Furnished it and by the close of the day we had just about made it functional enough to work in. Not to mention we were on our first case, courtesy of Sergeant John Carrington.
"Why didn't you tell John about the tee-time schedule?" Imogen asked.
"Why bother? He's a cop. I'm sure he'll get hold of the list soon enough."
I leaned back on the white art deco couch in my living room. Sipped my Glenfiddich and looked at Imogen.
"I can't believe it was Carl. Of all people," Imogen said. "He was such a nice guy."
"If he was so nice he would have bought dinner the other night."
Imogen laughed.
"Max, don't joke."
"Why not?" I asked. "If we don't laugh, we'll cry."
I meant it. It was troubling that Carl was dead. That we witnessed it firsthand. The body, the blood, the whole thing. But we were in a unique situation. We could make a difference. We could work together to try to bring whoever did this to justice. Catch Carl's killer. I was trying to find the silver lining around the dead body.
Imogen took a sip of her scotch and soda. Kicked off her high-heeled shoes and put her legs up on the ottoman. Her cream-colored skirt had drifted to mid-thigh when she crossed her legs. Her toes were moving around, finally free from her shoes.
"When do you want to start? We can go over the list. Interview each person," Imogen said.
"Just what I was thinking. We can start tomorrow, my love."
"Start fresh, huh?" she asked mockingly, sipping on her drink.
"I don't know how fresh we'll be," I said, running my hand up her thigh.
"Oh, Max."
Then we kissed.