Last Dance. David Russell W.

had been an act to save face in front of the customers. Or he was a sociopath; it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes between a good actor and a psycho. His diction, I noted, remained impeccable, clearly articulating the “ing” of his expletives rather than the more colloquial “in’” most often used in today’s vernacular.

      “Aren’t you?” Andrea asked.

      “I was.”

      “I stand corrected.”

      “So what the fuck do you want?” His face was reddening, and he was growing increasingly agitated by Andrea’s sarcastic grace.

      “I want some information. I’d like your help.”

      “Why would I help you?” He had a point.

      “Because you want to be a good, decent citizen, and you don’t want your parole revoked.”

      “Okay. What do you want?” he sighed.

      Andrea pulled out the school yearbook from the oversized, low budget purse-cum-briefcase she kept in the car but rarely carried. “I want you to find someone for me. A few days ago you sold some spray paint.”

      “We’re a big store. How do you know it was me that sold the paint?”

      “Your prints were on the cans.”

      “Did it occur to you that if I stocked the shelves, my prints would be on every can?” It hadn’t occurred to me, but I had to imagine it had to Andrea the super-cop. If it hadn’t, she wasn’t about to admit it.

      “Humour me,” she said. Reluctantly he took the yearbook from her and made a half-hearted effort to flip through some pages and skim the photos. “Does this mean you remember selling to some teenagers recently?”

      He didn’t answer but continued to turn pages and scan images. After several minutes of silence, during which I counted eight different brands of bathroom sinks, MacMillan turned the book around to face Andrea. His finger pointed to a Grade Eleven student — this year in Grade Twelve — named Paul Charters. He was in my Law 12 class. Andrea didn’t speak but took out her police notebook and recorded the name. The department had issued its detectives handheld personal digital assistants, but Andy had told me that powering up the BlackBerry lacked the dramatic flair of the flipped-open notebook.

      A moment later he turned the book again and pointed at another student, Krista Ellory. It hadn’t struck me that any of my hallway redecorators might be female. My sexist upbringing, I suppose, had taught me that homophobia was essentially a male affliction. “Yes, I’m sure,” MacMillan answered before being asked.

      “So you remembered selling the paint all along,” Andrea noted.

      “You don’t sell a lot of spray paint to teenaged girls. It’s easy to remember.”

      “See how we could have avoided all this unpleasantness if you’d just cooperated in the first place?”

      “Probably would have gotten your information faster if you’d been a whole lot more polite and less aggressive.” That, of course, was my whole point all along. Andrea uncharacteristically made no response, smart-assed or otherwise. She made a few more notations on her little pad, which I recognized as the detective equivalent of counting to ten. Finally she asked, “Do you recall if they said anything about their plans for the paint?”

      “Do you mean did they confess any nefarious intent to this complete stranger of a paint clerk? As I recollect, they proffered no such information.”

      Nefarious? Three more syllables than “bad.”

      “And can you tell me on what day they bought the paint?”

      “No.”

      “No?”

      “No. I recall recently selling paint to those two kids. On what day the transaction transpired I could not say.”

      His politeness was clearly — at least to me — starting to rankle Andrea. It was amusing to see her starting to frazzle the more polite and articulate MacMillan became. Rather than risk further confrontation, she opted to terminate the interview. “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.” With that she turned and headed for the door. I smiled as warmly as I could at MacMillan then hurried after my friend.

      “So what now?” I asked when I met her pace. “Do you go roust the perps?”

      “Tomorrow. I’m tired of crime busting for the night.”

      “All right. It’s been a long week. You can drop me off at home and I’ll begin my reward-less ritual of trying to sleep.” Andy shot me a sideways glance. “What?” I asked, stepping out into the environmentally friendly, SUV-filled parking lot.

      “I’m not going home.”

      “Ooh,” I groaned. “Do we have a hot date I’m just now being made aware of?” As a rule we were both so hopelessly inept at affairs of the heart, we tended to pre-brief one another about prospective and upcoming romantic engagements, followed by an in-depth de-brief, usually the same night. If the de-brief couldn’t take place until the next morning, it was considered unnecessary.

      “Hardly,” Andy replied coolly. “I’ll be staying with a sick friend, remember?”

      “Who’s that?” She shot me another sideways glance. “I’m not sick.”

      “That’s debatable.”

      “Is this because you feel a need to protect my front door from further anti-homosexual vitriol?”

      “And/or you from the same type of anti-gay beating delivered to your little law protégé.”

      “I’m pretty sure I’ll be all right.”

      “Because you’re so tough? Masculine? Straight?”

      “Because I’ll be in my apartment, locked from the hallway and the outside.”

      “That doesn’t fill me with a great deal of confidence, given how effective security has been at your place in the past.”

      “We’re not dealing with the same caliber of skels.”

      She shot me another look across the roof of her unmarked police cruiser as she unlocked the door. “You must stop watching NYPD Blue re-runs. You need a life.” No argument there, though I’ll give up Sipowicz around the same time I give up red wine.

      “Still. I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m sure the people who beat up Tim have no desire to beat me.”

      “Your door was their first target. And few people need much of a reason to want to beat you. I think of it almost daily. Besides, I’m not doing this for your sake. If someone gets their hands on you again, your mother will never leave me alone.” She had a point. A few days of living with me until she made an arrest would be much less torturous than a guilt-riddled conversation with my mother. We rode a few blocks in silence, thinking about Tim and the two students who had been identified by MacMillan. Finally I couldn’t resist commenting on Andy’s interviewing technique.

      “Have you ever heard the expression you catch more bees with honey?”

      “Shut the hell up.”

      “Indeed.”

      Chapter Nine

      Saturday dawned with no attempt having been made on my life and no attempt by me to get Andy to sleep in my bed while I slept on the couch. I just wasn’t that much of a gentleman, especially when it came to Andrea. Furthermore, I remained convinced her presence was completely unnecessary.

      I opted to do a second long run on Saturday morning rather than on my traditional Sunday afternoon, though I had already undertaken such an extended venture earlier in the week. I thought it might shake her willingness to babysit me around the clock, but unlike me, she’s never one to shake off a challenge. In theory, my chronic insomnia gave Andrea