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‘Come on,’ he repeated.
She tilted her head to the side. ‘Are you buying or crying?’ ‘Both,’ he said quickly, not wanting to show her how pleased he was.
‘Well, then, let’s go to EBA. They have Portuguese muffins that are to die for,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Spencer. ‘I buy them by the dozen.’
They made a left on Allen Street and strolled to Everything but Anchovies, where they sat in the back next to the upright Coca-Cola refrigerators.
Spencer took off his mittens, coat, hat. He saw her watching him.
‘What’s with the hair?’ Kristina said.
Spencer ran his hand through it. He had just had it shorn to his scalp.
‘Oh, you know.’
‘I don’t. Are you in the army?’
Spencer rather liked his new buzz cut. The lack of hair made his deep-set blue eyes appear more prominent. He liked that.
‘It’s just something we did.’ He didn’t want to tell her that one of the women at work had been diagnosed with cancer and when she began her chemotherapy, he and his colleagues, not wanting her to feel awkward, had shaved their heads. Ironically, she had come to work in a wig. However, it was the men’s unbidden act of solidarity that counted. And Spencer, the mildest-looking of men with his subdued Irish features, aside from his exaggerated Cupid mouth, actually looked tough with his cropped hair.
Touching his chin, Spencer wished he’d shaved. But Kristina didn’t seem to mind.
Kristina ordered a muffin and a hot chocolate. Spencer hated hot chocolate but ordered the same.
‘Spencer Patrick O’Malley,’ Kristina said. ‘You go to Dartmouth? Like, who doesn’t in this town?’
‘I don’t,’ said Spencer. ‘I work for the police department.’
‘The Hanover Police Department?’
‘Sure.’
‘Really?’ She livened up. ‘Wow.’ She seemed impressed. She leaned into the table. ‘What do you do for them?’
‘I’m a detective,’ he said. ‘A detective-sergeant.’ He’d been promoted from plain detective only a few weeks ago, but he wasn’t about to tell this girl that.
‘A detective? Wow,’ she said. ‘Do you do a lot of… detecting?’
I detected you, didn’t I, out of the corner of my eye, he wanted to say to her. ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘I detect cars that are parked in the wrong place, I detect meters that are out of time, I detect drunk drivers on a Saturday night.’
She looked at him uncertainly, with interest and curiosity, with warm, soft brown eyes.
‘So you play basketball?’ he asked her.
‘Yeah.’
‘I sometimes watch men’s basketball.’
‘A mistake,’ said Kristina. ‘We’re much better. We won the title last year.’
He looked at her hands, which were long and slender, capped with beautifully manicured red nails. He preferred the short, clean unpolished look on girls, but long nails were somehow right on her.
Pointing to the nails, Spencer said, ‘Hard to dribble with those?’
She studied her nails lovingly, smiling. ‘I’ve adjusted. Listen, the other team, they need all the handicaps they can get.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Spencer thoughtfully. ‘Quite rare for a university girl to have those long nails. Especially a basketball player.’
Kristina shrugged. ‘I like them.’
‘Are you good?’
‘Very good,’ she said, smiling wryly. ‘First-team All-Ivy three years in a row.’
‘Ahh,’ he said, impressed, but not letting on. ‘What is All-Ivy exactly?’
‘You don’t know what All-Ivy is? Some detective!’ She sat there in a mock snit for a few seconds. Spencer almost laughed aloud.
‘For your information, All-Ivy players are voted on by the league coaches, out of the nine Ivy League schools. For each position, there’s an All-Ivy player. The league votes on five players for the first team, five for the second team, and then five for honorable mention. I’m the senior center. I’m the only first-team All-Ivy player in Big Green basketball right now -’ She stopped suddenly, blushing.
Spencer, smiling, leaned over his hot chocolate and said, ‘Kristina, are you trying to impress me?’
Looking flustered and red, she said, ‘No, of course not.’
‘Because I’m impressed,’ he told her, and she outwardly relaxed and smiled.
‘Are you a good detective?’
Spencer was going to rattle off a list of his credentials and successful cases as a joke, but he didn’t. Nodding, he said, ‘They say some detectives have skill as interrogators, and some as crime scene investigators. To be a good detective you should be good at both.’
‘What are you good at, Detective O’Malley?’
The question sounded suggestive to him. He raised his eyebrows.
‘You must have a categorical imperative,’ she said.
He looked at her blankly. ‘A categorical what?’
‘You know.’ Kristina shrugged, taking a big bite of the muffin, chewing it thoroughly, and swallowing before continuing. ‘A categorical imperative, one that represents an action as objectively necessary in itself, without reference to any other purpose.’
Spencer’s eyes widened at her. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I got a number of those.’
Kristina took another bite. ‘No, just one,’ she said. ‘You only have one. Kant. Metaphysics of Morals. It means -’
‘I kind of figured out what it means, and yes, I suppose I wouldn’t be an officer of the law if I weren’t driven - without reference to any other purpose -’ he mimicked her - ‘to do my job.’
‘Do it well.’
‘Do it the best I can.’
‘So what are you good at?’
He decided to take her at face value. ‘I’m like a hound. I like to think that I have a good sense of intuition.’ Spencer paused. ‘But my partner, Will, would disagree with you. He says I’m a dog whose nose has been ruined by too much pepperoni.’
‘You must be thinking about my dog,’ said Kristina. ‘You seem like a good listener.’
‘I am a good listener,’ he admitted. ‘I’m also a good observer. I watch people and I usually find out more about them by how they sit and look at me than by what they say.’
She smiled. ‘What do you find out by looking at me?’
Spencer smiled back. ‘That you are not afraid of me. You stare me right in the eyes.’
‘Are you saying I’m in your face, detective?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’ He was trying to be serious. ‘You’re looking right at me, and you are not afraid.’
‘Got nothing to be afraid of,’ Kristina said, looking away, and Spencer noticed that.
Leaning closer and speaking softer, Spencer said, ‘What are you afraid of, Kristina?’
‘What, like in general? Or most?’
He thought about it. ‘Most,’ he replied.
‘Death. No, not death. Dying,’ said Kristina. Spencer nodded.
‘How about you? What does a cop fear most?’
‘I don’t know about a cop, but me, I’m most scared about having to live with my conscience. I like to sleep at night.’
‘Has your conscience been bothering you?’ She smiled.
‘Not so far.’
She nodded, sipping her drink. ‘In your line of work, you can’t afford to make mistakes, I guess. To be wrong about people.’
‘You’re right.’ Spencer took a sip of his drink. Where was she heading with this? ‘I’m not often wrong about people.’
She smiled coyly. ‘Think you’re wrong about me?’
He willingly smiled back. ‘I’m right on about you. You are brave and smart.’ He wanted to add that she was also very beautiful, but of course one did not say those things to a Dartmouth girl over coffee. Besides, she didn’t need to be told that.
‘Are you flexible, detective?’
‘I’m as stiff as a board,’ he said. ‘One of my many failings.’
‘You don’t seem like you have many of those,’ said Kristina.
‘You’re trying to be gracious. I’m full of bad habits.’
‘Yeah? Like what? And who isn’t?’
‘You, for one.’
‘Me?’ She laughed. ‘I have more bad habits than you’ve had dinners.’
‘Name one.’
She thought for a moment. ‘I’m compulsively neat,’ she said.
‘Really? I’m compulsively sloppy.’
‘I really like to win at basketball,’ she said.
‘I really like to close my cases.’
‘I never wear enough clothing outside and always catch colds.’ As if to prove that, she sneezed.
‘Oh, yeah? I always bundle up too much and sweat profusely.’
‘I constantly do things to make my life really complicated.’
‘I constantly do things to make my life as simple as possible.’
She paused. ‘Sometimes I drink.’
He paused too. ‘Huh! Would that I only drank sometimes.’
And then they smiled at each other.
‘Are you twenty-one, Kristina?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, inexplicably excited. ‘Finally.’
‘I see. You didn’t tell me you drink, okay?’
‘Drink? I meant drink coffee.’
‘Good. We won’t mention it again.’ He paused. ‘So you’re happy to be turning twenty-one? For all the usual reasons?’
She nodded. ‘And then some,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. But she didn’t offer to explain and he didn’t pursue it.
They drank their hot chocolates and nibbled on the Portuguese muffins - a sort of English muffin but bigger, thicker, and sweeter.
‘So Detective O’Malley, have you had any interesting cases? I have to write this article on the death penalty for the Review. I’m thinking of writing something about the criminal.’
