4:46 p.m.

Platte River State Park

"So you think I have no life?" Andrew revived the subject as he shoved aside his plate and drained his second bottle of Bud Light. He rarely finished one.

Tommy sliced another chunk off his filet and stuffed it in his mouth. He had left his cell phone out on the table after losing the connection and trying to call back whoever had called him. He had pretended the phone call had been no big deal. Yeah, right. That's why he kept glancing at it as if expecting it to ring. "I'm just calling it like I see it, Murderman."

"Murderman." Andrew still smiled at the nickname Tommy and the other Omaha detectives had given him. Actually he liked it enough to use it for his e-mail address. That they had even bothered to give him a nickname had been a sign-an odd one, but still a good one-that the group approved of him.

He sat back in the wrought-iron chair, part of the bistro set on the screened-in porch. They had chosen to eat out here despite the stifling humidity. Andrew glanced at the sky. If only it would just rain and get it over with, but the thunderheads kept their distance, preferring just to threaten. The wind, however, had picked up, and the breeze was refreshing. It brought with it the scent of pine needles and the lulling sound of cicadas.

Andrew watched his friend devour a forkful of deli potato salad, following it with a bite of the garlic bread he had grilled alongside the filets. One thing Andrew had learned through his friendship with Tommy was that cops could eat no matter what the circumstances or surroundings were. He had watched Tommy chow down on a blood-rare porterhouse steak while showing Andrew Polaroids of a dismembered corpse.

Watching his friend, he realized, not for the first time, how very different the two of them were.

"You know, we probably wouldn't have even liked each other as kids?" The beer was starting to give him a buzz.

"I don't know about that," Tommy said. "You want that last piece of garlic bread?"

Andrew shook his head. "Seriously, though. You played tackle football in the middle of the streets during the summertime. I hid between chores on the farm just so I could read."

"We didn't play in the streets," Tommy corrected him, getting up from the table. "We played in the parking lot behind Al's Bar and Grill," he added now from inside the cabin as he pulled the last two beers from the fridge.

"You and your friends would have picked on me. You probably would have called me a sissy or a wuss."

Tommy handed him one of the bottles before sitting back down. "Kids do stupid stuff."

"Even now, you have to admit we're pretty different. You're South Omaha Polish dogs with kraut. You're an usher or some flicking thing at Saint Stanislaus. You coach Little League for your four daughters."

"I see what you're saying," Tommy said. "You're saying we reversed roles or something, right? You saying I'm the wuss now?"

Andrew laughed. He knewTommy was humoring him, indulging his buzz. The beer seemed to have had no effect on Detective Pakula.

"You investigate murders. You step over corpses, collect maggots, poke around entrance and exit wounds. I just write about it."

"And you do a hell of a job." Tommy held up another forkful of potato salad in a salute.

"You deal in real life. I deal in make-believe."

"So what's your point?" But there was no impatience in his friend's tone, only curiosity.

"I guess I understand why you think I have no life."

"Oh, I see." This time Tommy sat back, finally realizing Andrew was serious and not joking around. "I didn't mean your work. I meant your personal life. When was the last time you were in a relationship? Or wait, I'll make it easier for you-when was the last time you got laid?"

"I told you there was someone I was interested in."

"Oh, that's right. A woman who's already sort of involved in a long-term relationship. The one who lives about a thousand miles away."

"See, why do I tell you personal stuff if you're just gonna make fun?"

"I'm not making fun. Hey, I can see where it might be safe to want somebody who doesn't want you back."

"Safe? Sure you don't mean stupid?"

"No, I mean safe. Especially safe for a guy like you."

"A guy like me?"

"Okay, now don't go getting postal with me." Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender.

"I'm not. Go on. Explain yourself." Andrew grabbed his third Bud Light by the bottle's neck and took a sip.

"You keep saying you don't do commitment, right? As soon as a woman starts showing any signs of getting serious you start running in the opposite direction. So, who do you choose to fall in love with? A woman who ain't ever gonna get serious on you."

"So, if your theory is correct, I'm a real schmuck."

"Oh, yeah, big-time."

"Thanks a lot."

"Actually, you're not a schmuck. It's evidently your method of survival."

"You're saying I don't really have feelings for this woman?"

"I'm saying it's safe to have feelings for her. You said she told you she's in with this guy for the long haul."

"Maybe she's confused."

"Maybe she enjoys jerking you around. You don't think she gets off having someone like you pining for her?"

Andrew sat back again, rubbing his jaw as if Tommy had just sucker punched him. The woman in question, an attractive redhead named Erin Cartlan, owned a small bookshop in lower Manhattan. They had met two years before when she introduced herself at Book Expo America and invited him to schedule a book signing at her store. She was attractive and witty, and he could still swear that she had been flirting with him that weekend though she denied it later.

pretending not to know what he was even talking about. Since then they had maintained a sort of friendship, more professional than personal, although Andrew had to admit he constantly found himself hoping it would turn into something more.

Tommy was staring at him, shaking his head. "Crap, now I've got you thinking about her. You won't get any writing done."

"I think you just like to see me miserable."

"That's my whole point. I don't like seeing you miserable. You're missing what I'm saying here. You seem content to pine for a woman you can't have. You write about crime scenes and autopsies but pass up opportunities to see them firsthand. You don't even want to eat the fish you catch." He shook his head. "From where I sit, that's not exactly living life to its fullest."

Andrew felt the heat crawl up his neck, but he kept the anger from his voice when he said, "I didn't bring enough beers for this conversation."

"You know I'm saying what I'm saying 'cause I care about you. You know that, right? Oh, fuck." Tommy grabbed for his belt, twisting the electronic pager attached so he could read the LED. "Sorry, buddy, something's going on. I'm gonna need to take off."

Tommy grabbed his cell phone and started to leave but stopped at the porch door. "You sure you're gonna be okay out here?"

Andrew shrugged with his good shoulder then nodded. "Yeah, of course." But he was still thinking about Erin and wondering how he'd ever fill those blank notebook pages now.