Here's a taste:
I tap on the door.
"Come in," says a female voice.
I enter and see a cluttered desk in an equally cluttered office. The woman seated behind the clutter looks up. Her eyes roam up and down my body, and she gestures to a chair with a well-manicured hand. "Sit. Relax. It's not painful, I promise."
I guess it's obvious I'm not sure what I'm doing here. I sit in the chair she indicated. "Um…Terry Odell said you're expecting me?"
"That's right." She clears a spot on her paper-covered desk and sets a tape-recorder in the middle. "All right if I record the interview? Less chance of me getting something wrong."
Now I know why I feel so strange. I'm the cop. I usually conduct the interviews. Being on the other side is awkward. "No problem, as long as I get a copy."
She nods, her mouth curving upward. "I can do that. Or would you like to use your own machine?"
I don't tell her my recorder's been running since I hit her receptionist's office. Old habits die hard. Instead, I pull it out of my sport coat's pocket and make a show about fiddling with the buttons. "Might save time," I say.
She gives me another smile. Broader. White teeth flash. Definitely some interest there. I look a little closer. Light brown hair with gold highlights. Blue eyes, small nose. Slender figure, nice breasts.
I give her a polite smile back, not wanting to get into that game. Terry explained Desmond Morris' Twelve Steps to Intimacy while we were working on the book, and this interview isn't going past step three, so when she makes room for my recorder, I'm damn careful not to touch her hand when I set mine next to hers.
It hits me, then, like the baton I carried when I was a patrol cop. Terry's ruined other women for me since the Starting Over gig with Colleen.You can read the rest on my site.